SEASON 2, CHAPTER 1 | Not Alone in There

Some hauntings don’t come from the dead. They come from the quiet in-between moments. Missed calls, half-finished hunts, journals that don’t read like your own. Six months after the coven, Nellie throws herself into the work, chasing answers through empty roads and louder silences. But as the bunker begins to watch her back, and time starts slipping through her hands, she learns that the scariest monsters aren’t always out there. Sometimes, they’re the ones you carry home.

Word Count: 22.5k

TW: canon-typical violence. angst. use of mild language.

- - - - - -

SIX MONTHS AFTER THE COVEN

The bunker hums quietly as Nellie wakes from habit, surrounded by familiar smells of whiskey and gun oil. She grabs the Impala’s keys, worn from use, and heads into the Kansas dawn, driving with no destination but work. One hunt after another.

• • •

Rain falls quietly in the bunker, broken by irregular drips from pipes. Nellie sits alone in the library with her laptop and towers of reference books, searching for answers about Aetheris—an entity shrouded in myth, with no clear origin or records. Every source she consults offers only vague hints: burnt pages, cryptic titles like “Fallen One” and “The First Light,” and no confirmation that Aetheris ever truly existed.

Her notes multiply: names, symbols, fragments, but everything leads to dead ends. The coven worshipped Aetheris, but she isn’t found in any known hierarchy. Nellie, surrounded by scraps of research and old coffee, wonders if she’s hunting something real or just a ghost.

On another table lie papers and threads connecting coven members to mysterious symbols and coordinates—with Nellie’s own name at the center, marked twice, alongside the haunting line: “They thought I could be her.”

She shuts her laptop as flickering lights and strange shadows unsettle her, blaming faulty wiring despite her doubts. Starting a new notebook page, Nellie writes “Aetheris,” draws a single line, and concludes: “Obscure. Possibly cosmic. Possibly nothing.” She underlines “possibly nothing,” remembering the voice from the ritual that refuses to leave her mind.

• • •

Sometimes Nellie remembers to call. Sometimes they call first. The laptop screen lights up the bunker’s library in soft blue light, throwing her reflection across the dark. Sam’s face fills the screen; older, calmer, the edges softened by time. Eileen waves from behind him, signing something quick that makes him smile before he translates out loud.

“She says you look tired.”

“She’s not wrong,” she answers, forcing a smile.

They talk about small things. Weather, groceries, a local haunting in Missouri. He asks if she was eating. She asks if she is sleeping. Nellie says yes to both. They don’t push it, not really. The calls always ended the same way: His voice warm, her smile patient, and Nellie’s reflection staring back at her after the screen goes black.

Every few weeks, she drives to Lawrence. The Impala always seems lighter on that road, like it knows where it is going. The house comes into view the same way it always does: lights on, porch painted new every spring, colorful flowers in the beds. Home. Not hers, exactly. But close enough. Dean runs out first, all freckles and energy, yelling her name like it means something. He throws himself at her legs, and she scoops him up, laughing before she can stop herself. He smells like crayons and peanut butter. 

Inside, the kitchen is warm and cluttered, full of the kind of noise she doesn’t realize she’s missed until it hits her all at once. Her aunt cooking while her uncle pretending not to burn the garlic bread. They tease each other in the easy, practiced way that come from years of almost losing everything. And for a few hours, Nellie lets herself forget. They eat. They talk about hunts she can mention and pretend not to notice the ones she doesn’t. Eileen tells her about Dean’s school project, something about superheroes. He says he wants to be one like his cousin. She laughs, but something in her chest pulls tight.

When it gets late, she sits on the porch with Sam. The night smells like rain and cut grass. Fireflies blink across the yard like sparks in slow motion.

“You’re doing good work,” he tells her quietly, handing her sweating beer.

“So are you,” she says.

He looks at her for a long moment, like he wanted to say more, then nods. That is enough. It always has been.

Sunday mornings are the hardest part. Packing up the Impala, hugging Eileen goodbye, promising Dean she’ll visit again soon. He always makes her promise twice. By the time she hits the highway, the house is already out of view. The radio stays off. She tells herself she’ll call again next week. And maybe she will. The car’s reflection in the rearview catches the sunlight for a second, a flicker of brightness against the black. She almost smiles. Then she drives on.

• • •

Nellie first loses time without realizing—an evening disappears as she researches a ghoul case. Her coffee is cold and it's 4:06 a.m.; the file is marked closed in her own handwriting, though she doesn't recall finishing the hunt. She dismisses it as overwork but feels uneasy and begins journaling every hour and hunt, dating entries twice for accuracy.

January 14: Outside Omaha, witnesses spotted a shadow and high EMF; bones burned by the riverbank. Case closed. January 14: Same, closed—I think.

Her handwriting matches, but her style seems off—short lines, pressed words, a final tone like someone reporting for her. She starts underlining to distinguish her own sentences from whatever is slipping through.

The nights grow longer and the bunker feels emptier; every sound is amplified—pipes, boots, the war room clock. Nellie finds herself waking in odd places: the library, the garage, the hallway outside her room, with no memory of getting there. Whispers begin as background noise but soon form words that unsettle her. She grows irritable, snapping over small frustrations, and her laughter turns harsh.

Sleep becomes scarce. She tells herself she doesn’t need it, but exhaustion shows: her reflection looks off, her movements lag, and sometimes her own image seems to breathe independently. Journals pile up, entries loop and repeat, and she notices unfamiliar handwriting and cryptic notes in the margins. The line between what’s real and imagined blurs.

When daylight finally breaks through the bunker window, Nellie realizes she’s lost another week. Her phone buzzes with missed calls. She writes in her journal, just a reminder to call them back, but the words repeat until the pen punctures the page, ink seeping through as she stares at the hole.

• • •

Dean doesn’t announce himself anymore. He never has to. It begins the same way every time: the air in the bunker shifting, the faintest dip in temperature, the hum of the lights dimming just enough for her to notice. Nellie looks up from the table, already knowing he is there.

“You ever knock?” she asks without turning.

His voice comes from behind her, low and warm. “Would if I could.”

She smiles despite herself, setting down her pen. “You’re still a creep.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, moving closer, “takes one to raise one.”

She glances up at him. He looks almost solid today, the way he does when he wants to seem more human for her sake. Broad shoulders, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair a little too long. If she doesn’t look too hard, she can almost pretend he is still alive. But when the light catches him wrong, she can see through him. The outline shimmers faintly, a trick of air and memory.

“Brought lunch?” Nellie teases, nodding toward the empty space beside him.

Dean smirks. “Yeah, ghost DoorDash. You like cold air and regret, right?”

“Always my favorite,” she murmurs.

They settle into the usual rhythm, their own version of normal. She talks while he lingers by the table, leaning against the furniture as much as he can as a spirit. Her words come quickly at first: hunts, research, the usual reports of salt, iron, and things that didn’t stay buried. He listens, offering quiet reactions, a smirk here, a raised eyebrow there. But as she speaks, his smile fades.

“You’ve been pushing hard,” he says finally.

“I’m fine,” she answers automatically.

“Yeah, that’s what you said last week.”

“I’m still fine this week.”

He studies her. The hollows under her eyes look darker than before, her hands restless even when still. She is thinner, pale beneath the soft lamp light. It isn’t just exhaustion. It is something else, something deeper.

He shifts his weight, or at least pretends to. “When’s the last time you slept? Like, actually slept?”

She looks back at her notes. “Don’t remember. Don’t need to.”

“That’s not how bodies work, Nell.”

Her pen stills in her hand. “You sound like Sam.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She doesn’t answer. The silence between them stretches long enough to make the air feel heavy.

He takes a step closer, lowering his voice. “You’re different. You know that, right?”

She looks up at him, her eyes hard but unsteady. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “You’re sharper. Jumpy. Like you’re waiting for something to happen.”

She forces a short laugh. “Guess paranoia runs in the family.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I mean.” He hesitates, watching her face. “You used to talk to me.”

“I’m talking now.”

“No,” Dean says quietly. “You used to really talk.”

The words catch her off guard. For a second, she can’t look at him. He’s never sounded disappointed before. Worried, sure, but not this kind of quiet concern that feels like love and loss all tangled up.

Nellie tries to recover with a smirk. “Guess I ran out of ghost stories to tell.”

His expression softens. “You don’t have to be okay all the time, kid. You can say when it’s bad.”

“It’s not bad,” she says, too quickly. “Just — busy. There’s still stuff out there. Enough hunts to keep me busy. Threads I need to follow.”

He looks down at the spread of papers and notebooks across the table; pages layered with sketches and half-legible Latin. The word Aetheris appears again and again, circled, underlined, rewritten. “Yeah, I can see that,” he says. “You’re chasing ghosts in every sense.”

“Old habits.”

“Yeah. Guess I can’t judge.”

He tries to smile, but she isn’t looking at him anymore. She’s gone still, eyes unfocused on something far away. The light above them flickers once, a quick shiver of shadow that passes between them like a breath.

He frowns, glancing toward it. “Hey.”

Her gaze snaps back, startled. “What?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She blinks, shakes her head slightly. “Yeah, fine. Just tired.”

“Sure,” he says slowly.

Nellie turns back to her papers, shuffling them into a neater pile. When she looks up again, he was already fading. “Dad?”

“Right here,” Dean says, though his voice sounds distant now, thin around the edges. “You know, for the record, you don’t gotta carry all this by yourself.”

“I’m not,” she says softly.

He smiles faintly, the edges of his outline flickering in the lamplight. “That’s a good lie. You get that from me.” And then he is gone.

The silence that follows presses hard against her ears. She sits there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he’d been. Her pen rolls off the table and hits the floor. She bends to pick it up, and when she straightens, she notices a faint mark on the page in front of her. A single word scrawled at the bottom of her last sentence, written in her own hand but in darker ink: “Careful.” Her pulse jumps. She looks around the room, but there is no one there. The bunker hums, steady and low, like it is holding its breath again.

• • •

The rain has been steady all afternoon, a soft percussion against the windows that blurs the edge of the world outside. The Winchester house is warm, filled with the smell of cinnamon and Eileen’s coffee. Dean sits at the kitchen table, a mess of crayons spread around him as he hums tunelessly and colors in the rough outline of a superhero he says is “half wizard, half dinosaur.”

Sam stands by the counter, scrolling through his phone while his wife signs something quick that makes him look up. “Any word?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not yet.” She slides her phone across the counter. The last message from Nellie is days old, short and clipped. Good. Busy.

He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s probably on a hunt. You know how it gets when she’s tracking something. She forgets time exists.”

She isn’t convinced. “It’s been longer than usual. Even when she’s busy, she checks in.”

He nods slowly, still staring at the screen. “Her texts sound different. She used to write like she was talking. Now it’s just… flat.”

“Clipped,” she agrees, moving closer. “Something’s off.”

He sighs, setting the phone down. “She’s been pushing herself too hard. I thought maybe it was just the aftermath of the coven. Hunting’s how she copes. But this feels…” He trails off, searching for the word.

She finishes it for him. “Like she’s wearing down.”

He gives her a small, tired smile. “You always did know how to say what I can’t.”

She reaches out, resting a hand on his wrist. “She’s trying to be like you,” she says gently. “You used to do the same thing. When you didn’t want to feel, you worked.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “And look how that turned out.”

They both laugh quietly, though it doesn’t carry much humor. The sound of Dean humming fills the silence that follows, light and steady, grounding them both.

After a long moment, Sam exhales. “Maybe we should ask her to come stay for a bit. Get her out of the bunker. She needs a break. Some normal.”

Eileen smiles faintly. “You’ll tell her that, and she’ll say she’s fine.”

“She always does,” he says. “But maybe if she hears it from both of us, she’ll listen.”

She nods, her expression softening. “Then let’s call her. Not text. Call.”

He hesitates, glancing at the clock. “She’s probably in the middle of something.”

“Then she can pause for five minutes,” she says firmly. “We’re family. And family doesn’t let each other burn out alone.”

He smiles, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. He reaches for his phone again, unlocking it with a slow breath. “You’re right.”

“I usually am,” she says, teasing lightly.

He chuckles and scrolls to his niece’s contact. The photo on the screen is months old: Nellie in flannel and sunglasses, grinning from behind the wheel of the Impala, wind in her hair and little Dean sitting in her lap, laughing. For a moment, he just looks at it, feeling the quiet weight of how much has changed in just a short time. Then he presses the call button.

The phone rings twice before it picks up. For a moment, there is only static on the other end, the faint hiss of open air, and then Nellie’s voice.

“Hey, Sam.”

Her tone is light, but there was a delay to it, a distant echo, like she wasn’t quite anchored to the conversation. He smiles anyway, relieved just to hear her. “Hey, kiddo. How’s it going?”

A pause, short enough to almost miss. “Good. Busy. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Things got away from me.”

Eileen leans closer to the speaker. “You okay?” she asks gently.

“Yeah,” she replies, and though the word comes easily, it didn’t sound convincing. “Just tired. Couple of long hunts back-to-back. You know how it goes.”

Sam exchanges a quick glance with his wife. The fatigue in their niece’s voice isn’t just physical. It carries that quiet, brittle edge that comes from running on fumes too long.

“Well,” he says, keeping his tone light, “we were actually calling to see if you’d come down this weekend. Just for a few days. Eileen’s making pie, Dean’s been asking about you. Thought it might be nice to have you home for a bit.”

On the other end, he hears her exhale softly, the faintest smile in her voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d love that. Sorry I’ve been a ghost lately.”

Eileen signs a quick message that he translates aloud. “We just miss you, that’s all. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Still,” she says. “I didn’t mean to drop off like that. Guess I’ve been in my own head too much.”

“Nothing wrong with a little quiet,” he replies gently, “as long as you come up for air sometimes.”

“Yeah…”

He can almost hear the smile fade as fatigue creeps back into her words.

“I’ll pack up tomorrow. Be there Friday night, if that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” Eileen says. “We’ll have dinner waiting.”

Nellie laughs softly. “You just want an excuse to feed me.”

“You’re not wrong,” she replies, smiling.

Sam leans back in his chair, letting the sound of her laughter fill the space for a moment. “It’ll be good to see you,” he says.

“You too,” his niece murmurs. Then, quieter, “I’ve missed you guys.”

They both catch the weight in that small admission, the distance underneath it.

“Get some rest, okay?” he says. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Promise,” she says. And then, after a beat, “Love you.”

“Love you too, Nell.”

The line clicks softly, and the call ends.

Eileen lets out a slow breath, setting her phone down on the table. “She sounded tired.”

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. He stares at the dark screen a little too long. “But she’s coming home. That’s something.”

She nods, though her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Let’s just make sure she stays.”

Outside, the rain has stopped, but the air in the house still feels heavy, the kind of stillness that comes right before a storm.

• • •

The Impala rumbles up the drive just as the evening sun dips low, its headlights cutting long streaks across the front yard. The engine’s purr is familiar now, not just an echo of her father’s legacy but the sound of her own long drives between hunts. Nellie shuts it off and sits for a moment, watching the light fade over the Winchesters’ house. It is strange how easily this place still feels like a safehouse and a home all at once.

Sam is already on the porch when she climbs out, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Was wondering if you’d forgotten what a weekend looked like.”

She grins faintly. “Wasn’t sure they still existed.”

“Only because you keep skipping them.”

“Occupational hazard.” She gives a small shrug and starts toward him. He meets her halfway, pulling her into a hug. She feels lighter than he remembers, not in spirit, but in weight.

“Good to see you, kid,” he says, holding on just long enough for her to notice.

“You too,” she murmurs, pulling back with a smile that doesn’t quite hide the shadows under her eyes.

Eileen appears in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel. “There’s my favorite hunter,” she says warmly.

“I’ll tell Sam you said that,” Nellie replies, stepping into her arms for a quick hug.

“I’ll allow it,” she says with a grin, before signing, “You look tired.”

The girl nods, pretending not to notice the concern in her expression. “Just long weeks. I’m fine, really.”

Before they can press further, the front door bursts open and Dean comes running out, all wild energy and joy. “Nellie!”

She laughs — a full, genuine sound this time — and scoops him up. “Hey, little man! You getting taller every time I see you or am I just shrinking?”

“I’m getting stronger,” he declares proudly. “Dad says I’m gonna be taller than you one day.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see about that,” she teased, ruffling his hair before setting him down.

Sam chuckles, the sound low and fond. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Inside, the house smells like roasted garlic and herbs — Eileen’s doing, no doubt. Nellie drops her bag by the stairs, glancing around. The framed photos, the toys half-tucked under furniture, the quiet hum of a place actually lived in. She tries to breathe it in, to let it fill something empty in her.

Dinner is comfortable in that way only family dinners could be: laughter scattered between bites, small stories shared, the quiet rhythm of belonging. But beneath it all, Sam and Eileen keep noticing things: the way her hands tremble slightly when she lifts her glass, the pauses before she answers questions, the soft, faraway look that flickers across her face.

When Dean starts to yawn, Eileen gently ushers him toward bed. Sam stands, stretching. “We’ll tuck him in, then maybe we can all sit and catch up. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Nellie says, smiling faintly. “Sounds great.”

As they disappeared upstairs, she sat alone in the soft glow of the dining room. The rest of the house is quiet now, safe, familiar. But the longer she sits there, the heavier the silence grows. A faint hum crawls under her skin, like static. The light above the table flickers once, then steadies.

She blinks and exhales, whispering to herself, “Just tired.”

It isn’t long before the warm scent of chamomile drifts through the air as Eileen pours tea into three mismatched mugs. Sam sits across from his niece, leaning back in his chair. He watches her the way a brother might watch a sister he hasn’t seen in too long, both grateful and uncertain of what to say first.

They start with small talk, the safe kind. Her aunt tells a story about Dean’s latest kindergarten escapade — something about a dinosaur that ate the class project — and Nellie laughs in all the right places. Her uncle asks about her car, her last few hunts, what the lore community is saying about the aftermath of the coven. It all feels normal, if a little hollow around the edges. But eventually, the pauses between answers grows longer. Nellie’s gaze drifts toward the window, where her reflection sits faintly in the glass. The clock ticks softly between them, and Sam finally clears his throat.

“Nell,” he says, careful, steady. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

Her attention snaps back, though her smile is faint. “That sounds serious.”

“Not serious,” Eileen says, setting her mug down. “Just... honest.”

She straightens a little, reading the tone shift. “Okay. Honest about what?”

He folds his hands on the table. “You’ve been hunting a lot. More than anyone could keep up with for long.”

She gives a small, tired laugh. “You say that like I haven’t lived a normal life since ever. Hunting is the most normal I’ve had.”

“I know,” he says gently. “And you’re good at it. But even the best hunters burn out if they don’t stop to breathe.”

The older woman nods. “You don’t look like you’ve slept much. You’ve lost weight. You sound worn down, Nell.”

She tries to brush it off with a shrug. “That’s just the job. You two know what it’s like.”

“We do,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “Which is exactly why we’re worried. We’ve been there. We know what it does when you keep going just to keep moving.”

Eileen’s voice is quieter now. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Nellie’s gaze drops to her tea. The liquid ripples slightly as her hand twitches against the mug. “I’m not alone,” she says after a moment. “I’ve got you guys.”

“Yeah,” he replies, “but we barely hear from you lately. You disappear for days, sometimes weeks. You text like you’re checking a box.”

She winces, guilt flickering across her face. “I know. I didn’t mean for it to come off like that. I just…” She trails off, searching for words. “I guess I don’t know how to stop sometimes.”

The woman reaches across the table and touches her niece’s hand. “Then maybe let us help you figure out how.”

She manages a small smile, though her eyes glisten in the low light. “You two sound like you’ve rehearsed this.”

Sam chuckles. “Parenthood’ll do that to you.”

She laughs softly, but it didn’t last long. Her gaze drops again, unfocused. “I’ll try,” she says finally. “I’ll slow down. Take a few lighter cases. Maybe actually sleep for once.”

“That’s all we’re asking,” he replies.

“Promise?” Eileen asks gently.

She nods. “Promise.”

For a moment, it feels like the weight in the room lifts. The kind of small, fragile hope that families build their peace on. But when he glances up again, Nellie is staring past him, eyes distant, expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You still with us?”

She blinks, like coming out of a daze. “Yeah,” she says quickly. “Sorry. Just tired.”

Eileen smiles, though her fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “Then maybe it’s bedtime for all of us.”

She nods, standing. “Yeah. That’s probably smart.”

As she turns toward the guest room, Sam watches her go; the shuffle of her steps, the way her shoulders slumped once she thinks she is alone. He doesn’t say it aloud, but the thought comes anyway, quiet and certain. Something isn’t right.

• • •

The weekend has passed too quickly. By Sunday afternoon, the Impala is back on the road, its familiar growl fading down the long stretch of highway. Nellie had hugged them all at the door, promising she’d slow down, take their advice, and come back soon for another visit. Sam believes her. At least, he wants to.

For a few days, the house feels lighter. Eileen catches him smiling more, even jokes that he’ll stop checking his phone every hour. But as the days turns into weeks, that small comfort begins to fade.

The first week, Nellie sends a few messages: short but warm.

“Made it back safe. Thanks for dinner.”
“You were right. Taking it slow feels weird but good.”

By the second week, her replies come less often; shorter, more detached.

“Busy. Will call soon.”

By the third, the silence stretches so long it becomes its own kind of noise.

Eileen notices before Sam says anything. She always does. One morning, while they pack Dean’s lunch for school, she catches him staring at his phone again, his brow furrowed.

“She hasn’t called,” she states quietly.

He sighs, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Three weeks. Not even a text this time.”

“She’s probably buried in research again.”

“Yeah,” he says, though the word doesn’t carry any conviction. “But even then… she checks in. Always has.”

She sets down the lunchbox, watching him. “You’re thinking of going to her.”

He looks up, hesitating for only a second. “Yeah. I am.”

She crosses her arms. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But it doesn’t feel right. She promised she’d slow down. Instead, she’s been taking back-to-back hunts. More than I ever did when I was her age. A rookie hunter shouldn’t be running that hard, not alone.”

Eileen’s lips press into a thin line. “You’re worried it’s more than burnout.”

Sam meets her gaze. “If it’s just burnout, I’ll make her take a break. But if it’s something else…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I need to see for myself.”

She steps closer, resting a hand on his chest. “Be careful. She’s strong, Sam. Stronger than she knows. But if something is wrong, don’t try to handle it alone.”

He gives a small, reassuring smile. “When have I ever done that?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want me to list them?”

That earns him a quiet laugh, though it doesn’t last. He squeezes her hand. “I’ll call you when I get there. If she’s fine, I’ll bring her home for a few days. She probably just needs a reset.”

“And if she’s not fine?”

He hesitates, then says quietly, “Then we do what Winchesters do best.”

She doesn’t like the sound of that, but she doesn’t argue. She simply kisses his cheek, signing a soft “Come back safe.”

He nods, grabbed his jacket, and heads for the door. The morning sun cuts through the kitchen window, catching the edge of the copied Men of Letters key that hangs on his keyring.

As one of their vehicle’s roars to life, Eileen stands at the doorway, watching him go. The sound fades down the street, swallowed by the quiet hum of suburbia. For a long moment, she stands there in the silence, feeling, in her bones, the same thing her husband does. Something about this doesn’t feel right.

• • •

Heaven is quiet today. The kind of quiet that doesn’t come from peace, but from stillness. The Impala sits parked under a wide expanse of golden sky, sunlight catching forever in that soft, endless late afternoon. Dean leans against the driver’s side door, arms folded, the flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows. Normally, he’d have the radio on. Zepp, Black Sabbath, something loud enough to shake the clouds. But tonight, he doesn’t feel like listening to music. He doesn’t feel like doing much of anything.

Castiel appears beside him without sound or ceremony, grace folding around him like the faintest shift of wind. He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches Dean, the way one studies a friend who’s said I’m fine one too many times. “You’re not driving,” he says finally.

The Winchester gives a small, humorless snort. “Sharp as ever.”

“It’s unlike you.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean glances toward the open stretch of road ahead, endless, perfect, too calm. “Not much point when the road never changes.”

The angel tilts his head slightly. “You’ve been restless lately.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand along the car’s roof. “Haven’t been sleeping right.”

“You don’t need sleep.”

“That’s the problem,” he mutters.

Castiel wait, patient as always. He doesn’t make him wait long.

“It’s Nellie,” he says finally. “Something’s off with her.”

The angel turns fully now, his expression tightening. “Off how?”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t look at him when he answers. “She’s different. I went by the bunker a few days ago… or whatever passes for ‘a few days’ down here. She smiled, talked like everything was fine, but it wasn’t. Her eyes were wrong. Empty. Like she’s there, but not there.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe it’s just burnout. Hunting alone’ll mess you up. But my gut’s been chewing on this ever since I left. I can’t shake it.”

Castiel frowns thoughtfully. “You’ve always trusted your instincts.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies softly. “And when I didn’t, people got hurt.”

He studies him a moment longer, then says, “You want me to check on her.”

The man nods. “You’ve still got your grace. You can see things I can’t. If something’s off, something hiding, you’ll know.”

His expression softens. “You think she’d want to see me?”

“She won’t mind. You’re family. And even if she doesn’t say it, she misses having somebody around who knows what the world used to be like.”

The angel hesitates, then inclines his head. “I’ll go. If something’s there, I’ll find it.”

Dean’s gaze stays on the road. “Don’t tell Sam yet. He deserves a little more peace before everything goes to hell again.”

He gives the faintest smile. “It’s always been hard for you to sit still while someone you love’s in trouble.”

“Yeah, well,” the Winchester replies, exhaling through his nose, “it’s harder knowing I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

He steps closer, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re doing something now. You’re asking for help.”

The man’s eyes flicks toward his friend, a wry smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Never thought I’d hear that from you.”

“Consider it progress.”

Dean chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Go easy on her, Cas. She’s got enough ghosts hanging over her as it is.”

“I will,” Castiel says.

He reaches out, resting his hand briefly on the Impala’s roof, a small, grounding gesture. “If I’m wrong, I’ll get ya a drink next time you swing by.”

“If you’re right?”

His jaw tightens. “Then you do whatever you have to. Don’t let her go dark.”

The angel nods once. The faint shimmer of grace flickered at the edges of his coat.

“I’ll find out what’s wrong,” he promised.

Dean watches as he vanishes. No flash, no sound, just the air bending for a moment before settling back into stillness. He looks back toward the horizon. The sun hangs exactly where it always does, caught between day and night. He hates it. Only because he can’t save his daughter when it matters most. With a quiet sigh, he slides behind the wheel and rests his hands on the steering wheel, staring at the empty road ahead. For the first time since he got here, Heaven feels too still.

• • •

The bunker is silent when Sam arrives. Not empty. Just quiet in that way places get when no one’s spoken aloud in a long time. His boots echo against the concrete floor as he descends the steps, the sound of his breath loud in the still air. He hasn’t been back since giving Nellie the key. It looks different now. Her touch is everywhere: books stacked in uneven towers on the tables, Post-it notes and half-drawn sigils littering the walls, a half-empty mug sitting beside a lamp that has burned itself out. The bunker has always been a fortress. Now it feels like a lived-in shell.

“Nell?” he calls, his voice carrying down the hall.

From somewhere beyond the library, a door creaks. A moment later, Nellie steps out from the kitchen hallway, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder, damp hair sticking to her temple. She blinks in surprise when she sees him.

“Sam?” Her voice is light but uncertain. “What are you doing here?”

He gives a small, cautious smile. “Thought I’d drop by. You weren’t answering your phone.”

She frowns, tilting her head slightly. “It’s only been a couple of days.”

His smile falters. “A couple of days?”

“Yeah,” she says, drying her hands absently on the towel. “Since the visit. I was gonna call tonight.”

He stares at her, heart sinking. “Nellie… it’s been three weeks.”

The words hang there, heavy. She freezes, the towel slipping from her shoulder. For a long moment, she just looks at him, confusion flickering across her face. “That’s not —” She stops, shaking her head as if trying to clear it. “No. That can’t be right. I — I remember leaving your house a few days ago. I stopped for gas, hit a few backroads. There’s no way —”

“Nellie,” he says gently, stepping closer. “Look at me.”

She does, and he sees it then, the faint tremor in her hands, the dark hollows beneath her eyes, the disorientation she is trying to mask with logic.

Sam softens his voice. “We need to talk. Really talk.”

Nellie lets out a slow breath, pressing her palms against the edge of the table to steady herself. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Yeah, maybe we do.”

He nods, relieved at the agreement but uneasy at how distant she sounds. “Okay. We can sit down, figure this out together.”

“I just need a couple of minutes to freshen up first,” she says, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Then we’ll talk. Promise.”

“Nell —”

“I’ll be right back,” she insists, already moving toward the hallway. “Five minutes.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Okay. I’ll wait in the library.”

He watches her go, the way her steps faltered slightly as she turned the corner, her hand grazing the wall for balance. The light overhead flicker once and steadies. He turns back toward the table, running a hand through his hair. He sits down at the table, an anxious sigh leaving his lips.

It isn’t loud, just a subtle ripple in the atmosphere, the kind that makes the hairs on his arms stand up. The lights flicker once, and for a brief second the air smells faintly of ozone.

“Sam.”

He freezes. That voice, low and steady, belongs to someone he hasn’t heard in years. Slowly, he turns. Castiel stands at the edge of the library, trench coat and all, looking exactly as he had the last time he saw him. There is no fanfare, no light show, just the quiet weight of presence, as if he’d always been standing there, waiting for the Winchester to notice.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice cracks slightly on the name. He stands, disbelief breaking across his face in waves. “You — how are you even —”

The angel gives a small, almost apologetic smile. “It’s good to see you too.”

He crosses the room in a few long strides, stopping just short of hugging him. “I thought you were gone. Like, gone gone.”

“I was,” Castiel replies simply. “Things changed.”

He shakes his head, still processing. “You don’t just drop in after all this time and say things changed. Cas, what’s going on? Why are you here?”

The angel looks around the room. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Nellie,” he says after a moment. “In Dean’s honor.”

Sam blinks. “In Dean’s honor?”

He nods. “He wanted her looked after. She’s strong, maybe stronger than she realizes, but strength doesn’t always protect you from what hides inside.”

Something in the hunter’s chest tightens. “You’ve been watching her? For how long?”

“A while,” he answers. “From a distance. I didn’t want to interfere unless I had to.”

The Winchester rubs a hand over his face, trying to make sense of it. “You could’ve reached out, Cas. You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” the angel says softly. “You’ve built something peaceful. You deserved to keep it that way.”

He huffs out a laugh, tired, disbelieving. “You and Dean both keep saying that like peace is something I get to keep.”

Castiel’s gaze softens. “You’re still trying to protect what’s left of it. That counts.”

He sinks back into one of the library chairs, the weight of years pressing down on him again. “If you’re here now, that means it’s already bad, doesn’t it?”

Castiel didn’t answer right away.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. Sam turns just as Nellie steps into the library, flannel in hand, dressed in one of her band t-shirts and jeans. She freezes mid-step when she sees the angel next to her uncle.

“Cas?” she says, blinking in surprise. “Wow, it’s been a while. I didn’t know you were —”

Her smile falters when she catches the look on his face. He stands completely still, eyes locked on her. Whatever warmth had been there moments ago has drained away, replaced by an expression that Sam hasn’t seen in years: one part grief, one part alarm.

“Sam,” Castiel says quietly, his voice low and certain. “That isn’t Nellie.”

Sam’s stomach drops. “What are you —”

Before he can finish, Nellie gasps, a sharp, strangled sound as her body seizes. The flannel slips from her fingers as she stumbles forward, knocking into the edge of the table. Her breath hitches, spine bowing as if something invisible has grabbed hold of her.

“Nellie!” he shouts, moving toward her, but the angel raises a hand, not stopping him, exactly, but warning him to stay back.

Her head snaps up, her eyes flashing an inky, bottomless black. For a moment, the expression on her face is foreign, wrong, and then a slow, deliberate smirk pulls at her lips. “Well,” she says, her voice familiar but laced with something slick and venomous beneath it. “Took you long enough.”

He freezes, every muscle in his body going rigid. He knows that tone. He’s heard it before; in dreams, in nightmares, in memories he’d spent years trying to bury.

“Nellie,” he says, voice shaking but firm. “You fight it. You hear me? You fight it.”

The thing inside his niece chuckles, low and amused. “Oh, she’s still in here. Screaming her pretty little head off.”

Castiel’s hand tightens into a fist, grace flickering faintly around him. “Who are you?” he demands.

The demon tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Oh, Cas. You know me. He sure does.” Her gaze slides toward Sam, a cruel familiarity curling her smile. “Go on, Sammy. Say my name.”

And for a moment, he can’t breathe.

Because he knows.

Ruby tilts her head, black eyes gleaming. “You have no idea how good this feels,” she says, stretching her arms as if shaking off old dust. “All those months pretending, playing the part of the good little hunter. But now?” A grin splits across her face, sharp and predatory. “Now we can stop pretending.”

He stands rigid, fists clenched at his sides. “How long,” he says quietly, voice low but trembling with barely restrained rage, “have you been in her?”

Her grin widens. “Oh, don’t look so betrayed, Sam. You of all people should appreciate a long game.” She saunters a few steps closer, still wearing Nellie’s face, her voice dipping into a mocking softness that sent chills down his spine. “The coven’s little ritual didn’t work the way they hoped. They couldn’t call their precious Fallen One, but they sure did open one hell of a door.”

Sam’s jaw tightens. “You slipped in.”

She winks. “Right place, right time.”

Castiel steps forward, grace humming faintly around him. “You were in the Empty,” he says, voice sharp. “You shouldn’t have been able to escape.”

Ruby turns toward him, smiling like it was all a game. “Hey, wings. Miss me?”

His expression doesn’t change. “How?”

She sighs theatrically, pacing a slow circle around the table. “When your boyfriends decided to take on Chuck, they tore more rifts in reality than they realized. Creation itself got a little… thin. And when the walls between stories start cracking, things like me can slip through.” Her grin turns sharp again. “So, I did.”

Sam’s stomach twists. “You mean you crawled out while everything was falling apart.”

She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m an opportunist. The Empty has no opportunity and Rowena —” she rolls her eyes dramatically, “— has Hell on lockdown. Couldn’t exactly go home. So, I waited. And then came your niece. Poor thing, so full of power, so open, so alone. And when that coven failed to invite their Fallen One?” She smiles, touching her temple. “Well, I found a vacancy.”

His voice is quiet now, dangerous. “You picked her because she’s a Winchester.”

“Of course I did.” Ruby’s eyes flash black again, the smirk deepening. “Do you have any idea how poetic this is? I spent years trying to turn one Winchester into the perfect weapon, and now —” she spreads her arms, her voice rising, thrilled and vicious. “— I am one.”

The angel’s grace flares, the faint scent of burning ozone filling the air. “You’re desecrating her, Ruby. You can’t win.”

She tilts her head, amused. “You always say that, Sammy. And you always lose something when you do.”

He stands his ground, the muscles in his jaw working as he watches Ruby pace. Every step she takes is deliberate, controlled, like she is savoring the feeling of flesh and bone, of having legs that move and lungs that draw air again.

She looks down at Nellie’s hands, flexing the fingers as if testing their strength. “You know, I have to give her credit,” she says, almost fondly. “The girl’s got fight. For a while, I didn’t think I’d ever get a word in edgewise. She buried me deep. But once the pretending got too hard, once the cracks started showing…”

“Let her go,” Sam says.

Her laughter echoes through the library, rich, mocking. “You make it sound so simple. You really think she hasn’t tried? Sweet little Nellie’s been clawing at the walls for months. She thought she was going crazy, hearing voices, seeing things. She didn’t know I was there, whispering, nudging, waiting. And when she finally started to suspect —” She taps the girl’s temple with one finger, smirking. “She locked herself down. Put her psychic mojo into stasis. You should’ve seen it. Panic and ingenuity all rolled into one. She was terrified she might hurt someone. That she might hurt you.”

His stomach twists.

Ruby sighs theatrically. “And now, here we are. Her little psychic powers all sealed up tight, just waiting for me to unwrap them. Once her soul finally gives way, I’ll have full access. Think about it, Sammy. A natural-born psychic with demon blood fueling her? A Winchester who’s half-human, half-monster.”

Castiel takes a step forward, his voice low. “You’ll burn her body apart before you ever get that far.”

She turns toward him, eyes flashing black. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll make her into something the world’s never seen before. You angels had your vessels. I just found mine.”

Sam’s heart is pounding now, anger and fear colliding into something cold and razor-edged. “You’re not touching her power. You’re not touching her.”

She tilts her head, smiling like she is amused by a child’s defiance. “You don’t get it, Sam. She’s already halfway there. All I have to do is keep pushing. Once her soul’s gone —” She snaps her fingers. “I’ll be more than a demon in a borrowed body. I’ll be evolution.”

“Over my dead body,” he says.

Her smirk doesn’t falter. “Careful. You keep making promises like that, and one day someone’s gonna take you up on it.”

The lights flicker again, a pulse that seems to respond to her voice. The bunker itself groans, the air thick with energy that doesn’t belong.

Sam’s eyes meet Castiel’s. “We’re not just fighting to get her back,” he says quietly. “If we don’t stop this… we’ll have to hunt her.”

The angels jaw set. “Then we don’t fail.”

Ruby smiles, slow and venomous, as if she’s been waiting to hear those exact words. “Oh, Sam,” she purrs, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’re already too late.”

And with that, the lights blow out.

A thin gray film catches the emergency lights as they flicker to life. Sam blinks until his eyes adjusted, pulse thudding in his ears. The library is empty.

“Cas?”

“I’m here.” Castiel steps out from the far side of the room, his coat dusted with bits of glass. His face is drawn tight. “She’s gone.”

His breath hitches. “You mean Ruby.”

The angel inclines his head once. “She tried to teleport.”

“Then she’s —"

A scream rips through the bunker, long and raw, bouncing off the concrete like a living thing. It isn’t fully human. It isn’t fully Nellie, either. The sound makes the lights hum, makes the air vibrate.

He freezes. “She’s still here.”

Castiel closes his eyes, grace thrumming under his skin in a faint blue glow. “I reinforced the bunker when I saw what she was. I laced the wards with my grace. She can’t leave until she tears them down.”

Sam lets out a shaky breath, half-relieved, half-terrified. “So, Nellie’s fighting her from the inside, and the bunker’s holding her from the outside.”

“Exactly.” He opens his eyes. “Ruby’s trapped. For now.”

The scream comes again, deeper in the halls this time, angrier. Something metallic slams against steel doors, the sound echoing through the underground maze.

The Winchester swallows hard. “Then we still have a shot.”

He looks at him, voice low and certain. “To save her.”

Sam nods once, jaw tightening. He moves quickly through the bunker’s corridors, the emergency lights painting everything in uneven stripes of red and white. His boots echo off the concrete, steady and deliberate; the sound of a man falling back into old habits he thought he’d buried. He reaches the armory, flipping open a chest he hasn’t touched in years. Inside, the familiar tools wait: silver-bladed knife, flask of holy water, salt, rosary, Latin texts worn soft at the edges. His hands move automatically, gathering what he needs for an exorcism, the ritual that has saved and damned more people than he can count.

When he returns to the library, Castiel is standing at the table, books and papers spread out before him. The angel isn’t moving, just staring down at a single envelope in his hand. The seal is intact, the handwriting careful but slightly slanted, the kind that comes from someone trying to keep their hands from shaking. The words written across the front stops him cold: IN CASE.

Sam’s throat tightens. “What’s that?”

Castiel looks up, his expression softening. “It was with her research notes. Hidden beneath her journal.” He turns the envelope in his hand. “I believe it was meant for you.”

He sets down the exorcism tools, his hands suddenly heavy. “Read it.”

The angel breaks the seal carefully and unfolds the single sheet of paper inside. The ink is smudged in a few places, as if tears had fallen before it had dried. He reads aloud, his voice low and even:

If you’re reading this, then something’s gone wrong. I don’t know what it is. If I’ve gone crazy or something is inside me. But I know myself well enough to recognize when I’m a danger to the people I love. I’ve been hearing things, seeing things that aren’t there. And I can feel something watching from behind my eyes. So I did the only thing I could: I locked my abilities away. I don’t know if it’ll help, but if something ever takes control, at least I won’t be able to hurt anyone. If you find me and it’s already too late, if you can still reach me, you have to undo it. Reverse the stasis during a cleansing ritual or exorcism. If I fought off Aetheris’ influence once, I can fight this one too. I have to believe that I can.

—        Nellie

Castiel folds the letter gently and sets it on the table. “She knew this could happen,” he says quietly.

Sam stares at the paper for a long time, jaw tight, eyes distant. “She was scared. And she still thought about protecting everyone else first.”

“She’s your family,” he replies. “It’s what Winchesters do.”

The hunter lets out a shaky breath, nodding once. “Then that’s what we’ll do for her.”

The bunker has never felt so alive. Every hall hums faintly, as if the walls themselves are thrumming with the angel’s grace. The air is charged, static snapping across the sigils carved into the concrete, protective symbols glowing faintly blue before flickering to red under the strain of demonic interference.

Sam moves quickly, flashlight sweeping across the corridor ahead, his other hand clutching a flask of holy water. “She’s trying to burn through the wards,” he says under his breath.

Castiel’s voice comes from just behind him, steady but tense. “They’re holding, for now. But she’s moving fast. Every time she teleports, she weakens another set.”

The sound of a door slamming echoes down the hall, then another, further off.

“She’s not just running,” he says. “She’s testing the bunker.”

They follow the noise through the maze of corridors until they reach the lower levels, the old storage wings that haven’t been used in decades. The lights here flicker more violently, shadows jerking across the walls like restless ghosts. When they turn the corner, he freezes.

Ruby stands in the middle of the hall, one hand pressed against a ward carved into the steel bulkhead. Her other hand is lifted, energy sparking from her fingertips as she tries to burn the sigil out of existence. Smoke rises from her palm, the smell sharp and acrid.

“Step away from the wall,” Sam orders, his voice low and cold.

She turns, a smile spreading across her face, lazy and cruel. “Sammy. You really think you can save her? You’ve never been good at saving people. Just burying them.”

He raises the flask slightly. “You’re not the one talking right now.”

Her eyes flash black. “Oh, I am.” She tilts her head, the movement eerily casual. “And she’s listening. Poor girl. Keeps whispering your name like you’re going to fix this. You can’t even fix yourself.”

“Enough.” Castiel steps forward, his presence filling the narrow hallway, the lights dimming with the pressure of his grace. “You don’t belong here, Ruby. Let her go.”

She laughs a sharp, grating sound. “You think you can scare me, feathers? I’ve been to the Empty. I know what real nothing feels like.”

“Then you should be afraid of going back,” he responds evenly.

Her smile falters, just for a second. The emergency lights flicker again.

Sam uses the moment. He lunges forward, flinging holy water. It hits her square in the chest. She screams, a sound that rattles the ceiling, and drops to her knees. The air shimmers, the familiar pull of demonic teleportation swirling around her.

“Cas!” he shouts.

The angel thrusts his hand out, grace flaring in a burst of blue-white light. The energy collides with the demon’s, the two forces locking against each other, but then, with a guttural growl, she vanishes in a burst of smoke and shadow.

The hallway falls silent again, the acrid scent of sulfur lingering in the air.

He curses, rubbing his forehead. “She’s still here. Just another room.”

Castiel nods grimly. “She can’t leave the bunker. Not while Nellie’s resisting. But the longer this goes on, the weaker both of them become.”

His jaw tightens. “Then we need to end this now.”

• • •

Darkness presses in from every side, a void humming with whispers that aren’t hers. Nellie can’t see much, just fragments of herself, reflections flickering in the black. It feels like drowning inside her own head, the air thick with sulfur and static.

Ruby’s laughter echoes from somewhere close, too close. “You really thought you could hide from me? Sweetheart, I live here now.”

She clenches her jaw, forcing herself to focus. She can feel the strain, the pull of the demon’s control every time it tries to teleport. Each jump sends a shock through her body, like being yanked by invisible chains. No. Not yet.

She reaches out with her mind, searching for anything to hold on to; something solid, something hers. And there it is: the faint hum of the bunker’s ward lines, etched into the structure like veins of light. They pulse dimly in the darkness, familiar and warm.

She grips that sensation, her breath ragged. “You can’t take what’s mine.”

Ruby’s voice curls around her like smoke. “You don’t even know what you are. Psychic blood, angelic grace residue — you’re a cocktail waiting to blow.”

Nellie ignores her. She focuses on the pulse, the rhythm of the bunker she’s made her home. If this demon wants to use her body to escape, then maybe she can use that same instinct to trap her.

It tries to teleport again, power building like static under her skin. She seizes the moment. She pushes, not against Ruby, but with her. Redirecting. Twisting the energy the way she’s done when tuning ward sigils. For a heartbeat, the demon hesitates. Then there is a flash of light. The world tilts. Ruby hits the ground hard, landing in a circle of iron and holy symbols. It is the devil’s trap carved into the stone of the bunker’s dungeon. The sigil flare, glowing a deep, angry red. Smoke curls from her palms as she realizes what has happened.

In the corner of her mind, Nellie smiles weakly. “Gotcha.”

The demon snarls, slamming her fists against the invisible barrier. “You little —” She stops mid-word, her eyes widening as the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the hall.

• • •

Sam and Castiel move quickly through the bunker’s winding corridors, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the low hum of flickering lights. The air is thick with energy, grace, and sulfur, clashing in invisible currents. Then they hear it: a guttural scream follows by a dull thud that shakes the floor.

The angel turns the corner first and stops. “Sam,” he says quietly.

Sam comes up beside him and freezes.

Ruby is crouching in the center of the dungeon floor, her hands pressing against the ground, smoke rising from her palms. The intricate sigil beneath her glow red-hot, the devil’s trap burning against her skin. She is trapped.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispers, half disbelief, half pride. “She did it.”

Castiel nods, eyes narrowing as he examined the glowing lines. “Nellie redirected the teleportation energy. She forced the demon into containment.”

He exhales a shaky laugh. “Smart girl.” He looks at the demon, who glares up at them through black eyes, fury burning behind them. “But she won’t be able to hold her much longer.”

She grins, the expression sharp and venomous. “She’s fading, Sam. You can feel it, can’t you? All that willpower, all that bloodline, burning out.”

He ignores her, already kneeling to unpack the ritual kit. His hands move with the confidence of experience. Salt poured in a line, Latin text opened to the right passage, holy water uncorked and ready.

The angel steps closer to the edge of the circle. “You won’t leave this body alive,” he says simply.

She tilts her head, smirk curving. “Maybe not. But she’s already halfway gone.”

Sam’s voice hardens. “Not if I can help it.”

He begins the exorcism, Latin rolling off his tongue in rhythmic precision. The words fill the chamber, reverberating off the walls, the ancient syllables burning through the air like fire. Ruby thrashes within the devil’s trap, her voice switching from screams to laughter in the space of a breath. The symbols on the floor glow a molten red, pulsing with Castiel’s grace and Nellie’s struggle. Each syllable hits like a hammer, the ritual vibrating through the air. Her body jerks as black smoke leaks from the corners of her mouth, only to sink back in again with a hiss.

He pours more holy water, jaw tight. “Cas, she’s fighting me every inch.”

Castiel stands across from him, hand extended toward the circle, his expression calm but strained. “She’s not fighting you, Sam. Nellie is.”

He falters mid-verse. “What?”

“Remember, she locked her abilities away. Her soul’s trapped beneath the stasis she built.” The angel’s eyes begin to glow faintly, grace rippling through the air. “If I remove the lock, she can fight with you. It’s the only way she stands a chance.”

Sam’s hands tremble. He looks at his niece, her face contorted in pain, her voice not entirely her own. “Cas, you’re telling me I have to hurt her to save her.”

He meets his gaze. “Yes.”

The Winchester’s breath hitches, a lifetime of memories flashing in his mind, every scream, every loss. “I can’t —”

“You can,” he says gently. “You have before. You always do.”

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, drawing in a sharp breath. When he opens them, they are wet but steady. “Do it.”

Castiel steps closer, pressing his palm flat against the outer edge of the sigil. Grace flares from beneath his hand, white-blue light pouring through the cracks in the symbol. The ground rumbles. Nellie’s back arches off the floor, her scream slicing through the air. For a moment, her voice is hers; pure, terrified, human.

He flinches. His chant falters. “Cas, stop—”

The angel doesn’t look at him. “She’s fighting! You have to keep going!”

His jaw locks. His throat burns. He starts again, louder, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…”

The symbols flare brighter. Ruby screams again, clutching at her head.

“Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii—”

A pulse of raw power surges through the room, the shelves rattling loudly.

Castiel staggers back, eyes wide. “It’s working. Her abilities. Sam, she’s pulling energy from the bunker!”

In the center of the trap, Nellie’s hands lift off the ground, a faint glow spreading across her fingers. The air around her shimmers, pulsing with psychic energy, wild, uncontained. Ruby’s control begins to fracture, her laughter turning to a strangled snarl. “What did you do?”

Sam’s heart pounds, fear and hope warring in his chest. “Come on, Nell,” he whispers hoarsely. “Come on, fight her.” The air crackles, and for a split second, he swore he sees Nellie’s eyes flash silver beneath the black.

Her voice breaks through the noise, a whisper layered under the demon’s shriek. “Sam… don’t stop.”

He freezes, tears burning his eyes. Then, with renewed resolve, he tightens his grip on the rosary and shouts the next verse, louder, stronger. “Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica!”

The energy in the bunker is unbearable now. Heat, light, and static presses down on everything like a living storm. The devil’s trap burns so bright it carves shadows onto the walls.

Ruby screams, her voice warped, guttural, barely human. “You think you can stop me? I’ve killed better men than you, Sam Winchester!”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. The Latin thunders from his throat like muscle memory, a rhythm as old as faith itself. “Ab insidiis diaboli, libera eam, Domine—”

Her body convulses on the floor, caught between the two powers of grace and hellfire. Then something changes. The tremor in the air deepens. Her hands rise on their own, fingers spread wide, and a silver light pours from her palms. It isn’t Castiel’s grace. It isn’t holy fire. It is hers. It expands outward, forming a pulse that shatters the remaining overhead bulbs. The demon staggers inside the trap, screaming as the force hits her like a tidal wave. Her black eyes flicker once, twice, then flash silver for a heartbeat.

And then Nellie speaks. Her voice comes through the chaos, steady and strong. “Get out of me.” The words aren’t shouted, but they reverberate through the air with impossible power. The circle flares blinding white.

Ruby screams, no longer mocking, no longer confident. The black smoke erupts from the girl’s mouth and eyes, twisting violently against the warded ceiling before collapsing inward on itself. There is a sharp, deafening crack, and then the smoke vanishes in a burst of light, ripped back to the Empty where it belongs.

Silence follows. The sigil’s glow dims, fading to a faint orange before going cold. The only sound left is Sam’s ragged breathing and the slow drip of water from a pipe overhead. Nellie collapses to the floor, limp and motionless.

He is beside her in an instant, catching her head gently before it hits the concrete. “Nellie?” he whispered, voice trembling. “Hey, come on. It’s over.”

Castiel kneels opposite him, placing two fingers lightly on her forehead. A flicker of grace passes from his hand into her. His expression softens. “She’s alive.”

He exhales, the tension leaving him in a rush. He laughs once quietly, broken. “Yeah. Yeah, you did it, Nell.”

She doesn’t respond. Her breathing is shallow but steady, her pulse faint beneath his fingers. Her hair is damp with sweat, her face pale, but the faintest hint of peace lingers there.

The angel looks up, eyes solemn but relieved. “She’s free. Ruby’s gone for good.”

He sits back on his heels, staring down at his niece, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “She saved herself,” he says softly. “I just gave her the words.” He lets the silence settle again, the aftermath thick with dust and light. “I’m going to get her home,” he says finally. “She’s had enough of Hell for one lifetime.”

He kneels beside her unconscious form, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. Her skin is cool, her breathing steady. Relief hit him so hard it nearly buckles his knees. “Hang in there, kiddo,” he whispers. “We’re going home.”

He slips his arms beneath her and lifts carefully. She is lighter than he remembers, too light. The kind of light that speaks of sleepless nights, missed meals, and months of carrying the world on her shoulders alone.

Castiel stands nearby, silent, his trench coat flickering faintly in the low light. The scorch marks from the exorcism still glow on the concrete floor, their edges smoking faintly.

Sam looks over at him. “Thanks, Cas. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

He inclines his head, his expression soft but unreadable. “You would have found a way. You always do.”

The hunter lets out a quiet laugh, more exhale than sound. “Yeah, maybe. But I’m still glad you were here.” He starts toward the door, then pauses. “Cas… earlier, you said you’ve been watching over her for Dean.”

His eyes flicker, the faintest trace of hesitation crossing his face. “That’s right.”

The Winchester’s voice softens. “So, he knows? About her?”

He meets his gaze, deliberate and calm. “He knows. And he knows she’s in good hands.”

There is something in the way he says it: gentle, layered, almost reverent. Sam feels that old ache twist in his chest, the one that never quite goes away when his brother’s name comes up.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, glancing down at Nellie. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”

Castiel gives a small, almost human smile. “He’d be proud of both of you.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “Thanks, Cas.” He adjusts his grip on his niece and starts toward the stairs. “I’ll take her home. She’ll be safe there. Eileen’ll know what to do.”

“I’ll keep watch,” the angel says warmth.

Sam looks back once, the glow of the corridor framing him in amber light. “I know.”

With that, he carries the girl out, her head resting against his shoulder as they disappear into the dark hallway.

The angel stands alone in the dungeon, the air still electric from loose energy. He looks toward the ceiling, toward something far beyond it, and whispers softly into the still air, “She’s safe now, Dean.”

And somewhere above, in a place where the roads never ended, Dean Winchester smiles.

• • •

Nellie wakes to real sunlight and Miracle, her dog, curled beside her. For a brief moment, everything feels normal until memories of the bunker and past traumas return. Disoriented, she sits up, startles Miracle, and looks around the guest room — recognizing Eileen’s curtains, Sam’s books, and the smell of coffee — before catching her pale reflection in the mirror.

“God…” she whispers. “No. No, no, no.”

Her breathing quickens, shallow and ragged. Ruby’s voice echoes in her skull like a whisper from a bad dream: “You really thought you got rid of me?” She presses her palms to her temples.

“You’re gone,” she mutters. “You’re gone, you’re gone —”

But what if the demon isn’t?

Nellie’s fingers tremble as she touches the amulet at her throat. The metal burns cold against her skin. She can’t feel anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean anything. Ruby had tricked her once before, lived inside her skin for months, wearing her face, using her voice. “What if she’s still in me?” she whispers.

The panic takes hold like wildfire. She backs away from the mirror, bumping into the nightstand, sending a picture frame clattering to the floor. Miracle barks, pacing anxiously. Her breath comes in gasps now, shallow and painful.

“No, no, no, I can’t —” Her vision blurs as tears well in her eyes. “She’s still here. I can feel her.”

She drops to her knees, clutching her head, shaking. Every flicker of energy in the air, the hum of the house, the creak of pipes feels amplified, foreign. Like something inside her is alive and waiting. She doesn’t even hear the door open.

“Nellie?”

Eileen stands in the doorway, smiling faintly, until she sees her. The smile vanishes instantly. “Hey,” she says softly, stepping forward. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

She shakes her head violently. “No. No, I’m not. You have to get out.”

Her aunt freezes, concern flickering across her face. “Nellie, look at me. You’re home.”

“No!” Her voice cracks, breaking into sobs. “You don’t understand! She’s still here. She’s still inside me.”

Eileen’s hands lift slightly, palms out in calm reassurance, but Nellie keeps backing up, stumbling against the dresser. “Eileen, I — I can’t stay here. Please, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Sweetheart,” she signs gently, her voice low. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“You don’t know that!”

The shout tears out of her niece’s throat and she flinches, not from fear, but heartbreak. From down the hall comes the thud of hurried footsteps. Sam bursts into the doorway, clearly had been up for a while. His expression shifts instantly from confusion to alarm.

“Nellie,” he breathes, stepping forward.

She turns to him, eyes wide and wet. “Sam, she’s still in me — I can feel her — she’s laughing — I swear to God she’s laughing —”

He raises his hands, voice calm but firm. “She’s gone, Nell.”

She shakes her head, trembling. “No! She’s hiding. Waiting.”

“No,” he says again, slower this time. “We finished it. The exorcism worked. You fought her off yourself.”

She freezes at that, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember.”

“I know.” He steps closer. “You were unconscious when it was over. But Ruby’s gone. She’s not coming back.”

Her knees give out, and Sam catches her, pulling her close before she can collapse completely. She struggles weakly, her voice raw and shaking. “You don’t know that —”

“I do,” he whispers, his own throat tight. “She’s gone. You’re safe.”

Eileen comes around to her other side, gently rubbing her back, saying soothing words. “Breathe, sweetheart. In, and out. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

But Nellie can still feel the echo of possession, the phantom hum beneath her skin, the hollow ache where Ruby’s voice used to be.

“It doesn’t feel gone,” she rasps, voice breaking. “She’s still there. I can feel her laughing at me.”

He closes his eyes, holding her tighter. “I know it feels that way. But it’s just echoes. She’s gone. You’re still here.”

Her breath hitches again, the sobs shaking through her. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

Eileen’s voice wavers but stayed strong. “You deserve to heal.”

For a long moment, the only sounds are her ragged breathing and Miracle’s quiet whine at her feet. Sam leans back enough to meet her eyes, his own red-rimmed. “You’re not a danger,” he says softly. “You’re family.”

Her chest heaves, tears spilling down her cheeks as she clings to him. The panic slowly begins to ebb, not gone, but quieter, retreating like a storm finally losing its strength. She trembles in his arms, exhausted and hollow.

Eileen soon steps out to start breakfast and take care of Dean, leaving her husband and niece alone in the soft half-light of the guest room. Miracle is now curled up beside Nellie, his head resting against her thigh. She strokes his fur absently, her touch mechanical, eyes unfocused on some far-off point. Sam sits across from her, silent, giving her the space to breathe. He learned a long time ago that silence sometimes says more than comfort ever could. But she breaks it first.

“She was here,” she says quietly, voice raw. “In this house.”

He looks up.

“She sat at your kitchen table. Slept in this bed. Played with Dean.” Her voice cracks. “And none of you even knew.”

He swallows, the words catching somewhere deep in his chest. “That wasn’t you, Nellie.”

But she shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. She used me to do it. That’s on me.”

“Nellie —”

“I let her in,” she says, her voice rising, trembling with self-loathing. “I was supposed to be stronger than that. I was supposed to be able to fight it. But I didn’t. I gave her a home in me, Sam.”

She presses a shaking hand to her chest, where she can almost feel the echo of the demon’s laughter, faint and cruel. “Right here.”

He stands slowly, crossing the small space between them. “You didn’t give her anything,” he says, his voice low and steady. “She forced her way in. That’s what they do.”

But her tears only come harder. “You don’t get it — she wanted me. The coven wanted me. I was supposed to be some kind of vessel. Maybe I was just born wrong. Maybe it was always going to happen.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. He’s heard words like that before out of his own mouth, years ago, in darker times. He crouches in front of her, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me,” he says softly. “You are nothing like her. You didn’t choose this.”

Nellie meets his eyes, broken and searching. “Then why does it still feel like she’s inside me?”

He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Because what she did doesn’t just go away. It stays. The fear. The guilt. But that doesn’t mean she’s still here.”

Her breath hitches, tears spilling faster. “She used me to get close to you. To Eileen. To Dean.” She covers her mouth with her hand, choking on a sob. “She could’ve killed all of you.”

His throat tightens. He sits beside her on the floor, his hand firm on her shoulder. “But she didn’t. You stopped her. You fought her off. You saved all of us, Nellie.”

She shakes her head, her voice small. “You saved me.”

His eyes soften. “You think I could’ve done that if you hadn’t fought her from the inside? You’re the reason you’re still here.”

Nellie doesn’t respond. Her shoulders shake as she cries quietly into her hands. The terrier noses her arm, whining softly until she lets her fingers rest against his fur again.

Sam looks down at the floor for a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper when he speaks again. “You know… I used to think the same way. After Ruby tricked me. After everything I did while I was under her thumb.”

Her head lifts slowly.

“I thought I deserved to burn for it,” he admits. “Every night, I’d replay it, what I did, what I almost did. But then I realized… guilt doesn’t fix anything. It just keeps you chained to the worst version of yourself.” He meets her gaze. “You don’t have to live there.”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve, her voice hoarse. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” he replies softly. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Silence settles between them again, fragile but not empty this time. Outside the window, morning sunlight filters through the trees, casting soft shadows across the floor. Nellie stares at it for a long time, her breathing finally evening out.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For letting it happen.”

Sam shakes his head. “You survived it. That’s what matters.”

She doesn’t answer, just reaches down to scratch behind Miracle’s ears. The little dog tilts his head into her touch, loyal and unaware of the darkness she carries.

He watches her quietly, knowing better than to push further. Guilt isn’t something you can reason out of someone. It had to be carried until it got lighter on its own. And for now, all he can do is make sure she doesn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

• • •

The house is quiet that night. Lawrence sleeps under a pale half-moon, the streetlamps humming faintly outside the windows. Inside, all is still: Eileen’s soft breathing, Dean’s quiet snore, the occasional creak of old floorboards in the hall. Nellie lays in the guest bed, her face pale against the pillow, eyes darting beneath closed lids.

In her dream, she is back in the bunker. The lights flickered. The walls bleed shadow. Ruby’s laughter echoed through the dark. “You think you’re free, sweetheart? You never were.” She spins around, heart pounding, and finds herself holding a knife. She doesn’t remember picking it up. The blade gleams with a thin smear of light that isn’t really light at all.

“Get out,” she whispers, backing away. “You’re gone.”

“Then why am I still here?”

In the real world, Nellie sits up slowly, her movements mechanical. Her eyes are open, but distant, unfocused. Miracle lifts his head, tail twitching, uneasy. When she swings her legs over the side of the bed, he barks once, then again, sharper. Still asleep, she crosses to her duffel, found the hunting knife she always kept sheathed there, and walks into the hallway. The dog barks louder, his paws clicking against the hardwood as he follows her.

Up the stairs, Sam stirred. Decades of hunter reflex wakes him before he is even fully conscious. He sits up, listening. Miracle is barking, frantic now. Then he hears footsteps. He is moving before he has time to think, pulling on his flannel, feet silent on the floor. He rounds the corner and freezes. Nellie stands in Dean’s doorway. The faint glow of the night-light casts her shadow long across the floor. A hunting knife hangs loose in her hand.

“Nell?” he says quietly, voice careful.

No response. She steps forward.

“Hey —” He crosses the distance fast, catching her wrist. “Nellie, wake up.”

She startles violently, eyes wide open, but they are glassy, far away. “Let go!” she shouts, jerking against his grip.

“It’s me,” he says, tightening his hold just enough to keep the blade away. “You’re dreaming —”

She twists hard, the knife flashing. The blade catches his forearm, slicing through skin.

“Nellie!”

The name snaps her awake. She blinks, dazed, staring at the knife, then at Sam’s bleeding arm. Her face crumples. “Oh my God —” The knife hits the floor with a clatter. She stumbles backward, shaking. “No, no, no, no —”

He presses a hand over the cut, the pain already fading into the background. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “You were sleepwalking.”

But she isn’t listening. Her breathing hitched, panic rising fast. “I — hurt you. I — I was going into Dean’s room — oh my God —” She turns and runs, moving fast down the stairs, one hand clamped over her mouth as if she could stop the sobs building in her chest. The door to her room shuts behind her with a muffled thud.

Eileen appears in the doorway, heart pounding, eyes wide. “What happened?” she asks.

Sam shakes his head quickly. “It’s okay. Just a nightmare.”

From inside the room, a small, sleepy voice, “Mommy?”

She turns immediately, her expression softening. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Go back to bed.” She walks through the door, coaxing her son gently back toward his pillow. Then she looks up at her husband, eyes sharp with unspoken understanding. “Go after her,” she signs firmly. “I’ll get him back to sleep.”

He nods once, gripping his flannel over the cut. He walks down the stairs, pausing at the closed door of his niece’s room. The muffled sound of quiet, uneven sobs bleeds through the wood. He hesitates for a long second, rubbing the blood from his forearm with his thumb. Then he pushes the door open. The room is dim, lit only by the weak glow from the hallway. Nellie sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders trembling, her hair hiding her face. Miracle is on the floor beside her, whining softly, ears pinned back. When she notices the door open, she jerks up, eyes red and wild. She had managed to grab the hunting knife from the floor before her retreat and now she brandishes it at him.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warns, her voice shaking. “Please, Sam. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He freezes where he is, his tone calm and even. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“You don’t know that!” Her voice cracks. “I could’ve — Dean — if you hadn’t stopped me —” Her breath hitches. “You need to leave before I do something else.”

He takes a slow step forward, raising his hands slightly. “Nellie, it was a nightmare. That’s all. Dean’s fine. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

Her gaze darts to the smear of blood still visible on his sleeve. Her voice fell to a whisper. “I hurt you.”

He shakes his head gently. “Barely scratched me.”

“Sam —”

He crosses the rest of the distance before she can finish, moving slow, careful. She flinches when he reaches her, the knife trembling in her grip.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low enough to be a whisper. “Look at me.”

Her eyes meet his, glassy and terrified.

“It’s over. You’re safe. You’re home.”

She shakes her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t feel safe.”

He holds out his hand, palm up, patient. “Then let me help you feel it again.”

For a long moment, Nellie doesn’t move. Then, with a shuddering breath, she turns the knife around and sets the handle in his hand. Sam takes it carefully, setting it on the nightstand without looking away from her. Then he kneels in front of her and gently pulling her into his arms. The moment he does, she breaks. Her sobs come hard and fast, all the fear and guilt spilling out at once. She clings to him like she is afraid he’ll disappear if she lets go.

“I could’ve killed him,” she cries into his shoulder. “I could’ve killed my own family.”

He holds her tighter, his voice rough with emotion. “But you didn’t. You woke up. You stopped it.”

“I’m dangerous,” she whispers. “Something’s wrong with me.”

He shakes his head, resting his chin lightly against her hair. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’ve just been through too much.”

She doesn’t answer, her breath hitching as another sob escapes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You remember what you told me, after you got the Impala?”

She blinks through her tears. “What?”

“You said it made you feel like maybe… maybe the good parts of this life were still worth holding onto.” He gives her a faint, bittersweet smile. “That’s still true. You just forgot for a minute.”

Nellie’s face crumples again, but this time the sob that comes out is softer, less frantic.

Sam brushes her hair back from her face and wipes away one of the tears with his thumb. “You’re healing, Nellie. It doesn’t look perfect. It doesn’t feel perfect. But this?” He gestures faintly between them. “This is proof.”

She gives a shaky laugh through her tears, voice barely audible. “You sound like a dad.”

He smiles faintly at that. “Yeah, well… its part of the job.”

She manages a small smile in return, weak, but real.

He looks down at her, his hand resting gently on her back, and whispers, “You’re okay, kiddo. You’re okay.”

When he starts to stand, she catches his sleeve, panic flickering again. “Lock the door,” she says.

He frowns, confused. “What?”

“Just for tonight. Please.”

“Nell…”

“Please, Sam,” she begs, voice trembling. “If I — if I start sleepwalking again, or if she’s still in there —” Her voice break. “I’ll sleep better if I know I can’t hurt anyone.”

Sam hesitates, torn between comfort and fear. He wants to tell her it isn’t necessary, that she is safe, that she is herself. But he can see it in her eyes: she won’t sleep otherwise. Finally, he nods. “All right. Just for tonight.”

She exhales shakily, shoulders dropping. “Thank you.”

As he turns toward the door, Miracle jumps onto the bed with a determined little huff.

He pauses. “Come on, buddy. Out.”

The dog doesn’t move. He just curls himself into a tight ball against Nellie’s side, his head resting on her lap.

She manages a faint, tear-choked laugh. “It’s okay,” she says quietly. “Let him stay. Maybe I’ll feel safer with him here.”

He looks at her for a moment, then nods. “All right. Guard duty it is.”

Miracle thumps his tail once, as if he understands.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment longer, watching her settle back against the pillows, the little dog pressing close against her. She looks exhausted, fragile in a way he hasn’t seen since in a while, but for the first time that night, there is something like peace in her face. He pulls the door mostly closed, pausing to lock it quietly from the outside, then rests his forehead against the wood for a moment.

“It’s gonna be okay, kiddo,” he murmurs.

But it was fair from okay in Nellie’s room. Her cries return as Sam’s footsteps fade up the stairs. Even after the lock clicked. Even after the house settles into that deep, middle-of-the-night quiet. Her breath hitches in uneven bursts, her fingers curling tight in the blanket as if she can anchor herself there, keep herself from drifting back into the nightmare. Miracle nudges her, warm and worried, offering quiet whines as he moves closer. She touches his head with shaky hands, but the panic and guilt remain, intense and persistent.

She squeezes her eyes shut. “You’re okay,” she whispers to herself. “You’re okay, you’re okay —”

A familiar, gentle voice cuts through her spiraling. “Hey, kiddo.”

Her breath catches. She jerks her head toward the corner of the room. Dean stands by the window, hands clasped loosely, expression soft. Not glowing, not overwhelming, just him.

“Dad?” She rasps.

He gives her that small, lopsided smile, the one that always carries more love than he ever says out loud. “Yeah. It’s me.”

She doesn’t move closer. She stays curled, the terrier practically in her lap, eyes wide with fear and shame and exhaustion.

He studies her, his expression shifting from concern to quiet heartbreak. “Cas filled me in. Figured I should check on you.”

Her throat tightens. “I — I thought Ruby was still…” She wraps her arms around herself. “I thought she was still in me. I saw the knife — I was in Dean’s doorway and — and I hurt Sam —”

His brow creases, but not with anger. Only with sorrow. “Sweetheart…”

“I told him to lock me in.” The confession rips out of her. “Because I don’t trust myself. Because what if this happens again? What if she left something behind? What if — what if next time —” Her voice crumbles. “What if I really hurt someone?”

Dean leans forward slightly, voice low and steady. “Nells. Look at me.”

Nellie lifts her tear-swollen eyes.

“You survived months of being possessed,” he says. “And you fought her. Not once, but every damn day she was in your head. And when she tried to get out? You held her there. You kept her from leaving that bunker. You.”

She shakes her head weakly. “But I —”

“No.” His voice softens, firm but loving. “You don’t get to blame yourself for what a demon did.”

She swallows, hard.

“You hurt Sam,” he continues, gentle but honest. “Yeah. And he knows it wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t you. That wasn’t your intention, kiddo. That was trauma. That was the aftershock. And it scared you.”

A sob breaks free. “I could’ve killed them.”

“You didn’t.” His voice is a warm anchor in the dark. “And you’re not going to.”

Miracle nudges her again, as if agreeing.

Dean’s expression softens even further. “Nellie… healing from this? It’s not about holy water or sigils. It’s about your head and your heart catching up to the fact that you’re safe now.” He pauses, letting the words settle. “And that kind of healing? It hurts. Sometimes it hurts worse than the fight.”

Nellie stares down at her shaking hands. “I feel broken.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not broken. You’re bruised. Big difference.” His tone warms, more father than hunter. “You’ve beaten covens and monsters and demons. You beat Ruby. So why,” he tilts his head, “would you let the fear she left behind be the thing that wins? You’re stronger than this. Stronger than you know. But you have to let Sam and Eileen help you. Let yourself rest. Let yourself be human for a minute.”

A fresh tear slips down her cheek.

He exhales slowly. “Scoot over, kiddo.”

She blinks, confused, but moved slightly to the side.

He sits down on the bed as much as he can as a spirit, leaning back like he is settling in for the long haul. He can’t touch her, not really, but she can feel his presence anyway, warm and steady and impossibly comforting. It fills the room like a blanket she doesn’t have to be afraid of.

“I’ll sit with you,” he says softly. “’Til you fall asleep.”

Nellie’s face crumples. “Dad…”

“You’ve been running on fumes for months,” he says gently. “You’re safe here. Sam’s upstairs. Eileen, too. And I’m not goin’ anywhere tonight.” A small smile tugs at his mouth. “You can rest, baby. Tomorrow’s another day.”

Miracle noses into her hand again. She curls toward him, letting her breathing slow, letting the panic ebb just a little. Dean watches over her the way he had watched over his little brother so many nights; quiet, steady, a guardian even in death. And as his daughter finally drifts into the first real sleep she’s had in months, he keeps his promise. He stays.

• • •

The morning light crept softly through the curtains, pale and thin. The house is quiet, that early hour where the world hasn’t decided to wake up yet. Sam turns the key in Nellie’s door, the lock clicking gently. He hesitates before opening it, half expecting to find her still asleep. Instead, she is already awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her hair is tousled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But she looks calmer, not fine, not healed, but present. The storm has passed for now. Miracle lay curls up beside her, his head in her lap. Her hand moves absently through his fur, slow and rhythmic, like the motion alone is keeping her steady.

When she looks up at him, her voice is soft. “Guess I should say thanks for humoring me.”

“You slept?”

“A little.” She rubs at her eyes, then looks back down at the terrier. “He didn’t move all night.”

“Good dog,” he says quietly.

Miracle’s tail thumps once at the sound of his name.

For a long moment, neither of them says anything. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with everything that doesn’t need to be said yet. Finally, he speaks. “How do you feel?”

Nellie lets out a breath that sounds too big for her small frame. “Tired,” she admits. “Like… I’ve been fighting something in my sleep.”

He steps further into the room. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s gonna take time to feel normal again.”

She gives a small, humorless laugh. “Normal. Right.”

He watches her carefully. “You want to tell me what happened last night? The dream?”

Her expression shutters a little. She stops petting the dog, hands folding tightly in her lap. “It wasn’t just a dream. It felt real.”

He waits, patient, silent.

“I could hear her,” Nellie says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Ruby. Like she was right there, whispering. I thought I woke up… but I wasn’t awake. And she was in control again. I saw Dean. He was just standing there, so small. And I couldn’t move my body right. It was like being trapped inside myself again. Watching her use my hands.” She swallows hard, her eyes shining. “When I woke up and saw the knife, saw you. I thought I was still dreaming. Thought I’d lost time again.”

Sam nods slowly. “But you woke up. You stopped it.”

“I still hurt you.”

He looks down at his bandaged arm. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.” Her voice trembles, but she meets his eyes. “I’m still scared, Sam. What if I can’t trust myself anymore?”

He sits on the edge of the bed, close but not crowding her. “You can. It’s okay to be scared. Hell, it’d be weird if you weren’t.”

She gives a shaky smile. “I keep thinking about everything I’ve seen hunters become when they start losing control. Obsessive, paranoid... I don’t want to end up like that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you care,” he says simply. “The people who lose themselves, they stop caring first.”

She looks down at Miracle again, fingers curling in his fur. “Feels like fear’s the only thing keeping me upright lately.”

He smiles faintly. “Fear’s not the enemy, Nellie. It’s what you do with it that matters.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps petting the dog, slow and steady. After a while, she says quietly, “You really think I’ll be okay?”

“I know you will.”

She leans back against the headboard, shoulders loosening a little. Miracle sighes and shifts closer to her side, eyes closing again.

He stands, quietly pulling the door open. “I’ll make coffee. You want breakfast?”

“Sounds nice.”

He nods. “Take your time. It’ll be ready when you are.”

As he leaves, she finally gets up and grabs Dean’s old flannel from Sam’s packed duffel, feeling its comfort. The scent of coffee and pancakes fills the house—a normal morning that seems odd for hunters. Sunlight streams in over the kitchen, highlighting mugs of coffee. Nellie pauses in the doorway, unsure, while her aunt flips pancakes, Sam checks his phone, and her little cousin chatters about cartoons.

When Eileen turns and sees her niece, she smiled warmly. “Morning, sweetheart,” she said, signing the words along with them out of habit. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Nellie nods, stepping inside. “Morning.” Her voice is quiet, rough from sleep.

Before she can move any farther, a blur of motion shoots out from the table, Dean, bright-eyed and grinning.

“Nellie!” He runs straight for her, arms outstretched.

For a split second, every muscle in her body tenses. Her breath catches, panic flashing across her face. She almost takes a step back. almost. Then she stops herself.

The little boy wraps his little arms around her waist, pressing his face against her shirt. “You came back!” he says, voice muffled.

She freezes, staring down at the top of his head. Her throat tightens. Slowly, almost awkwardly, she lowers one arm and wraps it around him. “Hey, bud,” she whispers. “Yeah. I came back.”

He looks up at her with the kind of unshakable trust that only a child could manage. “You almost missed pancakes.”

That pulls a small, genuine smile from her. “Guess I’ll have to fix that, huh?”

“Yeah!” He grins and dashing back to his chair.

Nellie crosses to the table, Miracle trotting at her heels. She sits down beside Dean, careful and quiet, folding her hands in her lap until Eileen slides a plate of pancakes in front of her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

Her aunt smiles again. “Eat while it’s hot.”

Sam watches her from across the table. She tries to act normal, cutting her pancakes, sipping her coffee, but her movements are deliberate, like every action is being tested before she commits to it. The boy talks nonstop despite this, his voice the background hum of family. Eileen listens with patient affection. He keeps one eye on his niece, watching her slowly start to relax, the smallest traces of color returning to her face.

Halfway through breakfast, Dean leans against her arm. “You gonna stay a while?”

Nellie hesitates. “Maybe for a bit.”

“Good,” he says simply, and goes back to his pancakes.

She smiles faintly, but the shadow doesn’t leave her eyes. Sam notices.

After a few quiet minutes, he sets down his fork. “You know,” he says casually, like he is bringing up the weather, “I was thinking about something that might help.”

She looks up, wary. “Help with what?”

He gives her a small, reassuring smile. “Peace of mind. When your dad and I were younger,” he continues, “we used to worry about things getting in our heads. Or under our skin. So, we got these.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt, just enough to show the faint edge of an old black tattoo a five-pointed star with flame-like tendrils circling it.

Her eyes widen a little. “An anti-possession sigil.”

“Exactly. Keeps anything with bad intentions from hitching a ride.”

She looks down at her coffee, the steam blurring her reflection. “You think I need one.”

“I think it might help you feel safe again,” he states gently. “Remind you that you’re in control.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her thumb traces the rim of the mug, her expression distant. Across the table, her aunt gives her a soft, encouraging smile, while Dean happily hums around a mouthful of syrup-drenched pancakes.

Finally, Nellie says quietly, “Maybe you’re right.”

Sam nods once, the conversation settling between them like a quiet agreement.

Eileen reaches over and brushed a crumb from her son’s cheek, her voice light. “One step at a time.”

She manages a real smile this time, small, but warm. “Yeah. One step.”

• • •

Later that morning, after the dishes were rinsed and Miracle finished licking Dean’s face clean, Sam jingles his car keys and nods toward the door. Nellie stiffens a little, just enough for him to notice, but she grabs her flannel anyway. She doesn’t argue. She hasn’t argued once all morning. That alone tells him how tired she still is. They head over to the separate garage and climb into Eileen’s Jeep. She slips into the passenger seat, her knee bouncing nervously.

He shuts his door and gives her a quick, searching look. “You ready?”

She inhales slowly. “As I’ll ever be.”

He smiles gently and pulls onto the street.

For a few minutes, they drive in silence. The Kansas sun flickers through the passing trees, warm and harmless. But she stares out the window with that nervous, far-away look; the same one he himself had worn the day he got his own anti-possession tattoo. The same one Dean had worn too, though he pretended otherwise.

“You know,” Sam says finally, glancing over at her, “it doesn’t have to be some huge ordeal.”

Nellie huffs a thin breath, somewhere between a laugh and a tremor. “I’ve never gotten a tattoo before. I barely survived getting my ears pierced.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” he assures her. “The anticipation’s the worst part.”

“That’s what worries me.” She squeezes her hands together tighter. “I’m already shaky. What if I pass out? What if I freak out? I don’t want to be… like this.” Her voice dips. “I don’t want to look like someone who can’t handle it.”

“Nellie, nobody expects you to be a badass today. You just went through hell. Literally. This isn’t a test. It’s protection. A safeguard. Something to help you feel safe again.”

“Yeah… I know.”

He lets the quiet settle again before the next question slips out of her.

“Where… did you and Dean get yours?” Her voice is small but steady.

Sam feels his heart pinch. Not badly. Just a soft ache, the kind that comes from missing someone and loving someone at the same time.

“Upper chest,” he says gently. “Left side, just under the collarbone. Dean picked the spot first. I copied him.” He smiles faintly. “Not that I’d ever tell him that.”

Nellie’s gaze drifts down to her flannel, to the place under her own collarbone. She runs her fingers there thoughtfully, like she can almost feel the ink already.

He watches her, understanding dawning without her needing to explain a thing. “You want it there?” he asks, voice quiet.

A long pause. Then, with a small, almost shy nod, “Yeah. I… I think so.”

He nods back, warm and proud. “Then that’s exactly where you’ll get it.”

She exhales, a shaky little breath that is equal parts nerves and something softer, something like hope.

“Did it hurt?” she asks.

Sam snorts. “Dean complained for three days.”

That earns a tiny, reluctant smile. “Figures.”

“But he was proud of it. We both were. Not just because it kept us safe, but because it meant we were… united. Not just brothers. Hunters. Partners. Family.”

Nellie’s eyes shimmers, but she blinks the shine away.

“I want that,” she whispers. “I want… something of his. Something real.”

He reaches over, resting a hand on her shoulder. Just for a second. “You already have that, Nell. More than you think.”

She swallows hard.

“But this’ll help,” he adds with a soft grin.

She nods, finally leaning back in her seat, a little less rigid, a little more grounded.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Let’s do it.”

They soon reach the tattoo parlor, tucked between a laundromat and a vape store, neon sign buzzing faintly above the door. The inside smells of rubbing alcohol, ink, and stale incense. Sam pushes the door open, gesturing for Nellie to go first.

She hesitates on the threshold. “Sam,” she whispers. “What if I faint?”

He grins. “I’ll catch you.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s a little comforting.”

“It’s not.”

He nudges her shoulder gently, like a big brother trying to get his kid sister to jump off a diving board. “C’mon. You fought a demon in your own head. You can survive a needle.”

She shoots him a flat look. “I feel like those are dramatically different experiences.”

He raises a brow. “Are they?”

“Sam.”

He holds open the door wider. “Nellie.”

She groans under her breath and finally walks in.

The artist, a bearded guy in his forties with full-sleeve tattoos and surprisingly kind eyes, looks up from his workstation. “You folks the eleven o’clock?”

Sam nods. “Yep. She’s getting her first one.” He hooks an arm lightly around Nellie’s shoulder, slipping into the guise they’d agreed on. “She wants one to match mine.”

The artist’s face softens. “Father-daughter inks? That’s awesome.”

Nellie fight not to choke on the words. She expected to feel embarrassed pretending Sam is her dad in this situation, but instead it sends a quiet warmth into her chest. Something protective, grounding.

He unfolds a small sheet of paper and hands it over. She leans in to look. It is the first time she really looked at the anti-possession symbol in detail. The sharp symmetry. The circle. The star. The protective lines she recognized from various Men of Letters warding texts, except this version was compact, carved and worn by the Winchesters before she was even born. Her father had carried this. Her uncle still carries it. And now she will too. Her breath catches, but not from fear.

“Cool design,” the artist says. “Placement?”

Sam taps his left upper chest. “Here. Same spot as mine.”

The artist nods approvingly. “Classic.”

“Alright, young lady,” he says, gesturing toward the chair. “Let’s get you set up.”

She climbs onto the seat, stiff as a board, and pulls off her flannel. Her black tank top exposes the spot where the stencil would go.

Sam leans against the counter, arms crossed, wearing his best impression of a father playing it cool, except the sparkle in his eye is pure big brother stirring trouble.

“Want me to hold your hand?” he asks sweetly.

She shoots him a murderous look. “I will throw you out the window.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says, smirking.

The artist chuckles as he positions the stencil. “First tattoo jitters are normal.”

“Exactly,” he replies. “Perfectly normal that she’s acting like I brought her in for major surgery.” After a few moments, a smirk spreads on his face. “You know,” he muses, “Dean threatened the life of the tattoo artist when we got ours.”

She looks at him incredulously. “And he wasn’t put on some sort of watch list?”

“Surprisingly, no. He was being a big, sarcastic baby.”

She snorts. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Sam gives her his best poker face.

“Probably.”

“You can ask Cas. He’ll confirm when Dean had to get it touched up after a nasty hunt.”

“Cas would confirm you once got concussed falling off a pew.”

He sputters. “That was one time!”

The artist chuckles at their banter as he pulls the stencil off her skin. He pulls his cart of tools closer, grabbing the tattoo gun and dripping it into the black ink. “You ready?”

“No,” Nellie says immediately.

Sam grins. “That’s the spirit.”

The needle buzzes to life. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Deep breath,” he says softly. “Count something. I don’t know… stars? Vegan protein powders? All the times you’ve made fun of my hair —”

She glares up at him.

“Just trying to help,” he replies with a smile.

She sucks in a slow breath as the needle touches down. Pain sparks, a sharp, burning scrape, but she keeps her eyes open, jaw clenched.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”

“Say that again and I swear to God —”

He raises both hands. “Okay, okay. No pep-talk voice.”

“Thank you.”

But she doesn’t tell him to move. Or stop talking. Or shut up entirely. Because even his dumb banter keeps her anchored, keeps the thoughts from spiraling back toward knives and nightmares and doors she doesn’t remember walking through. A few minutes passes in a rhythm of needle buzz, breath, and Sam’s ridiculous commentary.

“…Dean would’ve taken pictures of this exact moment,” he says. “For blackmail. Probably would’ve made it his phone wallpaper.”

Nellie swallows, throat tight but not with fear this time. “Yeah,” she says softly. “I think he would’ve too.”

He smiles gently. Not sad. Proud. It turns into smirk as he pulls out his phone. “Might as well not pass up the opportunity. Besides your mom will want it for her photo album.”

A lump forms in her throat. Even though it is just guise, like she and Sam and done several times before, but for her? It is a truth she holds close to her heart. He and Eileen have been her parents since that first time she showed up looking for her father. Of course, Dean will forever be the person she puts on her dad pedestal, but her aunt and uncle are her physical parents; giving her what her father would want for her. With the Winchesters, she has parents and a sibling who loves her with his whole heart.

She is so deep in thought that she doesn’t hear the buzzing stop.

“And… done,” the artist says, finally breaking her train of thought.

Nellie exhales hard, shoulders dropping. She looks down at the fresh ink. Its small, sharp lines, the same sigil her father and uncle have worn for years. The symbol that has protected them. The symbol that has kept demons out. Now hers, too.

Sam nudges her. “Told you you’d survive.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles — really smiles — for the first time since the exorcism. “Thanks for not letting me freak out,” she murmurs.

“Anytime,” Sam said. “That’s what family’s for.”

She slips her flannel back on carefully once the artist had cleaned and bandaged it, cradling her new tattoo like something precious.

Because it is.

 • • •

The Winchesters’ house is glowing with high afternoon light when Sam pulls the car into the driveway. Nellie sits stiffly in the passenger seat, one hand hovering protectively near her collarbone. She isn’t in pain… well, not much… but the skin feels strange, warm, new. Like her body is still getting used to the idea of belonging to itself again. And the fact her uncle convinced her to let a needle repeatedly prick her skin like a relentless ant.

“Remember,” he says as he turns off the engine, “if you tell Dean it’s magic ink, that’s on you.”

She snorts. “I’m not going to lie to a five-year-old.”

“I lie to him all the time.”

“Sam.”

“What? He thinks broccoli gives you superpowers.”

She groans and slides out of the car, fighting a smile.

Inside, the front door swings open before either of them approaches the porch. Eileen stands there, purse still slung over her shoulder, Dean hugging her leg like an excited barnacle. She signs quickly as she speaks, voice warm. “Hey! You’re back. How’d it go?”

Sam beams like he’d won something. “She survived.”

Nellie rolls her eyes, cheeks pink. “Barely.”

The boy catches sight of her and immediately detaches from his mother, sprinting toward her on tiny thunderous feet. “NELLIE!”

She kneels, bracing herself but still winces when he wraps his arms around her neck, right near the fresh tattoo.

“Oof — hey, bud,” she says, hugging him back gently. “Careful, I’m a little sore.”

He pulls back and squints up at her. “Why’d you draw on yourself?” His little face folds in intense five-year-old judgment. “You’re not s’posed to.”

Sam chokes on a laugh. “She didn’t draw on herself, buddy. She got a tattoo.”

Dean’s eyes go huge. “A ta-too?” He leans in close to her chest. “Can I see it? Is it a dinosaur?”

She lets out a startled laugh. “No dinos, sorry.” She glances at Eileen. “If it’s okay?”

Her aunt’s expression softens. “Of course.” She steps closer, eyes bright with a mix of curiosity and pride. “Where is it?”

She carefully pulls the collar of her tank top down a bit more to reveal the fresh ink. It is still a little raised, still shiny from ointment and clear bandage, but crisp and dark and perfect.

Eileen’s breath catches in a quiet, heartfelt sound. “Nell,” she murmurs. “It’s looks good.”

Sam nods proudly. “She took it like a champ. Even if she said ‘ow’ a lot.”

Nellie smacks his arm lightly.

He throws up his hands. “What? Accurate reporting.”

The woman smiles at their banter, then gently touches the air just above the tattoo, close, but not touching the tender skin. “How do you feel?”

She inhales slowly. “Better,” she admits. “Safer. More… me.”

Eileen’s eyes shine with quiet pride. “Good. You deserve to feel like yourself again.”

Dean, not to be left out, tapped his cousin’s leg insistently. “Does it give you superpowers?”

She crouches down carefully and lowers her voice as if sharing the most sacred secret. “It keeps the monsters away.”

His mouth forms a perfect little O. “Forever?”

“Forever.”

He looks appropriately awestruck, then launches into explaining how he needs a monster-proof tattoo too, preferably one with trucks on it. Or maybe a dragon.

Sam scoops him up mid-rant. “Nice try, kid. No tattoos until you’re thirty.”

“I’m five!”

“Exactly.”

Eileen laughs softly and hugs her niece one-armed, careful of the soreness. “We’re proud of you,” she says. “This is a big step.”

And for the first time in months, Nellie believes it. She feels it. She is reclaiming herself. One small, black-inked symbol at a time.

• • •

Sam knocks lightly on Nellie’s door, the same way he has the night before.

“Yeah?” she calls from inside.

He pushes the door open and peeks inside.

Nellie is sitting cross-legged on the bed in one of her soft sleep shirts, hair loose around her shoulders, Miracle curled against her hip like a little sentinel. The dog lifts his head when he steps in but doesn’t budge. Apparently, he now takes his guard duty seriously.

He smiles a little. “How’s it feeling?”

“Sore,” she admits. “But… manageable. Better than I thought it’d be.”

She keeps absently stroking the terrier’s fur. He leans into it, blissful.

He nods, leaning on the doorframe. “I wanted to check in. Last night was rough. Thought maybe you’d want the door locked again, if it’d help you feel safer.”

She goes quiet for a moment, fingers stilling in the wiry fur. She frowns down at her hands, thinking, and when she finally looks up, her eyes are steady. “…No,” she answers softly. “I think I’ll be okay tonight.”

He searches her face. “You sure?”

A slow, small smile tugs at her mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if I can’t sleep because my tattoo feels like someone branded me with hot iron, I’m gonna need the freedom to come wake you up and complain about it.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You are absolutely welcome to complain. Loudly. Repeatedly.”

“And besides,” she adds, nudging Miracle’s back with her knee, “I’ve got my guard dog. He apparently decided I need twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

The dog gives a proud little grumble and flops his head back into her lap.

Sam’s smile softens; warm, proud, a little heartbroken in that way he always got when she shows even a bit of gentleness toward herself. “He’s good at his job.”

“He is,” she agrees, rubbing his ear. “And… I’m trying, Sam. Really. To feel normal again.”

“I know you are.” He steps into the room now, voice low and honest. “And you don’t have to rush. One night at a time is enough.”

Nellie nods, swallowing. “Thanks.”

He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder carefully, avoiding the tattoo. “If you need anything. Anything at all. Just knock. Or yell. Or send Miracle. He’s very pushy.”

The terrier thumps his tail in agreement.

She lets out a small laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

“Good.” Sam backs toward the door. “Get some rest, kiddo.”

She smiles at him. “Night, Sammy.”

“Goodnight, Nellie.”

He closes the door behind him, leaving her curled on the bed with Miracle’s warm weight pressed against her, a quiet reminder that she is safe. That she is home. And that tonight, she isn’t afraid to sleep.

Not long after the house settled down for the night, the air shifts in a soft, familiar, warm in the way only Dean ever is. She doesn’t jump this time. Doesn’t startle. She just blinks up as her father leans against the far wall of her room, arms crossed, boots planted like he owns the place. He wears that half-grin he always saved for her.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says quietly. “Mind if I check in?”

She can’t help the small smile that tugs at her lips. “You always show up when I need you, don’t you?”

“Pretty much my job description.” Dean pushes off the wall and walks closer, pausing at the foot of her bed. He looks her over and she sees the tension ease out of his shoulders when he take in the calm instead of the panic he’d found the night before. “You look better. Lot better.”

“I… feel better,” she admits. “Still tired. But better.”

He nods, pleased. “Good. After last night, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t spiraling.”

She strokes a hand down the dog’s back. “It was a slow morning. Thought too much. Cried a little more. But Sam helped. A lot, actually.”

He leans a hip against the dresser. “Oh yeah? What’d he do? Give you one of his signature lectures about the importance of life and how reliving mistakes takes up too much space?”

She chuckles and shakes her head. Then she hesitates before hooking a finger under the collar of her shirt, tugging it down just enough to reveal the clear bandage taped over her clavicle.

His eyes widen. “No way. You didn’t.”

Nellie nods, a little shy suddenly. “Yeah. Anti-possession tattoo. Like you and Sam have.”

Dean barks out a laugh, surprised, stupidly proud. “You went and got inked without asking your old man’s permission?” He puts a hand to his chest like he is mortally offended. “Wow. That’s it. I’m grounding you.”

She snorts. “You can’t ground me. I’m twenty-three.”

“I can ground you from beyond the grave,” he shoots back. “Ultimate dad power.”

She grins despite herself. The first real grin he’s seen on her in weeks.

His expression softens. He nods toward the bandage. “How’s it feel?”

“Sore,” she admits. “But… good sore. Like… like I’m reclaiming something I lost.” She looks down at her hands, voice quieting. “After months of Ruby using my body, it feels like I finally took something back.”

His throat bobs, emotion flickering across his face before he masks it with a proud grin. “Damn right you did. That’s my girl.”

She feels her chest warm at that.

He steps a little closer, sitting on the bed again like he did the night before. “Listen,” he says softly, “you doing this… it shows you’re healing. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But you’re getting there.”

She swallows, blinking away a sudden sting in her eyes. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are. And you’re doing good, baby.” He nods toward Miracle, who has fallen asleep across her lap. “Got your watchdog. Got your family upstairs. And you got me. You’re not fighting alone anymore.”

She lets out a long breath she hasn’t realized she’s been holding. “Thanks, Dad.”

 “Get some sleep, sweetheart. I’ll hang out again till you’re out cold. Promise.”

Nellie settles deeper under the blankets, exhausted but safe. The terrier shifts closer, warm against her side. He watches his daughter with a soft, steady look she never sees outside of these quiet moments. Within minutes, her eyes slip shut. And Dean stays. Just like he said he would.

• • •

The house feels calmer now, like the air has finally stopped holding its breath. In the days following getting the tattoo, the nightmares still plague Nellie, but at least she wasn’t sleepwalking with weapons anymore. She sits at the kitchen table, still in her flannel sleep pants, hair pulled back in a loose braid that said she’d slept well instead of simply collapsing. Miracle dozes beneath her chair, paws twitching as though dreaming of heroic squirrel battles. Dean is in his own world with a bowl of cereal that has long since turned to mush. Across the table, Sam watches her with quiet relief. Color has returned to her face. The shadows under her eyes have faded. She looks… not healed, but herself.

“Hey,” he says gently, setting down his coffee. “I’ve been thinking.”

She raises a brow. “Uh oh.”

He huffs a laugh. “Nothing dangerous. I promise.”

She takes another bite of toast, waiting.

“You’ve got your abilities back now,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against his mug. “And I know you haven’t been using them much, not unless you have to.”

She shifts, eyes dipping. “Yeah. I… I guess I’m still figuring out what ‘normal’ looks like with them again.”

“And that’s okay,” he assures her. “It’s more than okay.” He hesitates, trying to phrase it right. “But I had an idea. Something that might help.”

She looks up, cautious but curious. “I’m listening.”

“You’ve always been able to energize sigils. Little ones. Symbols. Charms. We saw it even before all the coven stuff started.” He leans forward, voice warm. “What if we tried something bigger? Not all at once, just… channeling that same focus into the bunker's warding network.”

“The whole bunker?”

“Not the whole thing,” he clarifies quickly. “Just parts of it. Sections. Think of it like… reconnecting the wiring. Using your ability as a battery boost.”

She considers that, brows knitting. “Would that even work?”

“I think it will. And more importantly… I think it could help you feel grounded again. Your abilities aren’t just something that hurt you. They’re something you can use. Shape. Control. You don’t have to wait for a hunt to practice with them.”

A small, hesitant spark lights behind Nellie’s eyes. “You really think it could help?”

“I do.” Sam gives her a soft smile. “And you won’t be doing it alone. I’ll walk you through the ward schematics, stay with you the whole time. Be your anchor if you need one.”

She lets out a breath she doesn’t know she’s been holding. For a moment she toys with her pendant, thinking. “I… I like that idea,” she admits. “A lot. It feels like something I can take back. Something that’s mine.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

She meets his gaze, eyes bright with tentative hope. “Would you… help me get started?”

“Of course.” Sam’s answering smile was warm and proud. “Whenever you’re ready.”

• • •

The drive back to Lebanon is quiet. Not tense, just thoughtful. Sam keeps the music low, something soft and familiar humming through the Jeep’s speakers. Nellie rides shotgun, fingers tapping anxiously against her knee. Without Miracle curled in her lap, the empty space feels strangely loud. When the bunker finally comes into view, she stiffens. The stone entrance, the cold metal door, the deep subterranean hush waiting behind it. It all feels heavier than she remembers.

Sam notices. “Hey,” he says gently, easing the car into the garage. “You’re okay. She’s gone. For good.”

She nods, but it comes out tight. “Yeah. Just… stepping back into the place where I didn’t even know I wasn’t alone in my own head.” She swallows. “It’s a lot.”

He gives her a small, steadying smile. “We’ll take it slow.”

Inside, the bunker greets them with a stale draft and the faint smell of neglected coffee. When the flip the library lights on, Nellie winces. Books sprawled open on the map table.

Half-finished notes scattered everywhere. Three abandoned mugs forming a tragic little tableau in a corner.

“Okay,” she mutters, rubbing her temples. “That’s… worse than I thought.”

Sam picks up a mug like it is hazardous material. “I’ve seen worse,” he say casually. “Dean once —”

“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “I am begging you.”

He chuckles and sets the mug aside.

They don’t start on the ward work that day. The bunker needs reclaiming first and she needs to feel like the place isn’t haunted by her own absence. She moves slowly at first, shelving books with careful attention, but once the rhythm settles in, she finds herself moving faster, almost grateful for the mindless sorting. Sam wordlessly grabs stacks of tomes, carrying the heavier ones, straightening the chairs she’d left askew in-between hunts. She gathers her notes, some written cleanly in her handwriting, others in that tight, unfamiliar scrawl that makes her stomach twist. She flips those over. He doesn’t comment. She washes each mug, twice, scrubbing until the smell of stale coffee fades. Sam dries them and puts them in their places like he’s done it a hundred times before. When they step back and survey their work, it doesn’t look perfect. But it looks like a home again.

“Not bad,” he says, hands on his hips.

She nods, arms wrapped around herself. “It… feels better. Like I’m actually seeing it for the first time in weeks.” She hesitates. “Still eerie. Like part of me expects something to jump out.”

“Nothing’s jumping out tonight,” he reassures her. “And tomorrow, we’ll start slow. No pressure.”

She exhales, not fully relaxed, but lighter. “With the day I’ve had,” she says, “slow sounds great.” She hops onto the edge of the map table, a familiar perch.

He smiles, recognizing the gesture. It is her way of reclaiming space, not with force, but by simply being here. He knows that the possession will still shake her, but she already proving her Winchester name by coming back stronger than before.

• • •

It feels like those early days of hunter training all over again. They start in bunker’s main hallway, Sam carrying a notebook tucked under his arm.

“Okay,” he says, stopping at the first intersection. “Rule one: the bunker’s full of wards. Some older than anything I’ve ever seen. Some I updated back when I lived here full-time. They work together like… a network. None of them really stand alone.”

“Like magical Wi-Fi?” Nellie asks.

He blinks. “I — yeah. Actually. That’s surprisingly accurate.”

She smirks. “I’m not as old as you, Sammy. I know things.”

They walk together through the bunker’s corridors, Sam pointing out sigils etched into metal doorframes, runes carved subtly into stone walls, protective symbols nested beneath floor grates. Some vibrate faintly with ambient energy; others lay dormant, waiting to be activated. She keeps notes mentally, her fingers trailing over the ancient markings as she feels the weight of their history.

“These were here before you guys found the place?” she asks, kneeling to inspect a ward beneath a stairwell.

“Yeah. Men of Letters handiwork,” he replies. “You’ll notice their style. Lots of complexity. Looks like they were paid by the line.”

She laughs under her breath, appreciating the levity.

Once they finish mapping the major locations, Sam leads her back to the library. “Okay,” he says, motioning toward a small, circular sigil carved into the floor near the far bookcases. “We’ll start with this one. It’s minor, just a perimeter sensitivity rune. It warms up when someone crosses the threshold.”

Nellie crouches beside it, studying the symbol. She rubs her palms. “I haven’t done this since… well. Before.”

His expression softened without pity. “That’s why we’re starting small.”

She nods and positions herself over the rune, taking a steadying breath. Her fingers hover just above the carved lines. Slowly, hesitantly, she lets herself reach inward. It starts as a tingle. Then a faint thrum under her skin. Like something waking up after a long sleep.

The sigil responds instantly, warming beneath her hand. Its carves lines lights up with a soft amber glow, as though welcoming her back.

Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

He smiles. “See? You didn’t forget how.”

“It feels… different,” she admits quietly. “Clearer. Like it isn’t pulling at me anymore. Just… listening.”

“Good,” he says, his voice a mix of relief and pride. “That means the stasis completely broke. You’re back in control.”

The glow dims gently as she pulls her hand away, the energy settling like calm water smoothing after a ripple. Nellie sits back on her heels, releasing a breath she hasn’t realized she’s been holding. “Okay. That wasn’t so bad.”

Sam chuckles. “Trust me, energizing the ward network isn’t as dramatic as it sounds. Half the time it's like flipping light switches. The other half —”

She cuts him a look. “Don’t jinx it.”

He raises his hands. “Fair. Very fair.”

For now, it is calm. Measured. Encouraging. Tomorrow, things could get messier. But this moment? This is a steady beginning.

• • •

Over several days, Sam helps Nellie slowly relearn her skills. Each morning, they drink coffee and practice simple wards in different rooms. Sam is supportive but never pushes, encouraging steady progress. Their leisure time consists of cleaning gear, organizing books, working on the Impala. He brings light banter and helps her reconnect with good memories. By day's end, she feels more stable and less burdened by her past. When he proposes she try a bigger ward, she agrees, optimistic about her recovery. By the time the third morning arrives, she feels surprisingly refreshed. Her sleep isn't perfect, but it's much improved. Wanting to express gratitude, she makes breakfast for both of them, mixing pancakes as Eileen taught her.

Sam raises an eyebrow as she slides a plate in front of him. “Making pancakes for your uncle? That’s dangerous. I could get used to this.”

“Don’t,” she says. “I will absolutely weaponize them.”

They eat, trading quiet morning banter, and, just to keep the superstitions at bay, Sam knocking on the wooden table before they head into the hallway.

“Alright,” he says, leading her down to one of the deeper corridors, “today we’re going to try something a little bigger.”

She feels her stomach flip. “How big?”

“Big enough to matter, small enough that you won’t blow the place up.”

“Wow,” she mutters. “Comforting.”

He stops beside a metal grate set into the wall, the sigil behind it is intricate and sprawling, far more complex than the little runes they’d been working with.

“This one’s part of the bunker’s internal alarm system,” he explains. “Men of Letters craftsmanship. If you can energize this without frying yourself… you’ll be able to handle anything.”

She crouches, examining the lines beneath the grate. It feels like looking at a circuit board designed by someone who hated simplicity. “So… what? Just do what I’ve been doing?”

“Pretty much,” he replies. “But slower. And don’t push too much energy at once. Ease into it. Like easing a car onto the highway.”

“Sam,” she sighs. “You’ve seen me merge. Just say ‘Don’t crash.’”

He grins. “Don’t crash.”

“Fantastic.” She settles onto her knees, breathing deeply. She lets her awareness sink inward, brushing against the current of her own ability. Warm, familiar, but still possessing that edge of wildness from being dormant too long. Slowly, she reaches toward the sigil through the grate. A soft glow starts. White. Gentle. Her brow furrows in concentration.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Real good. Keep it slow.”

She does. The glow spreads from the center outward, following the lines carved into the stone. It pulses once, then twice, like a heartbeat syncing with hers.

“You’re doing it,” he says. “That’s it, Nell.”

She smiles faintly… until the glow flickers. “Uh… Sam?”

“Stay with it. Don’t pull away.”

“I’m not pulling —”

The sigil flares, bright enough that both have to shield their eyes. And then WHUMPH. Every light in the bunker surges at once. Metal doors clang shut down the hallway. Red emergency bulbs pop on. A loud klaxon blares overhead.

Sam’s face falls. “Oh no.”

Nellie stares at the glowing grate, horrified. “I didn’t mean to —”

“Don’t move,” he says, already stepping back. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t breathe too hard. You just activated the full emergency security lockdown.”

She blinks. “I — what? How?”

“Well, clearly,” he answers, gesturing helplessly at the smoking grate, “you juiced the entire system at once.”

“I thought you said it was just an internal alarm.”

“It is. For one room. Not… all of the bunker.”

The klaxons wail again.

She presses a hand to her forehead. “I swear to God the bunker hates me.”

“It doesn’t hate you. It’s just… enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic? Sam, I turned the whole place into Fort Knox on accident.”

He sighs. “Yeah, you did.”

She sinks onto the floor. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“Oh, definitely not,” he says, but his tone was warm, not chastising. “But hey, look on the bright side.”

She glares. “What bright side?”

“You didn’t blow anything up.”

She throws her head back and groans as Sam tries and fails to contain his laugh.

“Okay,” he says finally, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go undo the apocalypse you just triggered.”

“It’s not an apocalypse,” she mutters.

“Nellie, you just locked me out of the coffee pot. This is absolutely an apocalypse.”

Despite herself, she snorts.

By the time they reach the control room, the klaxons have settled into a steady pulse; one long, dramatic note every few seconds, as if the bunker is sighing in disappointment. Sam punches a series of numbers on a keypad in the wall. Denied. He tries again. Denied.

Nellie winces. “Uh… should I be the one to tell you that the door looks… welded shut?”

“It’s not welded shut,” he mutters, already annoyed. “It’s… magically sealed. Completely different.”

“Uh-huh… And how many times have you done this reset before?”

He pauses. “Once.”

“How’d that happen?”

“… Dean tried to microwave a metal fork.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

 “Fair.”

Sam takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and presses his palm to the metal door.

“Nellie, focus on the ambient energy you pushed into the ward system. Try to… pull it back a little.”

She frowns. “Pull it back? Like a recall command?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“Well, congratulations,” he says dryly. “You’re about to learn under extreme pressure.”

“I hate this training arc.”

“Oh, trust me, you’re doing better than I did.”

Nellie raises her hands slightly, feeling the thrum still humming through the bunker, a current she hadn’t intended to activate but can still faintly sense, like a vibration beneath her ribs. She closes her eyes, reaching inward. For a long moment, nothing happens. The lights continue their red pulse. The metal door stays shut. The klaxon wails.

Sam sighs. “Okay… okay, Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“Manual override.”

She points at the sealed door. “And how are we gonna get that open?”

He cracks his knuckles. “We get creative.” He finds the hidden panel under a desk, popped it open, and reveals a cluster of old-fashioned levers and switches. Some are labeled. Some aren’t. Some are labeled in Latin, which doesn’t help much.

Nellie stares. “This looks like the cockpit of a plane you built from spare parts.”

He groans. “Men of Letters loved overcomplicating things…” He flips a switch. Nothing. He flips another. A siren got louder.

“Sam —”

“I know, I know…” He pulls a lever.

Suddenly, the entire bunker goes dead silent. The lights shut off. The alarms stop. Nellie lets out a tiny squeak of surprise in the dark. Sam freezes.

“… Please tell me that was supposed to happen,” she whispers.

There is a beat of silence. Then the lights flicker back on, soft, normal white. Doors down the hall hiss open one by one. The bunker hums back to life like nothing has happened.

Sam sags in relief. “Oh thank God.”

Nellie looks to him. “So… you did it?”

“…Yes.”

“With the lever you definitely knew would work?”

“…Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“Absolutely.”

She laughs. It bubbles out of her, surprising her, warming the room more than any ward ever can. For the first time since being freed from Ruby, she feels fully like herself, not haunted, not hollow, not fragile. Just Nellie. Capable. Learning. Present.

Sam claps his hands. “Okay. You wanna try another ward tomorrow?”

“You know what?” she replies, feeling a spark of confidence. “Yeah. I think I do.”

They walk out of the control room, side by side, the bunker humming peacefully around them again.

He glances at her as they head down the hall. “And maybe tomorrow… we avoid anything connected to the emergency lockdown system.”

She smirks. “Deal.”

• • •

After the lockdown ends, Nellie returns to the library with a small pile of notes, mostly blank or covered in symbols. She flips through them, frustrated by how little she’s found on Aetheris.

Sam comes in, offers her coffee, and sits across from her. “Research day?” he asks.

“More like staring at useless pages. There’s almost nothing on Aetheris.”

He shrugs, “Cosmic beings aren’t usually easy to find. Old texts leave out the big names.”

“That worries me,” she admits.

“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he reassures her. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. You’re safe now.”

She nods, still searching through a dusty grimoire. “I’ll keep looking, but it feels hopeless.”

“You’ve chased less and succeeded before,” he says.

She manages a faint smile, tracing a sigil on the page. “You really are trying to pep-talk me.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Maybe a little,” she replies.

For a moment, the air feels still. Then… something shifts. A presence, subtle but distinct, brushes through the bunker’s wards. Nellie’s head lifts, eyes narrowing at something only she can feel. Sam registers it instantly.

“What is it?” he asks, voice dropping.

“There’s someone here,” she whispers.

He frowns. “The wards didn’t go off.”

“I know.” She slides open the drawer beneath the main table and grabs the emergency pistols, tossing one to her uncle. “So, unless the bunker suddenly grew legs and opened a door for them or —”

“— they shouldn’t be here,” he finishes grimly.

Her pulse climbs, but her movements stay precise. She checks the chamber, flicking the safety off. He mirrors her.

They move without another word, slipping into position behind the wall leading towards the map room, the practiced silence of hunters taking over. The door at the platform opens and footsteps sound on the metal stairs. Not rushed. Not stealthy. Just… calm. She tightens her grip. He inhales sharply as they both step out from behind the wall, guns now trained on the intruder. It is a young man, older than Sam remembers, but recognizable, stands a couple yards in front of them. Blond. Open-faced. A messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder, like he’s wandered into a library instead of one of the most warded bunkers on the planet.

“Sam?” he says softly, disbelief coloring his voice.

Nellie doesn’t lower her gun.

Sam’s weapon dips, shock spreading across his face. “… Jack?”