Embedded Files
After losing herself once, trust doesn’t come easily. When the bunker opens to a familiar name and an unfamiliar face, Nellie is forced to confront the fear that lingers long after possession ends. And the question of whether safety means control, or connection.
Word Count: 17k
TW: little to no violence. one punch thrown. use of mild language.
- - - - - -
The standoff between the two hunters and a young man, blond, clean-cut and unarmed. There is no fear in his eyes. He is just there. Like he belongs.
Jack Kline offers a small smile, gentle and oddly human. “Hi.”
Nellie gives her uncle a sharp look. “You know him?”
Sam swallows. “Yeah. That’s… he’s Jack. He’s —”
“A stranger who walked through reinforced wards like they were paper,” she snaps, eyes locked on the intruder, finger steady near the trigger. “Forgive me for not rolling out the welcome mat.”
“It’s okay,” Jack says quickly, lifting his hands in a peaceful gesture. His tone is warm, almost apologetic. “I… don’t mean any harm. Really.”
She doesn’t budge. After everything she’s survived, she isn’t about to trust a polite smile and soft voice. “You gonna explain how you just walked into the bunker like it’s a coffee shop?”
He looks between them, thrown. “You live here?”
“Yeah,” she snaps. “Do you?”
The question cracks through the room like a warning shot.
He hesitates, nostalgia flickering through his eyes before something heavier settles behind it. “I… used to.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s a sentence fragment.”
Sam drags a hand down his face. “Alright, everyone, just take a breath.”
Nellie doesn’t. If anything, she angles herself slightly, like she is readying for another shot. Her voice is low, edged. “Sam, you wanna explain why this guy strolls in without tripping a single ward. Because last time that happened, I had a demon in my head for months.”
Jack’s expression falters. He looks at the older Winchester again, worry threading into his features. “She was possessed? Is she okay?”
She bristles. “I’m right here.”
Sam steps forward, dividing them with gentle authority. “Nellie, listen to me. This is Jack. Someone Dean and I trusted. Someone who helped us save the world more times than I can count.”
She gives the stranger a slow, cold once-over. “Funny. You missed that part in your stories, considering his name is carved into the freakin’ table.”
“Well,” he mutters, “a lot was going on at the time.”
Jack lifts his hands slightly, palms open. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I swear. I just came to see Sam. And… I have a lot to explain.”
“That’s great,” she says dryly, “but you’ll forgive me for not trusting dudes who break and enter.”
The young man blinks. “I didn’t break anything.”
“Metaphor,” she grits.
Sam blows out a breath that sounds like the start of a migraine. “Okay. We’re not doing this with guns out and tension at a ten. Everyone. Sit. Down.”
Nellie doesn’t look convinced.
Jack glances at the table, then at Sam, hesitantly. “Should I…? Is it alright if I…?”
“No one’s shooting anyone,” he promises, shooting his niece a look that is half plea, half command. “Can we talk like actual people for one minute?”
Her jaw clenches. The memory of Ruby stealing her body. Stealing her mind. The bunker’s empty hallways stretch into weeks she doesn’t remember. Trust is not something she has left to give. But her uncle trusts this guy. And he has risked everything to save her.
Slowly, she lowers the gun. Not holstered, not forgotten. Just lowered.
“Fine,” she mutters. “We’ll talk. But the second he glows or levitates or whatever the hell he used to do? I unload a clip.”
The Nephilim blinks again. “Glow?”
He mutters, “We’ll get to that,” under his breath.
They gather around one of the library tables, tension radiating off Nellie like static. She perches at the edge of her chair, shoulders squared, pistol still resting beside her like a silent threat. Jack sits with perfect posture, hands folded, as if he is afraid to disturb the air around them. Sam leans forward between them, playing neutral ground and peacekeeper.
He begins carefully. “Alright, Nellie. This is Jack Kline. He’s… well, he’s complicated.”
Jack offers a hopeful smile. She doesn’t return it.
He continues, “He used to be a Nephilim. Half human, half angel. He hunted with me, Dean, and Cas for a long time. Helped save the world more than once. When we fought Chuck… Jack was the one who absorbed all of God’s power.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So, he was… You know… God?”
Jack grimaces. “Briefly.”
“Right,” she mutters, unimpressed. “And now he just… drops by?”
Sam sighs. “Jack left Earth after that. He promised he wouldn’t mess with free will or interfere with humans ever again.”
Nellie shoots the young man a razor-edged look. “So why come back if you promised to not interfere? It must be pretty bad if God 2.0 came back.”
“I’d… prefer not to call it that.” Jack shifts in his seat, that bright earnestness dimming into something more fragile. “I came back because nothing is wrong.” He sees her eyes narrow again. “I know that sounds suspicious. But really. Nothing catastrophic is happening. No apocalypse. No cosmic imbalance. No crisis.”
Relief falls over Sam. “Then why are you back, Jack?”
His shoulders slump slightly, sadness clouding his face. “I just missed being here. On Earth. With people I care about.”
The Winchester’s expression softens, but Nellie’s remains stone.
He continues, voice gentler now. “My human side missed it the most. The taste of food. The weight of gravity. The feeling of belonging.” He laces his fingers together, gaze lowering. “So, I separated myself. My angelic aspect, everything divine, that’s still away. Still honoring the promise I made. But this part of me?” He looks up, hopeful. “This is just me. 100% human. No grace. No powers. No influence.”
Nellie studies him long and hard. Too long. Finally, she says, “So let me get this straight. You were literally omnipotent. Cosmic. All-seeing. And one day you just decided you were lonely?”
He pauses. “Yes.”
She snorts. “Humans don’t usually get to bail on responsibility because they’re ‘lonely.’ Must be nice.”
“Nell,” Sam warns.
“No,” she shoots back, eyes still locked on the intruder. “You show up out of nowhere, bypass the wards without tripping them, and expect me to believe this is some kind of… nostalgic vacation?”
“I didn’t bypass anything,” Jack replies, brow furrowing. “I didn’t force my way in. The wards react to intent. And I wasn’t coming with any.”
She huffs. “Convenient.”
“I told you,” her uncle cuts in, “you’re safe. And Jack’s not here to cause trouble. You’ve got every right to be cautious, but he’s someone I trust.”
She doesn’t look at him. She keeps her gaze nailed to the young man, unrelenting. “Everyone who’s hurt me walked in calm. Friendly. Like they belonged.”
Sam knows she is talking about Camille, the reason his niece almost died months ago, allowing the coven to open her up enough to let Ruby in without notice.
A flicker of pain crosses Jack’s face. “I’m really sorry someone did that to you.”
She doesn’t respond.
But that doesn’t seem to bother him. His shoulders ease, and that bright, familiar earnestness Sam was used to rising in him like a sunrise. He looks around the bunker with soft nostalgia, a smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s really good to be back,” he murmurs. “I’ve missed this place. I’ve missed you.”
The Winchester’s expression gentles. “Yeah, man. It’s good to see you, too.”
Then his face lights up fully, hopeful, eager, the way he used to look whenever he found something new to be excited about. “Where’s Dean?” he asks. “Is he out? Or downstairs? I’d really like to see him.”
The question freezes the room.
Nellie feels her stomach sink, even though she doesn’t fully understand why his optimism hits so hard.
Sam’s breath leaves him in a quiet, painful exhale. “Jack…” He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes dropping. “You… really don’t know.”
Jack blinks. “Know what?”
He drags a chair closer, inviting Jack to do the same. The younger man obeys slowly, confusion tightening his brow. “Jack,” he begins softly, “Dean died. On a hunt. Not long after you left.”
The words hang there, heavy enough to bend the air.
The former Nephilim stares at him. First in disbelief. Then in slow, dawning sorrow. “He’s… gone?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
Jack swallows hard, eyes going glassy, breaths short and hollow. “I should’ve been here. If I’d stayed — if I hadn’t left — maybe —”
“No,” He cuts in, firm but kind. “No. Don’t do that to yourself. Dean died the way Dean always lived. Doing what he thought was right. And he wouldn’t have wanted you to give up what you needed to do.”
The young man presses a fist to his mouth, eyes bright with grief. Nellie instinctively looks away, giving him privacy despite being only a few feet across the table. She doesn’t know this man, but she recognizes that face, loss carving itself deep, permanent.
Sam gives Jack a moment, then continues quietly. “A lot changed after that. I left hunting. For good.” His expression softens, warmth slipping into the edges. “Eileen and I… we got married.”
At the sound of her name, something bright flickered in his eyes. “Eileen? Really? That’s… that’s wonderful.”
The older Winchester smiles. “Yeah. It is. And we have a son now. Dean.”
He blinks, absorbing that, a small wet smile wavering on his lips. “And the bunker? You kept it?”
“Not quite. After I stepped away, Nellie took over. She’s been living here. Hunting full-time.”
Jack looks over at her, curious, respectful, still trying to find footing in this new terrain.
She lifts a shoulder. “Somebody had to keep the lights on.”
He nods slowly. “You must be very brave.”
She doesn’t react to the compliment, her expression unreadable.
Sam folds his hands on the table. “So yeah. Things changed. A lot. But it’s good you’re here, Jack. We can catch up. Figure out what’s next.”
He gives a fragile, grateful smile, wiping quickly at his cheek. “I’d like that.”
Nellie lasts ten more seconds. Ten seconds of watching the two men fall into an easy rhythm, one built years before she ever set foot inside the bunker. Ten seconds of hearing her uncle’s voice soften with familiarity in a way it never does for strangers. Ten seconds of seeing Jack’s grief fold seamlessly into warmth the moment Sam mentions Eileen and her cousin. Ten seconds of realizing she is an outsider in her own home. Her throat tightens. A storm churns under her ribs: frustration, exhaustion, something sharp and stupidly emotional that she refuses to name.
She shoves back her chair so hard its legs screeched against the floor. Both men look up.
“Nellie?” Sam asks, worry budding instantly.
She doesn’t trust her voice. If she opens her mouth, something messy might come out. Anger, fear, that awful aching grief that hasn’t gone away since the coven.
So, she mutters the first thing that doesn’t crack. “I need air.”
Jack blinks, startled. “Did I… say something wrong?”
Her uncle stands halfway, torn, reaching out with a hand he doesn’t touch her with. “Nell, hey — wait a sec. We can talk —”
She can’t. Not right now.
“Later,” she bites out, already turning. “I just — later.” Her boots thud down the hallway, echoing harder than she intends.
Silence fills the library. Sam sinks back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He looks gut-punched. Not surprised, he’s seen his niece spiral before, but hurt that she didn’t stay long enough for him to help.
Jack’s brow furrows. “Is she… alright?”
He stares at the hallway. “She’s been through a lot. More than she talks about.” He sighs. “She’ll come out when she’s ready.”
The younger man hesitates. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to upset her.”
“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “It’s not your fault. Nellie’s just… still navigating trust. And people. And life after what happened the last year.”
Jack nods slowly, though the confusion lingers like a bruise.
“A lot’s happened since you left,” he continues. “More than I could ever cover in a single conversation.” His gaze softens. “And Nellie? She’s right in the middle of all of it.”
The former Nephilim tilts his head slightly. “I can tell she’s hurting. I just… don’t know why.”
Sam nods. “Then I should probably explain a little. The parts that matter.” He leans back in his chair, eyes distant with memory. “First thing you should know is… Nellie is Dean’s kid.”
Jack’s breath catches. “I didn’t know he had a family.”
“Yeah, well, he never met her. Never knew about her. She showed up on my doorstep over a year ago, with only some paperwork to go off of. She’d spent her whole life believing her dad didn’t want her. She didn’t know any of this. Hunting. The bunker. The life. She grew up thinking Dean didn’t want her. Thought the world was just… hard. Then suddenly she finds out everything she believed about herself is wrong. And right when she starts to find her footing, things go sideways. A coven gets their hooks in. A demon gets inside her head. She loses time. Loses control. Starts thinking she’s the problem in every room.” His voice dips, rough with something close to guilt. “Imagine not being able to trust your own thoughts for months. Not knowing what parts are you anymore.”
The young man’s eyes soften, pain blooming there. “That must feel terrifying.”
“Yeah. It was.” He rubs his thumb along the grain of the table. “So now? She keeps everyone at arm’s length. Even me. Acts like she’s fine, hunts too hard, keeps moving so she doesn’t have to sit with any of it. And when someone new shows up out of nowhere, especially someone tied to this life, all those alarms go off again.”
“She thinks I’m a threat.”
“She thinks anything unexpected is,” he answers. “You walked into the one place she still feels in control. Calm. Friendly. Like you belong.” His mouth twitches humorlessly. “That’s exactly how people hurt her before.”
Jack goes quiet. Not hurt. Not offended. Just thinking. His fingers trace the edge of the table, as if grounding himself in the grain of the wood. “When I came back,” he says at last, voice low, “I thought things would be like they were. Not exactly. I knew too much had happened for that. But… close. Hunting. Helping people. Sitting here with you and Dean. Being part of something. But he’s gone. You’re not hunting anymore. And there’s someone else living here, someone I didn’t know existed.” He lifts his eyes. They’re not accusing. Just lost. “I don’t really know where I fit now. The bunker was the only place on Earth that ever felt like home. Not Heaven. Not anywhere else. Just… here. With you. With Dean. With Cas. Now it feels like I walked back into a life that moved on without me.” There’s a pause. His gaze drops again. “Maybe I should just… go back. Rejoin with the other part of me. At least then I’d have a purpose again.”
Sam sits forward instantly. “Hey. No. Jack, don’t do that. Don’t talk like that.” He shakes his head, searching for the right words. “You didn’t come back because you were purposeless. You came back because you’re human, too. Because this matters to you. Because we matter to you. That counts. And yeah, things aren’t like they were. They never will be. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t space for you. Or that you don’t belong here anymore.”
Silence sits between them. Not heavy now, but tentative.
He leans back slowly, the beginnings of an idea tightening his expression. “Nellie’s been hunting alone for months. Not because she wants to but because she has to. She’s capable — more than capable — but hunters shouldn’t do this job solo. Dean and I… we survived as long as we did because we had each other. You’ve hunted before. You know what the life looks like. You know what it takes. And you understand more than most people what it feels like to carry things you’re afraid to share.”
Jack looks at him, surprised.
“I’m not saying force anything,” he adds quickly. “And definitely not right now. She needs time. But… if she ever lets you in, if she decides she wants someone watching her back, you could be good for each other. The truth is, I see a lot of similarities between you two. Both of you grew up feeling like you had to apologize just for existing. Both of you spent a long time thinking you were dangerous to be around. Both of you lost things you never got the chance to have.”
The younger man absorbs that in silence. “I’d like that. If she is okay with it. It’s better than returning to my other half.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got to at least see if she’ll stop pointing a gun at you first. So… I was thinking maybe you could come and stay with us in Lawerence a bit. It’d just be… time. Real life. Breakfasts. Quiet nights. Fewer ghosts.” The corner of Sam’s mouth tips faintly. “You get used to being here again. Nellie will get the chance to warm up to you.”
Jack’s expression warms with that soft, hopeful curiosity. “And I get to meet Eileen and Dean,” he says, softer, almost shy.
“Yeah. You do. Though, fair warning, Dean’s five. His energy level is… supernatural.”
“I think I’d like that.”
“I think he will too.” Then his tone shifts. “But listen, I don’t want you building this up in your head. Lawerence isn’t a magic fix. Nellie isn’t going to suddenly like you just because we change the scenery. She may stay distant. She may be irritated. She may say no altogether.”
He nods, serious now. “If she does. I’ll respect it.”
“And that’s all I ask.”
• • •
Nellie doesn’t make it far. She tells herself she just needs air, just needs a minute, but her feet know where they’re going long before she does. The corridors blur past. Lamps hum softly. The bunker’s familiar chill wraps around her like a weighted blanket she didn’t ask for. She slips inside her room and closes the door behind her, leaning back against it like she needs the wood at her spine to keep her upright.
“This is stupid,” she mutters to herself, pushing off the door. She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, hands clasped so tight her knuckles go white.
Her mind won’t stop replaying it. Jack in the library. Sam softening in a way he only does when history walks into the room. That easy familiarity she will never have because she wasn’t here when all of that was being built. And then the other part that crawls under her skin and won’t leave: A stranger walked through wards that should have stopped anyone. Like they weren’t even there. No resistance. No spark. No warning. She presses her fingers into her temples. They had just gotten to a place where she felt like she was herself again. Like Ruby wasn’t sitting in the corner of every thought. Like the bunker was hers, not a battlefield she was constantly losing.
Sam trusts him. Of course he does. He trusts everyone until they prove him wrong. It’s one of the reasons people love him and one of the reasons people keep getting the chance to hurt him. All she can think of is Camille. Kind smile. Soft hands. Easy laugh. You’re safe with us, Camille had said. She swallows hard. Safe. Right. The coven had promised care and deliverance and all they did was unlock her like a puzzle box and let something else move in. So yeah, when someone strolls in like they belong, when they know the right names and smile the right way and have the right kind of sad in their eyes, she’s not exactly quick with the hospitality.
Her senses hadn’t pinged anything off Jack. No sulfur. No pressure. Nothing. But if he used to be some kind of cosmic being, maybe he didn’t need to trip anything. Maybe she’s out of her depth and doesn’t even realize it. Her stomach twists. And then, like a traitor, comes the guilt. Because he didn’t do anything wrong. He looked… surprised. Gentle. Lost, even. Like someone who had come home and found the furniture moved. What if he really is good? What if she just pointed a gun at a good person because the past won’t get out of her head?
She lets out a shaky breath and drops forward, elbows on thighs, hands covering her face. She hates feeling like this, cornered by her own brain. Half convinced she’s right to be cautious, half terrified she’s becoming someone who can’t tell the difference anymore.
“Get it together,” she whispers into her palms. But her voice doesn’t have teeth in it this time. It just sounds tired.
There’s a soft knock. “Nell? Can I come in?”
She wipes at her face fast and hopes it did something. “Yeah. It’s open.”
Sam slips inside, closing the door gently behind him. His eyes flick over her, not invasive, just taking inventory. He sits on the edge of the bed, giving her space. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I just wanted to check on you. You left pretty fast.”
“Needed a minute.”
He nods. “What happened in there… that was a lot.”
Her throat tightens. She keeps her gaze on the floor. “I’m fine.”
“Nellie.”
She exhales, annoyed at how much that gets to her. “He walked through everything like it was nothing. Through wards I rebuilt. Through protections that are supposed to mean something. And you just trust him. I don’t… work like that anymore.”
He nods. No argument, no pushback. “Good. You’re not supposed to.”
She glances at him, surprised.
“After what you’ve been through? Being careful makes sense. Questioning people makes sense. You’re not broken because you don’t hand everybody the keys right away.”
Some of the tension in her shoulders eases.
“But,” he adds softly, “locking every door forever… that’ll chew you up. We’ve just gotta find the middle.”
She nods, but it’s guarded.
He hesitates, then shifts. “Listen. I was thinking about us heading back to Lawrence for a bit.”
Her eyes flick toward him, wary.
“Eileen would love to have you at the house longer,” he says, softer. “And Dean acts like he hasn’t seen you.”
That lands somewhere warm and complicated. She swallows. “And Jack?”
“Yeah. I was going to bring him too. The bunker’s… a lot to come back to. I figured the house might be easier.”
She frowns. “So why do I have to go?”
He exhales. “I’d like you to get to know him.” He lifts a hand, calming, not silencing. “I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself. You can. You have. But hunters don’t do this alone forever and come out whole. Dean and I… we made it as long as we did because we had each other.”
She stares at the wall. “So, you want him to be my partner,” she says flatly.
“I think you could work well together,” Sam says gently. “Someday. Maybe. If you want it. If it feels right. And if it doesn’t? Then it doesn’t. I’m not forcing anything.” He watches her freeze. That tiny, barely visible lock-up at the thought of another change she didn’t ask for. He softens instantly. “Hey. You won’t be trapped. You won’t be stuck with us if it’s too much. You’ll drive the Impala. I’ll take Jack in the car. You’ve got your own wheels, your own exit. If at any point you need out, you turn around and head back. No guilt.”
Something opens in her chest that she didn’t realize had shut. “You’re okay with that?” she asks quietly.
“I trust you,” he says. “And I don’t want this to feel like I’m moving you around on a board. You get to choose.”
She nods, slow. Processing. Still unsure. “I don’t promise anything.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he says, smiling softly. “All I’m asking is don’t decide you hate him before you’ve met him outside a crisis.” He hesitates, then rests a warm hand briefly on her shoulder. “I’m proud of you. Even when this is hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
Her eyes sting again. “Go away,” she says, but it comes out small and tired, not sharp.
He chuckles lightly. “Okay. Go ahead and pack a bag. We’ll head out soon.”
• • •
The road rolls out ahead in long gray lines. The Impala hums beneath her, steady as a heartbeat. Normally, the car settles her — the ritual of it, the engine’s low purr, the way the wheel fits her hands. Today, it doesn’t. Her shoulders are tight. Her jaw aches from clenching. She keeps flicking her eyes to the taillights of Sam’s car up ahead, like she expects something to go wrong if she looks away too long. This is stupid, she tells herself. It’s just Lawrence. Just family. Just a house that’s warm and smells like coffee and pancakes and safety. So why does it feel like her chest is full of bees? She forces a breath. It doesn’t do much.
“Alright,” a voice says lightly from the passenger seat, “who stole my car and gave it to the anxious kid?”
She startles, just a little, then glances right. Dean is there. Elbow on the window. That crooked grin that always looks a little like trouble.
“God,” she mutters. “You can’t knock?”
“I did,” he deadpans. “On the afterlife side. You didn’t hear.”
She huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh.
He squints ahead at the road. “Thought you and Sam were doing ward work,” he says. “Short salt, long sigils, boring stuff. This doesn’t look like boring. You back to hunting already?”
“No hunt,” she says, tightening her grip on the wheel.
He looks at her properly now. “Then, what’s going on?”
She exhales through her nose, unsure where to start. So, she just says it. “Some guy named Jack Kline showed up.”
Dean’s reaction is immediate. Eyes wide, eyebrows up, shock clear on his face. “Jack? Jack Jack? Nephilim Jack?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
His voice sharpens with dread. “Is something happening? We talking cosmic trouble? Apocalypse round eight?”
“No.” She shakes her head, quickly. “He said nothing’s wrong. That he just… missed being human. And he came back as one. A human. No powers.”
He stares at her, like his brain is trying to catch up. “He split off his human half.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Man. That… that’s a hell of a thing.”
Her voice wavers. “Yeah, well, now Sam wants us to be hunting partners. Says that’ll help Jack assimilate back to humanity and that it isn’t safe for me to hunt alone anymore.”
“Lemme guess? You are running from it?”
“Not exactly. Sam wants us to ‘get to know each other’ so we’re going back to Lawerence.” Her shoulders tighten at her own words, a sigh of dread leaving her lips.
Dean just watches her for a moment. She almost looks like that girl he met years ago, saving her from decision she couldn’t take back: Scared, restless, and mistrusting. “Ya know, Sam ain’t wrong about you hunting alone. I know it that I’m one to talk, but honestly, it’s not a bad idea. It isn’t bad to be scared. Finding the right partner, one who is going to be by your side no matter what, isn’t afraid to tell you the truth, it can be tricky.”
She nods slowly with a sigh. “I know it sounds stupid, but I was just… getting my feet under me again. And then he walks in like it’s normal. And Sam trusts him instantly and I…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I just fell apart. Again.”
He leans in, not touching, he never can, but the air shifts warm around her, like he is trying to. “That’s not stupid,” he replies softly. “Not even close.”
Her eyes flick to him, wet and uncertain. “Is Jack really as trustworthy as Sam says? Because I — I don’t know. I just met the guy. And after everything with Camille, the coven, Ruby —” Her voice breaks. “My radar’s busted, Dad. I don’t trust myself to trust anybody. Hell, just last week I finally felt okay being the same house as Eileen and Dean.”
He lets out a long breath, shaking his head with a rueful half-smile. “Well… I didn’t make things easy for him at first.”
“Why?” she asks, weary and guarded.
He huffs a humorless laugh. “Because he’s Lucifer’s kid.”
She freezes. “…What?”
“Yeah.” He smirks faintly at her wide-eyed look. “That one’s a fun surprise the first time you hear it.”
“Sam said he was a Nephilim. He didn’t say Lucifer.”
“No, he wouldn’t. Not right away.” His small smirk disappears. “I’m not gonna lie. He scared me. Kid was half-angel, half-human, built out of prophecy, and glowing like a nuke inside a flannel. Everything about him said ‘this ends badly.’ And when I’m scared? I get mean.” He shakes his head a little. “Didn’t matter, though. Under all that power, he was still just… Jack. Curious. Wanted to help. Wanted to belong. Wanted to be good so bad it hurt.” He goes quiet. “And for the record? He saved our asses more times than I can count. Saved the world. Paid for it, too.”
“So… he’s trustworthy?”
Dean blows out a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “In the ways that count. He screws up sometimes, like all of us, but he owns it. He learns. He’s honest. And he never wanted to hurt anybody.”
She nods slowly, but the tension doesn’t disappear.
He notices. “Hey. That doesn’t mean you gotta open the door and invite him to rifle through your stuff. You’ve got reasons to be jumpy. Big ones. Being wary doesn’t make you wrong — it makes you alive.” He angles toward her. “Here’s the thing,” he says. “Sam’s right about one part: hunting alone chews you up. Having someone at your back? Changes the game. But that someone’s gotta be your choice. Not mine. Not Sam’s. Yours.”
She swallows. “What if I don’t choose him?”
“Then you don’t. World doesn’t end. You keep doing what you’re doing. We figure something else out.”
She nods. “And what if I do?”
“Then you do,” he replies. “Slow. Careful. On your terms. Not because you owe him. Not because I approve. Not because Sam suggested it. Because it feels right to you. And until you figure that out? You get to be cautious. You get to take your time. You get to say ‘not yet.’ That’s not weakness. That’s you protecting the parts of you that are still healing.”
Her throat tightens, but not the bad way. She stares ahead, blinking against the sting in her eyes. “It just felt like I was finally getting my life back. And then the universe tosses something else at me.”
He softens into that rare, deeply sincere tone she only hears from him in moments that matter most. “Baby, the universe does that. Over and over. But you?” He nods at her, pride shining through. “You keep getting back up. You don’t break. And you don’t have to face any of this alone.”
Nellie blinks slowly, tears sliding down her cheeks. “You really think I can handle all this?” she whispers.
He gives her a small, achingly tender smile. “I know you can.” He fades gently, like smoke in sunlight, and Nellie is alone in the Impala again.
• • •
The highway unwinds under a pale strip of sky. The landscape feels endless; not empty, exactly, but open. Like there’s room to breathe. Jack rolls the window down a little. Wind slips in, clean, warm, carrying that dry Kansas smell of dirt and sun. He closes his eyes for a second. Gravity. He still marvels at it. Weight pulling him toward the world instead of away from it. No cosmic awareness humming behind his thoughts. No multiverse whispering at the edges.
Just the road. Just the air. Just the steady thrum of tires. When he opens his eyes again, he watches a hawk circle above a field. It dips. Rises. Vanishes. He smiles.
After a while, curiosity nudges him again. “Do you miss it?” he asks.
Sam glances over. “Miss what?”
“Hunting. The bunker. The work.”
He is quiet for a beat. “Sometimes,” he replies honestly. “There are days I wake up and it feels wrong that I’m not packing a duffel bag. That I’m not checking salt lines or reading lore. It gets into your bones. But then my son runs into the room covered in paint or flour, and Eileen’s laughing at me because I forgot to take the trash out, and —” he exhales, almost fondly “— this life asks a lot less from me. And gives a lot back.”
The young man thinks on that. “So… you don’t feel guilty?”
His jaw tightens faintly. “Sometimes. For being happy. For surviving. For wanting normal when so many people didn’t get it.” His voice softens. “But I know Dean would’ve wanted this. Not just for me. For all of us.”
They lapse into quiet. A rusted barn slips past. A stretch of trees. A gas station with a single dusty pump.
Jack studies Sam’s profile. The lines in his face, the way he grips the wheel like it’s steadying him. “You look older,” he says gently.
The Winchester snorts. “Thanks.”
“I don’t mean bad. You just… look like someone who’s lived. Not someone carrying the universe on his shoulders.”
He considers that. “I’ll take it.”
Silence comes again and the young man’s thoughts drift. He hesitates. “Does it hurt,” he asks quietly, “talking about Dean?”
“Yeah. It always will. But it hurts less when I talk about him like he lived. Like he mattered. Not just like he died.”
He nods, absorbing that. He turns back to the window, watching telephone lines blur into one long dark thread.
A while later, Sam’s voice breaks gently through the quiet. “You know… Nellie reminds me of him. A lot.”
Jack looks back. “How?”
“She hides her fear the same way. Covers it with jokes. Sarcasm. Pretends she’s fine because she doesn’t want anyone to carry any of it for her.”
Jack tilts his head. “That sounds lonely.”
“It is,” Sam says. “That’s why I don’t want her out there by herself forever.” He pauses, choosing words carefully. “She’s not just this… hardened hunter you saw today. She loves history. If you let her talk, she’ll go on about the Men of Letters archives for hours. Old wars. Lost cities. She sees patterns. Context. It helps her make sense of things that scare her. And she reads a lot. Classic literature. Way more than I ever did. Half the time I walk in and she’s quoting something at me just to see if I’ll catch it.” He taps the wheel with his thumb, considering. “She cares. Fiercely. She pretends she doesn’t. Pretends it’s easier to be detached. But the truth is, the second she lets you inside, she’ll bleed for you, she’ll fight for you, she’ll cook too much food and pretend it was accidental. And she’s got this… heart. Big one. Even after everything. Maybe because of everything."
Jack lets out a soft laugh.
He chuckles too. “Yeah. She’s got some rough edges. She snaps. She runs. She holds onto guilt like it’s oxygen. But she also sits on the floor with my son and draws dinosaurs until she’s blue in the face. She is really good with him. Like instinctively good. Patient. Gentle. The way she lights up when he runs into the room… you wouldn’t guess she’s seen the things she has.”
The former Nephilim swallows. “That’s… good.”
“It’s better than good. It’s who she is under all the armor. I just… don’t want you to mistake the armor for the person.”
Jack’s gaze drifts to the mirror. The Impala glows dark and steady in the distance, reflecting sunlight like a black river. He can almost see Nellie in that driver’s seat. He looks back toward the horizon. “Do you think she’ll ever trust me?”
Sam doesn’t answer right away. “I think,” he answers finally, “she’ll decide if you’ve earned it. And if you do? She’ll trust you with everything. If you don’t? She’ll still be kind. She just won’t open the door all the way.”
“That feels fair.” He rests his chin in his hand, watching the road ahead. “I’ll be patient.”
The Winchester smiles at that, proud.
They drive on. Lawrence begins to take shape. Road signs, neighborhoods, the quiet skeleton of a town stitched together with routine instead of war. And inside Jack, something settles. Not certainty. Not purpose. Just the sense that maybe, if he’s careful, if he listens, if he stays, there might be a place here for him after all.
• • •
Nellie never thought she’d feel like this pulling into the Winchester driveway. The Impala rolls to a stop behind Sam’s car, and she cuts the engine. The sudden quiet is too loud. Metal ticks as it cools, sharp and rhythmic, and her heart races to keep pace. Her palms are slick against the steering wheel, fingers locked there like if she lets go, something will tip. This is ridiculous. This house has always meant safety. Normalcy. Sunday dinners and soft laughter and the smell of coffee that never quite leaves the walls. She’s driven here a hundred times without a second thought. Today, it feels like she’s trespassing.
She stays in the car a beat too long, watching through the windshield as Sam climbs out of the driver’s seat ahead of her. He looks… relaxed. Shoulders loose. Familiar in a way that makes her chest ache. Then Jack steps out of the passenger side. He pauses, just like she half-expected him to. Stands there in the driveway, eyes lifting to the house as if he’s listening to something she can’t hear. Not wary. Not guarded. Just quietly attentive, like the place itself is speaking to him. A pit opens in her stomach. Sam says something to him — she can’t hear it through the glass — and Jack smiles, small and genuine.
The sight of it needles at her ribs. This is her home. Sam knew Jack longer than he’s known her. They fought together. Lived together. Bled together. They were family before she ever stepped foot into the bunker. She’s family by blood. Jack is family by choice. And there’s something else, something sharp and unfair that twists deeper the longer she lets herself think about it. Jack knew Dean. Not the idea of him. Not the name carved into a table or the stories Sam tells when the night gets long and quiet. He knew the living, breathing version. He got to sit next to him, share a beer, roll his eyes at his jokes, hunt beside him. Dean is her father. And Jack got to have him in a way she never did. Now Sam is welcoming this former Nephilim, this once-God, this cosmic constant, into his house like its Christmas morning. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to open the door and make room. She hates the way jealousy curls hot and ugly in her chest. Hates that she feels territorial over something she doesn’t even own. Jack is a stranger to her. But to the Winchesters, he’s a long-lost family member. Someone who sacrificed more than she can fully understand so that this quiet little life could exist at all.
She exhales slowly, forcing herself to loosen her grip on the wheel. Get out of the car, she tells herself. You agreed to this. She opens the door and steps out, the late afternoon air warm against her skin. Gravel crunches under her boots, grounding, real. The front door opens before she has fully shut the Impala door. Eileen steps out first, sunlight catching in her hair. And right on her heels —
“NELLIE!” Dean barrels down the porch steps like a missile.
She barely has time to brace before he slams into her legs, arms wrapping tight around her thighs. The impact knocks a startled laugh out of her chest as she stumbles back half a step. “Whoa — hey — hi to you too,” she laughs, dropping a hand to his hair automatically.
“I missed you!” he declares at full volume, as if she hasn’t seen him in three years.
“You saw me on Sunday,” she points out, ruffling his hair.
“That was forever ago,” he insists, pulling back just long enough to grin up at her before hugging her again, harder.
For a moment, the buzzing in her chest quiets.
Behind him, Eileen makes her way down the steps more calmly. She reaches her niece and pulls her into a gentle hug around the shoulders, careful but firm. “You doing okay?” she asks softly.
Nellie nods against her. “Yeah. I think so.”
She squeezes once more, then steps back and turns her attention to the young man. “Jack. It’s really good to see you.”
He looks almost startled by the kindness. He straightens, smiling in that careful, earnest way of his. “It’s good to see you too,” he replies. “You look… happy.”
Eileen’s smile deepens. “We are.”
Dean, finally loosening his grip on his cousin, notices the unfamiliar presence in the driveway. He squints at the former Nephilim with open curiosity. “Who’s that?” he asks, already stepping closer.
Jack blinks, then crouches slightly to meet him at eye level, hands resting on his knees like he doesn’t want to startle him. “Hi. I’m Jack.”
The boy tilts his head. “You don’t look like a Jack.”
He considers this seriously. “What does a Jack look like?”
Dean thinks hard. “More… spiky.”
He nods solemnly. “That’s fair.”
“Do you live here now?”
“I’m visiting.”
“Oh.” The little boy nods, accepting that. “Do you like dinosaurs?”
Jack’s face lights up like he’s been asked a sacred question. “Yes.”
Dean gasps. “Dad! He likes dinosaurs!”
Sam smiles, nodding knowingly. “I can see that.”
He looks between his son, already launching into a rapid explanation of his favorite species. Jack listens to the little Winchester with full attention, nodding at every word like it matters, because to him, it does. Eileen watches with soft amusement. Nellie stands just to the side, arms folded loosely, watching the scene like she’s still deciding whether to trust it. She hasn’t run. She hasn’t shut down. She’s here.
Inside, the house smells like dinner and fresh bread. The door barely closes behind them before a blur of tan hurtles down the hallway.
“Miracle,” Sam laughs, bending slightly as the terrier skids to a stop in front of new visitor, sniffs his shoes. Then his jeans. Then circles him once, tail stiff, nose working like a tiny, judgmental detective.
Jack freezes, eyes wide, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. “Am I… doing something wrong?”
The dog snorts, sneezes directly at his ankle, and then, apparently satisfied, turns and sprints straight for Nellie.
“Hey!” she laughs as he jumps up, paws muddying her jeans. “Traitor. I see how it is.”
Miracle presses his head against her leg, tail wagging furiously, as if reaffirming a lifelong alliance.
Dean, still excited, grabs Jack’s sleeve with all the authority of a five-year-old with a mission. “Come on! I’ll show you my room!” he announces, already pulling.
The young man looks helplessly at Sam.
“Good luck,” the Winchester replies cheerfully.
The boy drags his new friend down the hallway, launching into an enthusiastic tour: the living room (“This is where we watch movies”), the kitchen (“Mom says don’t touch the knives”), the stairs (“These are loud at night”), all delivered at top speed.
Nellie watches from the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest. It’s… funny. Jack listening like every word matters. Dean’s chattering nonstop, blissfully unaware that this is supposed to be awkward or heavy or complicated. Jealousy still flickers in her gut, sharp and unwanted.
The kitchen is warm in a way the bunker never is. Steam curls up from a pot on the stove. Something sizzles gently in a pan. Eileen moves around the space with practiced ease, already handing her niece a cutting board like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Can you chop those?” she asks, nodding toward a pile of vegetables.
“Yeah,” Nellie replies, grateful for something to do. She sets to work, letting the rhythm of the knife steady her hands.
For a few minutes, it’s just that. Chop. Scrape. The low murmur of humming under breath. No monsters. No cosmic beings. No expectations. Normal. Eileen doesn’t ask how she’s really doing. Doesn’t bring up the drive or Jack or the bunker. She talks about work, about a bake sale Dean’s class is having, about how Miracle stole an entire sandwich off the counter earlier.
The sound of running feet approaches. “Mom!” Dean announces, skidding into the kitchen at full speed. “I showed Jack everything.”
Jack follows at a more measured pace, slightly out of breath, smiling like he’s just been inducted into something sacred. “He has a very impressive dinosaur collection.”
“I know!” He turns and immediately beams when he spots his cousin. He barrels into her again, arms wrapping tight around her waist.
She laughs, startled, automatically setting the knife down. “Hey, buddy.”
He squeezes her like she might vanish if he lets go. “Did you tell him how fun you are?”
She winces. “Dean —”
“She’s really fun,” he informs Jack seriously. “She plays monster games with me and lets me stay up late and she knows all the cool stories.”
Nellie feels heat creep up her neck. “Okay, you’re overselling.”
He ignores her. “And she made it snow once!” he adds.
Eileen stills just a fraction.
Jack blinks. “Snow?”
“For Christmas!” he says, bouncing on his toes. “She had a snow friend! He was really nice and made it snow even though it wasn’t supposed to!”
Her heart drops straight through the floor. “Dean,” she says quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite hold. “Why don’t we talk about something else, yeah?”
But he’s already rolling. “And she has superpowers,” he announces proudly.
The word lands wrong.
Jack’s smile faltering into confusion. “Superpowers?”
The kitchen goes still, not frozen, but alert.
Nellie doesn’t look up from the counter.
“She’s really good at them,” Dean continues. “She knows stuff before it happens and she can, ya know —” he holds his hands out and wiggles his fingers. “— and she can —"
“Psychic, Dean,” she says flatly. “I’m psychic.” Her shoulders tense, locking into place. She focuses hard on the cutting board, like the world beyond it has been muted. No eye contact. No inflection. Just motion. There. It’s out. She hates how exposed it makes her feel.
The little boy tilts his head. “See? I told you.”
Jack processes for a beat, then nods slowly. “That makes sense,” he says gently. “I didn’t know that’s what he meant.”
Eileen moves smoothly into the moment before it can sharpen. “Dean, why don’t you go show Jack the dinosaur book you showed me earlier?”
Dean lights up instantly. “Oh yeah! The one with the big teeth!” He grabs Jack’s hand without hesitation and starts tugging him toward the table.
The young man lets himself be pulled, glancing back once at Nellie. She doesn’t look up.
Sam, who had managed to catch the last minute, steps closer to her, voice low. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says automatically. It’s too quick. Too practiced.
He doesn’t argue.
Dinner ends up being normal, which feels almost miraculous. Dean talks through most of it, feet swinging under the table as he fires off questions at Jack like they’re part of a very serious interview.
“So do you like pizza or tacos more?”
“Did you ever see a real dinosaur?”
“Can angels eat dessert?”
“Do you wanna see my drawings after?”
Jack answers every single one with complete sincerity, never once looking bored or overwhelmed. He considers each question carefully, like the answer matters.
“Tacos,” he says after a long pause.
“No dinosaurs. I think I would’ve remembered that.”
“Yes. Dessert is very important.”
“And I would love to see your drawings.”
The boy beams like he’s just won something.
Sam and Eileen do their best to keep things balanced, redirecting when their son starts climbing into his chair, reminding him to chew, gently steering the conversation away from anything too intense. Laughter bubbles up easily. Warm. Unforced.
Nellie sits quietly, fork moving more than her mouth. She listens more than she speaks, eyes tracking the flow of the table. Her cousin animated and glowing. Her aunt relaxed, smiling in that steady way that always makes the room feel anchored. Her uncle leaning back just a little, like he can finally exhale. And Jack? He fits. That’s the problem. He laughs at the boy’s jokes like they’re genuinely funny. He listens with his whole body angled forward, attention undivided. She feels the jealousy flare again, sharp and unwelcome. She hates herself for it. This is what she wanted. For Jack to be safe, to be kind, to not be a threat. And now that he is, now that he slides into the rhythm of her family like he’s always belonged, something in her twists painfully.
She pokes at her food, appetite gone. God, she feels ridiculous. She’s not losing anything. Sam isn’t replacing her. No one’s taking her place at this table. And Jack hasn’t done a single thing wrong. If anything, he’s gone out of his way to not push, to not stare, to not treat her any differently since the kitchen moment. That almost makes it worse. She glances up once and catches Jack looking at Dean as he animatedly reenacts a story with his hands. There’s something soft in his expression. Something awed. Like he’s watching proof that the world kept going. Guilt settles heavy in her chest. She shouldn’t resent that. She doesn’t want to.
When Dean finally pauses long enough to take a breath, Sam seizes the opportunity. “Alright, buddy. Two more questions, then you eat.”
He groans dramatically. “Fiiine.”
Jack smiles, amused, and turns slightly toward Nellie. Not directly, just enough to include her. “This is really good,” he says, gesturing to the food. “Thank you.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Eileen’s a great cook.”
Her aunt grins. “I’ll take it.”
The conversation moves on, the moment passing without pressure. She stays quiet, but she stays. She listens. She breathes. She lets the warmth of the room sink in even while the knot in her chest refuses to loosen completely.
• • •
The back porch creaks softly beneath Nellie’s boots. Night has settled in fully now, warm and quiet, cicadas buzzing low in the grass. The house glows behind her — laughter, dishes clinking, the muted sound of Dean’s voice drifting through an open window. She sits on the steps and tosses Miracle’s tennis ball half-heartedly into the yard.
“Go on,” she murmurs.
The terrier bolts after it, tail wagging like he’s just been handed the greatest purpose of his life. He drops it at her feet and stares up expectantly. She exhales through her nose and throws it again. She doesn’t hear Eileen come out until the porch dips slightly beside her. She doesn’t ask permission. She never does. She just sits, close enough to feel like support, not pressure. They watch the dog for a minute.
“Okay,” she says eventually, voice soft. “How are you really doing?”
Nellie scoffs quietly. “I’m fine.”
She hums, unconvinced.
Miracle drops the ball in the girl’s lap this time. She absently tosses it again. “I’m tired,” she adds. “It’s been a long day.”
“I know,” Eileen replies gently. “But that’s not all.”
She presses her lips together. She stares out at the yard, at the terrier tearing through the grass like nothing in the world has ever hurt him. “I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to feel… prickly. Or territorial. Or like I’m waiting for something to go wrong. I feel stupid. He hasn’t done anything. He’s been kind. He’s been careful. He’s great with Dean.” A humorless laugh slips out. “Which somehow makes it worse.”
Her aunt glances at her. “Worse how?”
She swallows. “Because if he were a problem, I’d know what to do. I’d be justified. But he’s not. He seems… safe. And that scares me.”
Miracle bounds back again, tail thumping. She throws the ball one more time, harder than necessary.
“I’m jealous,” she admits quietly. “And I hate that about myself. He fits here so easily. He knew my dad. He knew this life before I even knew it existed. And everyone trusts him like he’s always belonged. And I keep thinking ‘what if I’m wrong?’ What if I push him away and he was never a threat at all? What if I hurt someone good because I’m scared? That makes me feel guilty. All the time.”
Eileen reaches out and rests her hand over her niece’s. “Nellie, you’re not wrong for feeling any of that. You’ve had your trust taken from you violently. Over and over. Of course, your body reacts before your brain catches up. That’s not cruelty. That’s survival. Being scared doesn’t make you unfair. It makes you human.”
Nellie blinks, eyes stinging. The night settles thicker around them, cicadas rising and falling like breath. The dog drops the ball at her feet again, tail wagging, hopeful. She doesn’t throw it this time. She just rests her palm on his head, fingers curling into his fur.
Her aunt watches her quietly. “Nell,” she says softly, “what are you afraid of losing?”
The question is gentle. It still knocks the wind out of her. She swallows, eyes fixed on the dark yard. “My family,” she answers. “This house. You. Sam. Dean.” She huffs out a shaky breath. “I didn’t grow up with this. I didn’t grow up with people who stayed. Or who were… safe. Home wasn’t home. It was just a place you survived until you could leave. So, when I finally get this,” she gestures vaguely toward the house, the light spilling from the windows, “something real, something good, my brain just keeps screaming that it can be taken. That I can lose it if I’m not careful enough. And Jack shows up and he fits so easily, and everyone trusts him, and suddenly it feels like I’m standing on the outside again. Like I’m the one who doesn’t belong.”
Eileen feels that land, not as jealousy, not as suspicion, but as fear rooted so deep it’s practically bone. “You’re trying to protect the first safe thing you’ve ever had.”
Nellie nods, tears threatening but not falling. “And at the same time,I can see that he’s not dangerous. I can see that he’s kind. And that makes me feel awful for being so… hard on him. I don’t want to be the person who hurts someone good just because I’m scared.”
Her aunt turns fully toward her now. “Honey, you’re not hurting him. You’re protecting yourself. There’s a difference.”
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Because you’re used to having to earn your place. Used to believing that one mistake means you lose everything. But you don’t lose us. Not because someone new walks through the door. Not because you’re scared. Not even because you’re messy about it. This family isn’t conditional. You don’t have to guard it with your teeth. You already belong. And Jack being here doesn’t change that. He’s not a replacement. He’s not competition. He’s just… another person at the table.”
The girl presses her lips together, nodding slowly. “I know,” she whispers. “Logically. I know.”
“Logic doesn’t undo survival instincts. Time does. Safety does. Choice does.”
Miracle nudges her knee, impatient. She smiles faintly and finally throws the ball again. He takes off like a rocket. They sit together in the quiet, porch light glowing warm behind them, the sound of a child laughing inside the house.
Eileen breaks the quiet first. “Can I tell you something?”
Nellie nods. “Yeah.”
She looks out into the yard as she speaks, like she’s choosing memory over performance.
“Jack was… different from the start. Not in a scary way. In a trying so hard way. He didn’t really know who he was supposed to be, but he wanted, desperately, to be good. He asked questions. All the time. About people. About right and wrong. About whether he was doing things correctly. He took responsibility very seriously. Even when he shouldn’t have. He loved this family. Sam. Dean. Cas. He loved them like they gave him a place in the world. He wasn’t always handled well. People were afraid of what he could do. Sometimes that fear turned into cruelty. He carried that longer than he should have.”
The girl frowns. “So… he knows what it’s like.”
“To be judged for something you didn’t choose? Yeah. He does. He’s not perfect. But he’s honest. And when he hurts someone, he feels it deeply. That hasn’t changed.”
She swallows. “That helps,” she admits quietly.
Eileen smiles, relieved. Then she hesitates. “… So,” she says carefully, “this might be a bad time to mention that we’re a little short on space.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Dean has his room, obviously. And Sam and I have ours. Which leaves —”
“You’re kidding.”
“I was going to tell you earlier.”
Nellie snorts, shaking her head. “You totally just buttered me up.”
Eileen laughs. “I may have… softened the ground.”
She leans back against the porch post, staring up at the stars. “Okay,” she says finally. “I mean — it makes sense. He’s a guest. He needs an actual bed.”
Her aunt studies her carefully. “Are you sure?”
She shrugs, a little tight but sincere. “Yeah. I’m anxious, not heartless.” She pauses, then adds dryly, “Besides. I’ve had to share motel rooms with that freight train of an uncle.”
Eileen smiles at that. “We can rearrange if it’s too much. No pressure.”
“I know,” she replies. She doesn’t love the idea. But she also doesn’t hate it. And that, right now, feels like progress.
The porch light hums overhead. The house waits behind them; warm, imperfect, real.
And for the first time all day, she doesn’t feel like she’s bracing for impact. She’s just stepping carefully forward, which is enough for tonight.
• • •
By the time Nellie finishes changing for bed, the guest room looks more lived in.
Eileen has dragged in a spare mattress and set it up neatly on the other side of the room, complete with mismatched sheets and a comforter that’s clearly seen a few years of use. The moment she walked in, Miracle had jumped up on her bed, thrilled to have his sleeping buddy back.
She’s halfway through stuffing her overnight bag under the bed when the door creaks open.
“Psssst.”
She turns.
Dean peeks around the doorframe, eyes shining with mischief. “Can you help me?”
She smiles immediately. “What kind of help?”
“I wanna stay up later,” he whispers. “Mom and Dad said no.”
She considers this gravely. “Hmm. That’s serious.”
“Very.”
She leans in conspiratorially. “Okay. Here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna hide under the bed. And when they come looking, I’ll tell them I haven’t seen you.”
Dean’s grin spreads ear to ear. “Yes!” He dives under the bed with a giggle, barely missing the frame.
She straightens just as footsteps approach down the hall.
Eileen’s voice floats closer. “Dean?”
Jack trails behind her, curious, clearly unsure if this is a trap.
She pauses in the doorway. “Have you seen my son?”
Nellie puts on her best innocent face. “Nope. Haven’t seen him all night.”
The young man glances at her. Then at the bed. His eyebrows knit together. A tiny sneaker pokes out from underneath.
Her aunt’s follows his gaze. “Dean.”
Silence. Then a small, “No.”
Eileen sighs, fond but firm. “Bedtime.”
Dean crawls out slowly, defeated. “But Nellie said —”
Nellie winces. “I said maybe.”
Jack bites his lip, clearly trying not to laugh.
Eileen holds out a hand. “Come on, buddy. You can talk to Nellie and Jack in the morning.”
The boy slumps dramatically. “Okay… Goodnight Nellie. Goodnight Jack.”
“Goodnight,” both reply.
Dean scampers down the hall with his mother, already talking about pancakes. And suddenly, it’s just them. It turns quickly into a standoff. One-sided, of course. Nellie stands near her bed, hands loose at her sides, posture neutral enough to pass for calm. Inside, everything is too loud. Her instincts snap awake, sharp and immediate, dragging her back into survival mode before she can talk herself out of it. Prey. Against what? A wolf. No, that’s not right. Jack isn’t a wolf. He’s a golden retriever in a china shop. Calm. Curious. Earnest to a fault. Completely unaware of the deer frozen in place, headlights caught on a dark road. He now sits on the edge of his mattress, hands folded, eyes wandering the room like he’s memorizing a place he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to exist in. That somehow makes it worse.
This isn’t her childhood home. He isn’t Eleanor. He doesn’t smell like cheap wine or anger. He hasn’t looked at her like she’s an inconvenience for breathing wrong, or like something to be taken. There’s no hunger in his gaze. No irritation. No edge. And still, her stomach churns. Because now she’s aware that she’s sharing a room with a stranger. With a young man. She’s shared motel rooms with Sam before, countless times, but he is family. Sam knows every sharp corner of her past and would never let her be unsafe. This is different. Her pulse jumps. If Jack were truly dangerous, aunt and uncle wouldn’t have let him stay. Wouldn’t have given him a bed. Wouldn’t have put him in this room with her. Wouldn’t have suggested, even tentatively, that she consider trusting him as a partner. Sam trusts him. Eileen trusts him. Her thoughts say you’re safe, but her body says don’t relax. She hates the disconnect.
Jack shifts slightly, like he’s about to speak. She freezes. Before either of them can say anything, Sam steps through the open door, holding a small stack of clothes.
“Hey, Jack,” he says easily. “Almost forgot. We’ve got some hand-me-downs you can sleep in tonight.”
The young man looks relieved. “Thank you.”
He sets the clothes on the dresser. “Tomorrow, we’ll get you some stuff that actually fits.”
“These look fine,” he replies sincerely.
Sam snorts. “Low bar.”
Nellie doesn’t react. She’s already too far inside her own head. He glances at her, not pressing, just checking, then nods once, like he’s clocked exactly where she is. “Get some rest,” he says gently. “Both of you.”
“Night,” Jack says.
“Night.”
The door closes again. The silence comes rushing back. Jack stands with the clothes in his hands, hesitating.
“I can… change in the bathroom,” he offers, careful. “If that’s better.”
She doesn’t trust her voice, so she nods. “Yeah,” she manages.
He nods back, grateful for the clarity. “Okay.” He slips out.
She exhales shakily and moves fast, not panicked, just purposeful. She changes, pulls out the stuffed animal from Dean, crawls into bed, and turns onto her side with her back to the door. Miracle is already curls, pressed tight against her legs like a shield she doesn’t have to explain.
She stares at the wall and focuses on breathing.
The door opens quietly a minute later. He comes back in, footsteps careful. He doesn’t comment when he sees she’s already in bed. Doesn’t ask if she’s okay. Doesn’t try to fill the space.
He changes the lamp himself, the room dimming to a soft glow before darkness settles. She hears the mattress creak as he lies down. She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t know what to say.
There are too many feelings and no language for them yet. Fear tangled with guilt, jealousy braided with relief, the disorienting wrongness of a stranger who hasn’t done anything wrong.
Jack lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of a house that feels alive in a way the bunker never did. They don’t speak. But neither of them leaves. And for her, that is the bravest thing she manages tonight. It’s enough.
• • •
Morning comes softly. Sunlight filters in through the kitchen window, warm and pale, catching on the dust motes in the air. The house smells like coffee and butter and something just starting to brown in a pan. Jack stands at the counter beside Eileen, sleeves rolled up a little too neatly, cracking eggs with careful concentration like it’s an important test he doesn’t want to fail.
“This is… relaxing,” he says after a moment, watching the yolks spill cleanly into the bowl.
She smiles. “Breakfast does that to people.”
He nods, serious. “I missed things like this.”
She hands him a whisk. He takes it like it’s fragile.
Dean is perched on a chair nearby, swinging his legs and narrating everything Jack does. “Careful, if you go too fast it makes bubbles,” he warns.
Jack slows immediately. “Like this?”
“Perfect.”
He beams like he’s just been given a medal. “What happens next?”
The little boy hops down and runs to the fridge. “Now we get the milk. And the cheese. And the good pan.”
He follows him like an eager student, taking mental notes as if this is a ritual he wants to get right.
Sam wanders in a few minutes later, hair mildly tamed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene. Jack at the stove, his wife moving comfortably beside him, his son animatedly pointing at a bowl like it’s the most important thing in the world. Something in his chest loosens.
“This smells… suspiciously competent,” he says.
Jack looks up. “I followed instructions.”
“That explains it.”
Dean grins. “Jack’s helping! He’s really good.”
He straightens just a bit, pleased.
Eileen sets a plate down and glances toward the hallway. “Nellie still asleep?”
“Yeah,” Sam replies. “She probably needs it.”
They move around the kitchen easily, passing plates, stirring, talking about nothing important. Jack listens more than he speaks, absorbing the cadence of a normal morning like it might disappear if he doesn’t hold onto it carefully. He flips a pancake under Dean’s watchful eye and looks absurdly proud when it lands intact.
• • •
Nellie wakes up like she always does after a bad night: half-conscious, brittle around the edges, running on muscle memory and spite. She drags herself down the hallway in socked feet, hair a disaster, eyes barely open. The smell of coffee is the only thing keeping her upright. She doesn’t register who is in the kitchen. She goes straight for the coffee maker.
“Morning,” Jack says.
The word hits her like a gunshot. Her body reacts before her brain has time to catch up. She spins, elbow snapping out hard. He stumbles back as her elbow connects with his cheekbone. At the same time, her hand snatches the butter knife from off the counter, grip tight, stance low and defensive.
The world snaps into focus. Silence slams down around her. He stands a few feet away, hand pressed to his face, eyes wide, more surprised than hurt. Eileen freezes mid-motion. Dean blinks once. Then bursts out laughing.
“Whoa!”
Nellie’s breath comes sharp and fast. Her body doesn’t stand down. Her muscles stay locked, ready for the next move. Then the meaning catches up. Oh. Oh no. Her eyes drop to the knife in her hand. Her stomach plummets. She freezes. Her heart hammers as her mind scrambles ahead, bracing for impact that doesn’t come. For raised voices. For anger. For that familiar shift in the air when someone decides you’ve crossed a line and now, you’re going to pay for it. She can almost hear it. What the hell is wrong with you?
Jack doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even frown. He takes a careful step back, not away from her, but to give her space. “Oh,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I —” He glances at the knife, then back to her face, concern threading through his expression. “Are you okay?”
The question is so unexpected it short-circuits her. She blinks. Her fingers loosen. The knife clatters onto the counter. She takes a step back like it burned her. “I — I’m so sorry,” she manages, voice thin and unsteady. “I thought — I didn’t —”
He shakes his head quickly. “It’s okay. Really. I should have announced myself.”
Dean is still laughing, clutching his sides. “That was AWESOME!”
“Dean,” Sam says, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice now. “This is why Nellie requires coffee before conversation.”
She flips him off without looking.
“Hey, little eyes,” Eileen scolds.
Nellie turns slowly back toward the counter, movements stiff, like she’s afraid any sudden motion might make things worse. She pours coffee with shaking hands.
Jack watches her for a moment, then looks to Eileen. “I’ll… stay over here.”
“Good plan,” Sam says.
Dean hops down from his chair and mimics the elbow motion dramatically. “She went bam!”
The girl groans. “I’m never leaving my room again.” She wraps her hands around the mug the second it’s ready, heat seeping into her palms, grounding her. Her shoulders slowly lower. She’s embarrassed. Mortified. Still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
Luckily for her, the rest of breakfast goes smoothly. She nurses her coffee, praying that her uncle won’t dare tease her anymore, at least, not before she was lucid enough to fire back. After breakfast, plates are stacked. Dean is redirected into one of his morning chores. Miracle is let outside again. The house exhales.
Sam checks his watch and glances at Jack. “Alright. I’m gonna take you into town, get you some clothes that actually fit.”
Jack straightens immediately. “Okay.”
“Can I come?” Dean begs.
“Not this time, buddy,” his father replies. “We’ll bring you back something cool.”
He considers that, then nods solemnly. “Okay. Get dinosaurs.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the young man promises.
Nellie feels her shoulders loosen the moment she realizes what that means. Space.
Sam claps him lightly on the shoulder and steers him toward the door. “We won’t be gone long,” he tells his wife.
“Take your time,” she replies, already wiping down the counter.
The door closes behind them. The house is quieter instantly. Nellie exhales a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
Eileen looks over at her. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, more honest than she’s been all morning. “I think I just needed… a minute.”
“Well, now you’ve got one.”
She sinks into a chair, rubbing her temples, the embarrassment finally easing now that she’s not under a microscope, imagined or otherwise.
Outside, Sam’s car pulls away. And for the first time since arriving back at the Winchesters, she has space to breathe. She doesn’t feel relieved because he’s gone. She feels relieved because she’s allowed to process, on her own terms. Especially of this hell of a morning. But, it isn’t long before Dean manages to convince Nellie to play with him, of course after she had help him finish his chores. She doesn’t mind. At least he is distracting her from spiraling over her embarrassment.
The men weren’t gone long. A couple of hours later, the front door opens with the familiar click of keys and the creak of hinges.
“Eileen? Nell?” Sam calls lightly.
“In here,” his niece answers, without looking up.
Jack steps in behind him, bags rustling softly in his hands. He pauses in the doorway to the living room and stops. Nellie is on the floor. Not guarded, not coiled like she’s ready to bolt. She’s sitting cross-legged on the rug, one sock kicked off, sleeves pushed up, completely absorbed in whatever is happening in front of her. Dean is sprawled across the carpet opposite her, a small army of dinosaurs lined up between them.
“And then,” she says in a low, dramatic voice, “the T-rex realizes he’s been betrayed.”
The boy gasps. “By the triceratops?!”
“Obviously.”
Jack doesn’t move. He watches as she reaches out and nudges one of the toys forward, expression animated, eyes bright in a way he hasn’t seen yet. Her sarcasm is still there, but it’s gentle now, playful and unguarded. Dean leans closer to her, utterly secure, laughing as she growls out a ridiculous monster noise that makes him shriek with delight. He feels something settle in his chest. This is the Nellie he hasn’t met yet.
Sam glances back at him, then follows his line of sight. His mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. “They’re in dinosaur mode,” he murmurs.
He nods faintly. “She’s very good with him.”
“She is.”
Dean looks up first. “Dad! You’re back!” He scrambles to his feet and barrels over, nearly colliding with the young man again. “Did you get stuff?”
Jack lifts one of the bags slightly. “I think so.”
He grins, satisfied, then darts back to the floor. “We’re playing monsters. Nellie’s the bad guy.”
Nellie finally looks up. Her expression shifts instantly, surprise, then mild embarrassment when she realizes she’s been seen mid-play. “Oh. Hey.”
Hey,” Sam replies gently.
The former Nephilim hesitates, then offers a small smile. “Hi.”
She nods, just once, then turns back to her cousin. “Your move, buddy.”
Jack steps fully into the room, careful not to interrupt the game. He sets the bags down near the wall, attention drifting back to the way the girl leans closer to Dean when she speaks, how her voice softens without her even trying. This version of her doesn’t look like someone waiting for a threat. She looks like someone who feels safe.
• • •
The rest of the day unfolds more gently than the morning ever promised. Not effortless, not smooth, but better. Nellie moves through the house like she’s testing unfamiliar footing, deliberate and occasionally overcorrecting. Every time she tries to be friendly, it comes out a little stiff, a little delayed, like her instincts and her intentions are operating on separate timelines. Deer on ice.
She once offers Jack a mug when she pours herself coffee again, then immediately realizes she hasn’t asked if he even wants any. “Oh, uh… do you drink coffee?” she asks, already holding it out.
“Yes,” he replies immediately. Then, after a beat, “But only if you don’t want it.”
She stares at him. “I made too much.”
“Then yes.”
She hands it over, nods once like the exchange required paperwork, and retreats to the counter. Progress.
When Dean drags him into another game - this one involving blankets, couch cushions, and a very serious argument about whether dinosaurs could be ghosts - Nellie hovers nearby, pretending to reorganize something that absolutely does not need reorganizing. Jack lets the boy lead everything. He listens. He follows rules that change mid-game without complaint. When Dean gets frustrated, he doesn’t correct him, he asks questions instead. She watches from the doorway, arms folded loosely, something warm and complicated stirring in her chest.
At one point, the little boy looks up at her. “Nellie! You’re the hunter! You gotta save us!”
She freezes.
Jack glances at her, not expectant or pressuring. Just open.
“…Okay,” she says after a second. “But only because you’re clearly doomed.”
Dean cheers.
She steps in awkwardly, stumbles over a blanket, nearly trips, and mutters, “Wow. Graceful. Ten out of ten.”
Later, when he needs a snack and Eileen is on the phone, Nellie ends up at the table with Jack while Dean colors. Silence stretches.
She clears her throat. “He’s… a lot.”
The former Nephilim nods seriously. “I like that.”
“Yeah?”
“He feels very… alive. It’s nice.”
Something in her eases at that. She doesn’t quite know how to respond, so she just nods and reaches for the crayon Dean drops on the floor, sliding it back to him without comment.
Jack doesn’t push for conversation. Doesn’t interpret her pauses as rejection. He just exists alongside her. When she makes a joke that lands a little flat, he still smiles like it landed somewhere important. When she flinches at a sudden noise, he doesn’t comment, just subtly shifts so she has more space. When she forgets herself and relaxes for half a second, he doesn’t call attention to it. He is patient. With Dean’s endless questions. With her halting attempts at friendliness. With the awkward silences and the missteps and the moments where she clearly wants to try but doesn’t know how.
By late afternoon, Nellie realizes something with a quiet sort of surprise: She’s not exhausted from bracing. She’s tired, but the good kind. The kind that comes from being present instead of vigilant. She’s still cautious, still guarded, still figuring him out. But she’s no longer counting exits. And for her, that’s not nothing. It’s a start.
After dinner, once Dean has finally been shepherded toward pajamas and Eileen disappears down the hallway with him, negotiating toothpaste and bedtime stories, Nellie lingers in the kitchen. Sam is still at the table, stacking plates with methodical care. The house hums quietly around them, the way it does when the day is winding down but no one’s quite ready to sleep yet.
She stands there for a moment too long, hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, fingers worrying at the fabric.
“Hey,” she says finally.
He looks up. “Hey.”
“Can we… talk for a minute?”
“Yeah. Of course.” He pulls out a chair for her without comment.
She sits, then immediately stands again, pacing once before forcing herself to stop like she’s afraid if she keeps moving, she won’t be able to say it at all. “I wanted to apologize,” she says, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder. “For… everything. At the bunker. Pulling a gun on Jack. Treating him like he was a threat just because he walked in. And then this morning —” Her mouth twists. “— punching him in the face before I was fully conscious.”
He exhales slowly. “You’ve had worse mornings.”
She gives a weak huff, then sobers. “I mean it. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know you trusted him. And I acted like you didn’t know what you were doing.”
He leans back in his chair. “Nell.”
She flinches slightly, bracing.
“I understand,” he says gently.
She looks up, startled. “You do?”
“Yeah. You didn’t have context. And you’ve learned the hard way that calm, friendly people can still hurt you.” He shrugs faintly. “Given your history? I’m honestly more surprised you didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.”
She snorts despite herself. “Low bar.”
“Very,” he agrees. Then more seriously, “But you’re trying now. That matters.”
“I am. But, uh… There’s something else.” She takes a breath that feels like it scrapes on the way in. “I’m jealous. Not in a petty way and not because of Jack as a person. It’s just…” Her voice falters. “He knew my dad.”
Sam’s expression softens immediately, something heavy and familiar settling into his eyes.
“He knew Dean,” Nellie continues, words coming faster now that she’s started. “Not the idea of him. Not the stories. The living version. The one who laughed too loud and drank too much and hunted and screwed up and kept going anyway.” Her hands clench at her sides. “He got to sit next to him. Share a beer. Hunt with him. Be family with him. And I never got any of that. I know it’s not Jack’s fault and it’s not Dean’s either. I know that. He didn’t even know I existed.” She swallows hard. “But sometimes it feels like Jack walked in carrying pieces of my father I’ll never get to have.”
He nods slowly. “That’s a real loss.”
She laughs bitterly. “It feels stupid to say out loud.”
“It’s not,” he says immediately.
She finally looks at him, eyes glassy. “I spent my whole life thinking my dad didn’t want me. And now I know that wasn’t true, but he’s still gone. And someone else got to know him. Someone else got time with him.” Her voice drops. “I don’t blame Jack. I don’t. But it hurts anyway.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on the table. “Nellie, you’re allowed to be angry about that. Or sad. Or jealous. Those feelings don’t mean you’re unfair.”
“I keep thinking, what if he talks about Dean like he knew him better than I ever will?”
“Knowing Dean doesn’t mean owning him. You’re his daughter. That matters. That’s not something anyone else can take from you. Not Jack. Not anyone.”
Her breath shudders. “I just wish I’d gotten something. One conversation. One stupid argument. Anything.”
“I know,” he says softly. “And I’m sorry you didn’t. You don’t have to like Jack right away,” Sam adds. “Or trust him. Or want him around. I’m not asking that. I just wanted you to have the choice.”
“I’m trying to give myself time.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
She wipes at her eyes quickly, embarrassed. “I don’t want to screw this up.”
“You won’t. You didn’t mess this up. You just… reacted. And then you tried to do better.”
She lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping. “That feels like the bare minimum.”
“It’s not. For you? It’s huge.” He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
Her eyes sting again, but this time she doesn’t look away. “Thanks,” she whispers.
They sit there a while longer, not talking, just sharing the quiet weight of Dean Winchester’s absence. Felt differently, but just as deeply.
When Nellie finally heads back toward the guest room, her chest still feels tight, but quieter than before, like something heavy has been set down instead of carried. The door is cracked open.
She pauses when she hears her cousin’s voice before stepping inside.
“And then the dinosaur totally fell in the lava,” he’s saying, very seriously.
He is sitting cross-legged on her bed, animated and bright, holding her snuggle dog by one floppy ear like it’s a treasured artifact. Jack, still sporting the light bruise from breakfast, sits on the edge of his mattress nearby, listening with the same focus he gives everything Dean says, nodding at the appropriate moments.
He looks up first. “Nellie!”
She doesn’t think. She just crosses the room and scoops him up, pulling him into a tight hug and immediately attacking his sides.
“No!” he shrieks, laughing. “No, tickles are illegal!”
“Highly debatable,” she says, grinning as he squirms.
Jack watches with a gentle smile.
Dean finally wriggles free, breathless and giggling. “You gotta read tonight.”
“I — what?”
“You’re the best reader,” he declares. “You do the voices.”
“You are wildly biased.”
“Yes!” He looks at the young man. “You should listen too.”
Jack’s brows lift. “Oh. Okay.”
Nellie hesitates. Just a beat too long. Her instinct is to say no, to keep this contained, to not add another layer of vulnerability to an already full day. But the little boy is looking at her like this is already decided. She exhales. “Alright. Come on, kid.” She takes his hand and leads him down the hall.
Dean’s room is dim and cozy, nightlight casting soft shapes on the walls. She helps him climb into bed, tucks the blankets around him with practiced ease. Jack stands near the doorway, unsure where to put himself.
“You can sit,” the boy tells him, pointing the floor beside the bed.
The young man complies immediately, folding himself down cross-legged like a student.
Nellie grabs the book from the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed. She opens it, clears her throat. “Once upon a time,” she begins, slipping effortlessly into the cadence, “there was a very brave knight who thought he wasn’t brave at all…”
She does the voices. Of course she does. The gruff dragon. The nervous knight. The dramatic pauses. Dean reacts to every one like it’s new, clutching her sleeve when the story gets tense. Jack listens quietly, eyes moving between the page and the girl, absorbing something that feels sacred. Halfway through, the boy’s breathing slows. By the time she finishes the last line, he’s asleep. She carefully closes the book. For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Jack whispers, “You really are very good at that.”
She stiffens, then shrugs lightly. “Yeah, well… He’s an easy audience.”
He smiles. “Still.”
Once she’s sure he is settled — blanket tucked, light adjusted just so, the soft, even rhythm of his breathing filling the room — she heads back to the guestroom. When she steps back into the room, she stops short. Jack is standing near her bed, holding the stuffed animal carefully in both hands, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong with it. He looks up when he hears her.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Dean left this in here. I thought maybe we should take it back to him?”
Her stomach drops. “Oh.” She steps forward automatically, then stops. Heat creeps up her neck. “No. It’s… it’s mine.”
“Oh.”
She reaches for it, fingers brushing the worn fabric. “He got it for me for Christmas. So, I’d have something to take on hunts, so I’m not alone.” She huffs under her breath, embarrassed.
His expression shifts, not amusement, not judgment. Just something gentle and thoughtful.
“That was very kind of him.”
She nods, clutching the stuffed animal a little closer than she means to. Silence stretches, thicker now that the day has finally slowed enough for feelings to catch up. “I should’ve said this earlier,” she says suddenly, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. For punching you and how I’ve been in general. I know I’ve been tense. Suspicious. Kinda hostile.” A pause. “Okay — very hostile.”
He considers that. “You were careful.”
She lets out a humorless breath. “That’s one word for it.”
He shifts slightly, giving her space without retreating. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
“I feel like I do. You didn’t do anything to deserve it.”
Jack’s voice is calm, steady. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through. And I don’t need to. I can tell you’re trying to keep yourself safe.”
That lands harder than she expects.
“I’m not great at… new people,” Nellie admits. “Especially ones who show up out of nowhere and already know everyone I love.”
He nods slowly. “That makes sense.”
She glances up at him, searching for something. Anger, frustration, resentment. There’s none.
“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he adds. “Or like me. Or feel comfortable around me right away.” A small, earnest smile. “I just want to be someone you don’t have to worry about.”
Her throat tightens. “…Thank you.”
They stand there for a moment, the day finally catching up with both of them. The awkwardness is still there, but it’s different now. Quieter. Less sharp.
She moves to her bed and sets the stuffed animal back on her pillow.
Jack turns toward his mattress. “I’m gonna — uh — turn in.”
“Yeah,” she says. Then, after a beat, “Goodnight.”
He pauses, then smiles faintly. “Goodnight, Nellie.”
She lies down facing the wall again, but this time her shoulders aren’t locked tight. The house creaks softly around them, alive with the ordinary sounds of a family settling into sleep. Jack lies awake for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She closes her eyes, clutching the stuffed animal to her chest. She’s still cautious. Still figuring things out. She doesn’t feel like she’s bracing against him anymore. She’s just sharing space. And that feels like progress.
• • •
The next couple of days pass without any big moments. No confrontations, no revelations, no sudden shifts that demand attention. And somehow, that matters more than anything else. Nellie doesn’t wake up one morning suddenly comfortable with Jack. It’s slower than that. Quieter. The sharp edge of her hostility dulls first, giving way to something more watchful than defensive. She still keeps her distance, but it’s no longer measured in exits and angles. It’s measured in glances. In listening. She notices things now. Jack always waits to be invited into a room, even when the door is open. He never touches her things. He lowers his voice instinctively when Dean is sleeping. When Nellie flinches at a sudden sound, he doesn’t react, doesn’t look at her, doesn’t comment, just shifts subtly so there’s more space. That helps. It lets her breathe. She finds herself sitting in the same room as him without planning it. Standing at the counter while he washes dishes. Watching him help Dean with homework he barely understands but takes seriously anyway. She doesn’t joke much. When she does, it comes out dry and sideways.
Jack doesn’t miss it. He smiles like he caught something important. On his part, he feels the shift before he fully understands it. She’s no longer braced, no longer coiled, no longer scanning him like she’s waiting for the moment he reveals himself as something else. That gives him room to really see her. Not the hunter first, but the person underneath. He notices how careful she is with her little cousin, how she always positions herself between him and whatever could be sharp or dangerous without making it obvious. He notices how she goes quiet when conversations drift toward the past, but not shut down, just selective. He notices how she reads. Always with a pencil nearby. Always with dog-eared pages and margins full of notes. How battered paperbacks sit beside hunter’s logs like they all belong in the same category. Once, he catches her watching Sam and Eileen from the hallway; expression soft, guarded, reverent in a way that tells him this family is not something she takes for granted. He doesn’t comment. He’s learning that she is someone who opens doors only when she chooses to.
One afternoon, Dean ropes them both into a game that involves couch cushions and an elaborate rule system that changes every five minutes. Nellie hovers at first, arms crossed.
He sits on the floor immediately.
“You’re doing it wrong,” the boy tells him.
He nods. “Okay.”
She snorts before she can stop herself.
Both look at her.
She clears her throat. “You’re… uh. You’re supposed to be the monster.”
He considers this. “I can do that.”
She watches him let Dean tackle him dramatically, watches the way he laughs, not loud, not performative, just real. Something eases in her chest.
That night, she sits at the table while Jack reads quietly nearby. No tension. No forced conversation. Just shared space. She doesn’t feel like she’s being watched. And Jack doesn’t feel like he’s being judged. Instead, it feels like the early stages of something unnamed. Two people, mainly her, circling the idea of trust without touching it yet. She still doesn’t like how easily he fits. Still doesn’t love that he carries pieces of her father she’ll never have. But now, those feelings don’t sharpen into anger. They sit alongside something new. Acceptance, curiosity, the tentative realization that he might not be a disruption but an addition. And Jack, patient as ever, doesn’t rush it. He knows better than most that safety isn’t proven in declarations. It’s proven in consistency.
By the fourth night, the guest room has settled into a quiet routine. Nellie is propped against the headboard, knees drawn up, a book open in her lap. The lamp casts a warm pool of light over the pages, the rest of the room dim and calm. Miracle is tucked against her side, sighing with a tiredness only a dog that has napped for 12 hours straight can.
The door opens softly. Jack slips in after getting ready for bed, movements careful, practiced in not disturbing her. He pauses automatically, checking to see if she’s asleep. She isn’t. He crosses to his mattress and sits, adjusting the blanket, giving her space the way he always does. For a while, the only sound is the turning of a page.
Then, without looking at him, Nellie speaks. “Can I ask you a question?”
He whips his head up. “Uh, yeah, sure. Go for it.”
“You said you didn’t want to interfere with Earth. When you were… whatever you were.”
He stills, then relaxes again. He’s learned her pauses mean she’s choosing words, not backing away.
“So where did you go?” she asks. “Like, where were you all this time?”
He considers the question longer than necessary, gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “Far,” he says finally. Then, realizing that isn’t enough, adds, “Into the depths of the universe. Places without people. Without… influence.” A pause. “I wanted to keep my promise.”
She absorbs that, eyes still on the page though she hasn’t read a word. “That must’ve been beautiful,” she says after a moment.
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “It would have been, if it hadn’t been so lonely.”
The word hangs between them, heavier than she expects. She remembers what he’d said when he first came back. My human side missed it the most. Earth. People. Belonging.
He goes on, quieter now. “Now that I am fully human, I can just be wrong. Or quiet. Or tired. I can make pancakes badly and get corrected by a five-year-old.” A small smile touches his mouth. “That feels better.”
Silence fills the room, not uncomfortable, but heavy.
“Can I ask you something?” Jack asks, tentative. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Now it is Nellie’s turn to be surprised. She nods. “Okay.”
He hesitates, eyes dropping briefly to his hands. “Sam told me you were possessed. Recently.” He looks back up, earnest and calm. “I wanted to understand… what that was like. If it’s not too hard to talk about.”
The room stills. She closes her book slowly and sets it aside. For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. Then she exhales. “It was after a nasty coven encounter about six months ago. They tried to use me in a ritual. I was… open. Raw.” Her jaw tightens. “Vulnerable enough that a demon slipped in without me even knowing. For months, I thought I was just tired. Angry. Losing focus. Turns out I was sharing my body with a demon who was slowly learning how to be me. By the time Sam and Cas figured it out, she was… close. Too close. I don’t remember everything after the exorcism. I didn’t trust myself. Or my abilities. Or my instincts. Sam helped me take control again. That’s what we were doing when you showed up: using my abilities to reinforce the bunker’s wards. Grounding. Reclaiming space.”
He lets out a slow breath. “I’m glad you weren’t alone.”
She almost laughs. “I was, for a while.”
Silence settles, heavy but not sharp.
After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Can I ask something else?”
She nods.
“You mentioned your abilities. Earlier. Dean did too. I was wondering… what can you do?”
She shifts, pulling one knee up. “I can sense things. Wrongness. Intent. I get flashes —images, emotions, sometimes moments that haven’t happened yet. And sometimes I can push back. Move things. Not big stuff. Just enough.”
“Enough to matter,” Jack says.
She shrugs. “Enough to make people nervous.”
Jack tilts his head, studying her, not clinically, but thoughtfully. “Do they make you feel like a danger?”
Nellie’s breath catches. She hadn’t said that word out loud. “… Yeah,” she admits. “Like I’m one bad day away from becoming something hunters put down instead of work with.”
He nods slowly. “I felt that way too.”
She looks at him.
“When I had power,” he continues, “everyone expected me to either save the world or destroy it. There wasn’t much room for being a person. It takes a lot for someone not to be corrupted by power. Especially when people already expect the worst.” He meets her eyes. “You use yours to help people. Even when it puts a target on your back. And you’re a hunter in a community that doesn’t trust psychics.” A small, sincere smile. “That’s brave.”
Her throat tightens, unexpectedly. “I don’t feel brave,” she says.
“I know,” he replies gently. “Most people who are don’t.”
The silence that follows is different now. Softer. Grounded.
She leans back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “You know,” she murmurs, “you’re not what I expected.”
He smiles faintly. “I get that a lot.”
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t shut down either.
The lamp clicks off a few minutes later, leaving the room in darkness. She lies awake for a while longer, his words echoing quietly in her chest. It takes a lot not to be corrupted by power. Maybe, she’s doing better than she thought.
• • •
The sensation hits Nellie out of a dead sleep. Not sound, not movement. Pressure. Her eyes snap open as her pulse spikes, instincts slamming into place before thought can catch up. She rolls to her side, and her hand is already under the pillow, fingers closing around cool metal.
Knife up. Breath shallow. Heart hammering. There’s someone in the room. A shadow stands near the far wall, unmoving, wrong in a way that sets every nerve on fire. Miracle explodes into barking, snarling sharp and frantic.
“Don’t move,” Nellie snaps, blade steady, voice low and lethal.
The shadow doesn’t react.
Jack jerks awake at the sound, sitting up fast. “Nellie?”
Footsteps thunder down the stairs. Sam bursts into the doorway seconds later, eyes already scanning for threats. “Nellie?” he calls. “What’s —”
The pressure shifts. Recognition slams into her chest like a dropped weight.
“Oh,” she breathes, knife lowering a fraction. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The figure turns slightly, trench coat resolving out of the darkness. “Hello, Nellie,” Castiel says calmly.
Miracle pauses mid-bark, then huffs once like he’s deeply offended and trots over to sniff him before losing interest entirely.
Nellie drops the knife on the bedside table and flips the lamp on, scrubbing a hand over her face. “You could knock. Or send a text. Or literally anything else.”
“I didn’t want to wake anyone.”
Sam stares. “You appeared in my house. In the middle of the night.”
“Yes.”
“That’s the definition of waking someone.”
The angel blinks. “I see.” His gaze shifts to the former Nephilim.
Jack is frozen on his mattress, eyes wide, breath caught halfway in. “… Cas?” he says, voice small and stunned.
Castiel steps closer, studying him intently, not suspicious, but careful. Like someone afraid of hoping too much. “I heard you were back. I needed to see for myself. To be sure you were… you.”
He swallows. Then nods once. “I understand.” He reaches under his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper from the pocket, extending it carefully. “I brought proof. Just in case.”
The angel takes it, unfolding it. His eyes flick over the symbols, glow faintly blue for half a second. Enochian. He looks back up, something breaking open in his expression. “You’re human,” he says softly.
“Yes,” Jack replies. “Completely.”
Castiel’s shoulders sag with relief. He steps forward and pulls the young man into a brief, careful embrace.
He freezes, then melts into it, arms wrapping back just as tightly. “I missed you,” he says, voice thick.
“I missed you too,” he replies.
Nellie watches, chest loosening in a way she hadn’t realized was still clenched. This is not a threat. This is… family.
Castiel pulls back and finally looks at her. “You’re healing,” he says, matter-of-fact.
She exhales. “You’d notice.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “And I’m glad.”
Sam clears his throat softly. “So… now that everyone’s confirmed real and not evil, why are you here, Cas?”
He turns back to Jack. “I wanted to know what you intended to do. Now that you’re back on Earth.”
Jack hesitates. His gaze flicks briefly to her, then away. “I don’t… know yet,” he admits. “I thought I did. But things changed.”
The room is quiet.
Then Nellie speaks. “He’s sticking around.”
All three of them look at her.
She swallows, then straightens, meeting the angel’s gaze steadily. “He’s going to try hunting again. With me.”
Jack blinks. “I am?”
She shoots him a sideways look. “Trial basis,” she adds quickly. “You keep up, don’t get yourself killed, don’t screw up a case, I’ll reassess.”
Sam’s eyebrows climb. “Nell—”
“I said try,” she cuts in, then softens just a fraction. “I’ve been hunting alone. That’s… not smart. And he knows the life.”
Castiel tilts his head, studying her. “You trust him.”
She considers that. “I trust him enough to find out.”
Jack looks stunned. Hope flickers across his face, careful and fragile. “I won’t let you down.”
She snorts quietly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
The angel’s mouth curves into the faintest smile. “I think this will be good for both of you.”
Miracle hops onto the bed like the matter is settled.
Sam exhales, rubbing his face. “Alright. Angel visits, trial partnerships, near-heart attacks at three a.m.—” He gestures vaguely. “I’m going back to bed.”
Castiel nods. “I should go.” He pauses at the doorway, looking back at Jack. “I’m glad you came home.”
He smiles. “Me too.”
The angel disappears in a soft rush of air. The room settles again. Nellie slips the knife back under her pillow and lies down, heart still racing, but calmer now.
The young man shifts on his mattress. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
She doesn’t look at him. “Don’t make me regret it.” But her voice isn’t sharp.
And for the first time since he returned, Jack falls asleep knowing he’s not just allowed to be here. He’s been given a chance.
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