Embedded Files
Some alliances aren’t forged in battle. They form in shared silences, guarded routines, and the careful work of learning where another person ends and you begin. As Nellie and Jack settle into the rhythm of coexistence, they discover that trust isn’t built on what you survive together, but on what you’re willing to let the other see. And not every truth stays buried when two people start calling the same place home.
Word Count: 13.7k
TW: none other than use of mild language.
- - - - - -
Morning comes gently in the Winchester house. Not quietly — Dean is physically incapable of that — but gently, in the way of clattering dishes, murmured negotiations over cereal versus pancakes, and the low, familiar hum of the coffee maker doing its sacred work. Nellie emerges from the hallway a bit later than everyone else, hair pulled back into a loose knot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder like she never fully decided to wear it. Her eyes are half-lidded, expression permanently unimpressed by the concept of mornings.
Jack is at the counter, already awake, helping Eileen. He looks up. “Good morning.”
She just hums in response and moves straight for the coffee pot like it’s a lifeline. She pours herself a mug, adds a bit of milk, then takes a long sip before the world feels survivable again.
Her little cousin grins at her from his seat. “You didn’t hit him this time.”
She shoots him a look. “Give it time.”
Jack smiles faintly, clearly finding it just humorous as the boy.
Breakfast settles into something almost normal after that. Pancakes are passed. Dean talks nonstop about a dream involving dragons and a fire truck. Nellie eats quietly, listening more than speaking. The young man does the same, though he asks the boy questions like the answers are critically important.
When plates are mostly empty and coffee cups refilled, Sam clears his throat. “Okay, before we all scatter, there’s something I want to talk to you two about.” He points at the two hunters.
Jack straightens, attentive.
Nellie eyes her uncle over the rim of her mug. “That’s ominous.”
He smirks. “You’re dramatic.”
Eileen rises to start clearing dishes, giving her husband a knowing look before shepherding Dean out of the room to get dressed. The kitchen quiets.
He waits until it’s just the three of them. “If you two are going to actually try hunting together, it is good to not go in blind.” He turns to Nellie. “Hunting with Jack is not going to be like hunting with me. I know your tells. I know when you’re about to overextend. When you’re lying about being fine. I know how you move, where you hesitate, and how to compensate without you noticing.” He turns to Jack. “You don’t have that yet.”
The young man nods immediately. “I don’t.”
“And you’ll be rusty,” Sam goes on. “You hunted with power before. You haven’t hunted without backup in years. That’s not a failure. That’s reality.”
She shifts in her seat. “So, what, we just… wait?”
“No,” he replies. “We prepare.”
She scoffs quietly. “I don’t need a refresher.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been running nonstop since you got your body back. That’s not the same thing as being ready.”
Her jaw tightens. She looks away.
“Months of possession,” he continues gently. “Months of survival mode. That’s not sustainability, Nell.”
Silence settles.
“So, no hunt yet.”
Jack blinks. “Not at all?”
“Refresh first. Observation. Relearning fundamentals. Both of you.”
He considers that, then nods. “That makes sense.”
She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t agree either.
“This isn’t a punishment,” Sam says, softer now. “And it’s not me telling you that you can’t do this. This isn’t about whether you can do it, but rather it is about whether you can do it together.”
The words hang there. The young man absorbs them carefully. Nellie stares into her coffee like it might offer answers.
“So, we… train,” Jack says finally.
“You prepare. Then you decide.”
Both young hunters look at each other, one full of hope, one still a bit unreadable but not closed off.
Dean reappears in the kitchen like a small, unstoppable force of nature. He skids to a stop near the table, clearly having caught enough of the conversation to feel included but not nearly enough to understand it. “You guys talking about hunting?” he asks, climbing onto his chair backwards.
She groans. “Oh no.”
Sam blinks. “How long have you been listening?”
He shrugs. “Long enough.”
Jack smiles politely. “Hi.”
He beams. “Hi!” Then, very seriously, he points at him. “Okay, so if you’re gonna hunt with Nellie, I gotta give you some advice.”
She squints at him. “You absolutely do not.”
The boy ignores her completely. “First,” he says, holding up one finger, “you should stay really far away from her in the morning. You don’t want her to punch you again.”
“That is wise,” Jack says, nodding solemnly.
She drops her face into her hands. “I’m begging you to stop.”
He continues, undeterred. “Second, she reads too many old books. Like, really old ones. The ones that make you sneeze and they’ve got no pictures.”
The young man’s eyes light up. “I like old books.”
“See? You’re already friends.”
She peeks through her fingers, laughing to get over the embarrassment.
“And,” he adds thoughtfully, “she’s really good at protecting people. Even when they don’t ask. Sometimes especially when they don’t ask.”
That stops her. The room goes quiet for just a beat.
He swings his legs happily. “So, you gotta be nice to her. And don’t lie. She hates that.”
Jack looks at the girl then, expression soft and earnest. “I can do that.”
Her chair scrapes back as she stands abruptly. “Alright,” she says, flat and decisive. “You’re done.”
Dean grins, already sensing what’s coming. “No, I’m not —”
She scoops him up in one smooth motion, slinging him over her shoulder like a sack of flour.
“HEY —” he shrieks, immediately dissolving into laughter. “THIS IS KIDNAPPING!”
“This is crowd control,” she says, marching toward the hallway.
Jack stares, startled. “Is that… normal?”
Sam snorts into his coffee. “Shockingly, yes.”
She adjusts her grip as the boy wriggles, his legs kicking wildly. “You gave your advice. It was noted. Extensively. Now you’re done interfering with adult conversations.”
“I WAS HELPING,” he protests between giggles.
She detours just enough to tickle his side.
“No — NO — UNCALLED FOR —” he squeals, laughter echoing down the hall.
Jack watches them disappear, blinking like he’s just witnessed a magic trick.
A few seconds later, Nellie’s voice drifts back. “You know you’re not supposed to eavesdrop.”
“I WASN’T —” Dean laughs again. “I WAS DOING STRATEGY.”
“Your strategy needs work.”
The sound of a door opening, then closing.
The young man lets out a quiet laugh, something warm and surprised. “He’s… amazing.”
Sam smiles, fond and tired. “Yeah. He really is.”
Nellie returns a moment later, breathless but composed, like she didn’t just toss a five-year-old over her shoulder with alarming ease. “He’s detained,” she announces. “For crimes against common sense.”
He grins. “Thank you for the warning.”
She shoots him a look. “Do not encourage him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She sinks back into her chair, reclaiming her coffee like she needs it to reset her system. “He means well,” she mutters. “He just… talks.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “You’re talking about a Winchester.”
She rolls her eyes. “Point taken.”
Jack hesitates, then says gently, “For what it’s worth… I appreciate the advice.”
“Which part?”
“All of it,” he admits. “Even the morning punch one.”
She grimaces. “I really am sorry about that.”
“I know. And I’ll keep my distance until caffeine happens.”
That earns him the smallest hint of a smile.
Her uncle gathers the empty plates, clearly pleased with how this has unfolded. “Alright. Now that we’ve received counsel from all age brackets —”
She snorts.
“— you two can figure out your next steps,” he finishes. “No rush. No pressure.”
Jack nods. “We’ll take it slow.”
Nellie takes a long drink of coffee, then exhales. “Yeah. Slow sounds… smart.”
As Sam drifts off toward the living room — phone in hand, already halfway into whatever quiet responsibility he’s claimed for the morning — the house settles again. It’s just the two young hunters in the kitchen. Sunlight slants through the window, catching dust motes in the air. Nellie now leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely now, no longer braced. Jack hesitates like he’s deciding whether to speak at all.
“Hey,” he says finally.
She looks up. “Yeah?”
He shifts his weight, clearly nervous in a way that feels almost endearing despite her best efforts not to notice it. “I just… wanted to say thank you. For giving me a chance.”
She blinks, surprised. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do,” he says earnestly. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve said no. Or told Sam to handle it. Or —” He stops himself, breath hitching slightly. “So… thank you.”
She studies him for a long moment, measuring something internal.
“I promise I won’t get in your way,” he continues quickly, like he’s afraid the silence means she’s reconsidering. “I’ll do whatever you need. Follow your lead. Learn. If there’s something you want me to change or —”
“Nah,” she cuts in, holding up a hand. She straightens, uncrossing her arms. “You don’t need to do all that.”
He frowns, confused. “Do what?”
“Shrink yourself.” The word lands heavier than she intends. She exhales and softens her tone. “You don’t need to be anything but yourself. I don’t need a yes-man. Or someone trying to earn space by disappearing.”
Jack’s expression shifts, recognition flickering there.
She looks away, suddenly aware she’s standing too close to something she hasn’t decided to open yet. “I know what it’s like to think you have to behave a certain way just to not make things worse.” She doesn’t say more than that.
He doesn’t ask. He just nods, slowly, like he understands exactly how much that admission costs. “I wasn’t trying to —” he starts.
“I know,” she says, glancing back at him. “And for the record? All that ‘I’ll prove myself’ stuff? I’m messing with you. Mostly.”
His brows knit. “Mostly?”
She shrugs. “Look, I do want to see how you handle things. That’s just… smart. But I already decided to give you a real chance.”
He searches her face. “Why?”
She hesitates, then answers honestly. “Because Sam gave me one. When I didn’t deserve it. When I was a mess and didn’t even know who I was yet.”
His eyes soften.
“So,” she continues, pushing off the counter and grabbing her mug, “consider this me paying it forward. Don’t make me regret it.”
A smile spreads across his face, small, careful, but genuine. “I won’t.”
She points at him with her mug. “That was not an invitation to promise impossible things.”
He laughs quietly. “Okay. Then I’ll just… show up.”
“That I can work with.” She pauses, glances back at him. “And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“… Don’t let Dean convince you I’m nicer than I actually am.”
His smile turns playful. “I think I’m starting to get the full picture.”
• • •
The rest of the day unfolds without incident. Jack is noticeably lighter. Not loud about it. Not effusive. Just brighter around the edges. He helps Sam with small things around the house, listens when Eileen talks, lets Dean drag him into another doomed blanket fort with the same earnest seriousness he brings to everything. He laughs more. Smiles without checking himself.
Nellie notices all of it. She pretends not to. She keeps busy: helps her aunt, reorganizes a stack of books that didn’t actually need reorganizing, disappears into the backyard for a while under the excuse of checking the exterior wards her uncle said were for just in case. But she keeps one part of her attention tuned to him anyway, like background noise you don’t realize you’re listening to until it stops.
She realizes, sometime in the late afternoon, that she isn’t waiting for something to go wrong. That thought hits harder than she expects. Hunting alone had been… manageable. Necessary. She’d proven that much to herself over the last few months. She could take care of things. Could survive. Could push through. But sitting on the porch steps, watching Jack patiently listening to her cousin ramble about superheroes, something tight loosens in her chest. She misses hunting with Sam. Not the danger. Not the long nights or the blood or the adrenaline. The company. Someone watching your back without being asked. Someone to split the research with. Someone to catch the thing you didn’t see because you were too close to it. She hates how much she misses that.
Jack, for all his awkwardness, clearly loves being useful. Loves helping. Loves being around people in a way that doesn’t feel performative or needy—it’s just who he is. He listens. He shows up. He means it. That counts for something. Still. Helping people is one thing. Holding a blade steady when it matters is another. But there’s time. They’re not leaving until tomorrow. She doesn’t have to figure it all out today. For now, she lets the day pass. Let’s herself exist in the in-between, between solitude and partnership, between instinct and intention. As much as she prides herself on being able to do this alone, it’s been a long time since she hasn’t had to.
• • •
Night settles quietly over the house. Dean is asleep. Eileen has retreated down the hall. The lights are low, the kind of calm that only comes once everyone has finally stopped moving. Jack is heading toward the guest room, hair still damp from the shower, when Sam’s voice stops him.
“Hey, Jack. Got a minute?”
He turns immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
Sam gestures toward the end of the hallway, towards the home office. He keeps his voice low, measured, like this is something he’s thought carefully about saying. “I wanted to tell you something,” he says. “Something I didn’t bring up earlier. Mostly because it’s not my story to tell, and I didn’t want to embarrass Nellie.”
His posture shifts, not tense, just attentive. “Okay.”
The Winchester leans back against the wall, folding his arms. “Nellie has nightmares. Pretty often.”
He nods slowly, absorbing that without surprise. “After everything she’s been through… that makes sense.”
“She’s learned how to handle them on her own. For the most part. She grounds herself. Pushes through. But sometimes…” He exhales quietly. “Sometimes it still bleeds into the next day.”
Jack frowns faintly. “What can I do? If there’s something I should —”
Sam lifts a hand gently. “That’s just it. Most of the time, there’s nothing to do. She doesn’t like feeling rescued. And she doesn’t like people seeing her vulnerable when she didn’t choose it. If you rush in, or make it a thing, it can make her shut down more.”
He considers that carefully. “So… space.”
“Patience,” the older hunter corrects. “Some mornings she’ll be quieter than usual. Sharper. More withdrawn. That’s usually why.”
“I won’t take it personally.”
“Good. Because she will absolutely assume you will.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll remember that.”
“She’ll talk when she’s ready,” Sam adds. “Or she won’t. Either way, it’s not a reflection of you.”
His expression softens. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I figured it was better you weren’t blindsided. Especially if you’re going to be sharing space. Motels. Long nights.”
Jack’s gaze drifts briefly toward the guest room door. “I don’t want to make things harder for her.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted you to know.”
There’s a pause. Comfortable. Quiet.
“I can be patient,” he says finally. “I don’t mind quiet. Or grumpy.”
Sam smiles faintly. “She’ll test that.”
He smiles back. “I’ll manage.”
“Alright. That’s all.”
Jack nods, then hesitates. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s stronger than she thinks.”
Sam’s smile this time is tired, fond, and a little sad. “Yeah. She is.”
• • •
Morning comes softly this time. Not abruptly. Not with alarms or danger or adrenaline. Just the quiet rustle of bags and the low murmur of the house waking up around them. The guest room looks different now, less borrowed, more lived in. Nellie’s duffel sits open on the bed, half-packed with clothes, hunting knife carefully wrapped and tucked away like second nature. Jack’s new duffel, courtesy of Eileen, rests against the wall, fuller than the canvas bag he arrived with, fabric still stiff and unfamiliar.
She moves through the room on autopilot, pulling on boots, checking pockets, running through the quiet ritual of leaving a place behind. She’s awake enough to function, not awake enough to overthink. Probably for the best. Jack folds the last of his shirts with deliberate care, like he’s trying to prove something to the bag itself. He looks up occasionally, glancing at the girl like he wants to say something, then deciding against it. She’s nervous. He can feel that much. Not panicked. Just taut.
The door bursts open without warning.
“I’M AWAKE,” Dean announces, holding a stack of papers like a victory prize.
She startles. “Dean,” she groans, rubbing her face. “Why are you like this?”
He grins, entirely unrepentant. “I made you stuff.” He crosses the room and shoves the papers into her hands. Crayon drawings, bright and chaotic and unmistakably his. One is clearly her, labeled NELLIE in backward letters, wielding what looks like a sword twice her size. Another is Miracle, heroic and square-shaped.
Her chest tightens.
“You gonna hang these in your room?” he asks eagerly.
She swallows. “Yeah, kiddo. Of course. They’ll go right next to the other ones.”
Then he turns to Jack. “And these are for you.” He hands over two more pages.
The young man looks genuinely stunned. “For me?”
He nods enthusiastically. “So, you don’t forget us.”
Jack takes the drawings like they’re something fragile and precious. One is of a very tall stick figure with wings and a smile. The other is… everyone. The house. A dog. A car. Crude but earnest. “I love them,” he says quietly.
The boy beams. “Good. You’re doing great so far.”
Nellie snorts despite herself.
Dean looks between them, satisfied. “Okay. You can finish packing. But you have to come back.”
Jack nods immediately. “We will.”
She hesitates, then adds, “Yeah. We will.”
He seems pleased with that answer. He throws his arms around Nellie’s waist in a fierce hug. She drops a hand to his hair automatically, holding him close for a moment longer than she probably should. He pulls back, eyes bright, then darts out of the room, mission accomplished. The room settles again.
Jack carefully slides the drawings into his duffel, smoothing the edges like they matter.
“They’re good,” she says quietly.
He looks up. “Yeah.”
She zips her bag closed and shoulders it, nerves buzzing now that the moment is real. They’re leaving. She exhales slowly. “You ready?”
He nods, lifting his duffel. “As I’ll ever be.”
She pauses at the doorway, glancing back once at the room, then forward again. “Alright, let’s go home.”
The Impala waits at the edge of the driveway, black paint catching the morning light, trunk open and already half-full of duffels and weapons cases tucked carefully out of sight. Sam lifts Nellie’s bag in with practiced ease, adjusting it so nothing shifts. Jack follows suit, placing his own duffel beside it with deliberate care, like he’s afraid of jostling something important. Eileen hovers near the porch, one hand on her son’s shoulder as he rocks back and forth on his heels, too wound up for goodbyes to be a calm affair.
Nellie shuts the trunk and turns. Immediately, her aunt presses a travel mug into her hands.
“Coffee,” she says simply.
She exhales like she’s been rescued. “You’re a saint.”
Eileen smiles. “You’ll need it.”
Sam eyes his niece over his own mug, taking in the way she’s standing like gravity is optional and caffeine is a suggestion. “You sure you should be driving?”
She narrows her eyes. “Say the rest of that sentence and see what happens.”
“I’m just pointing out,” he continues mildly, “Jack’s well-rested. Might be safer.”
Jack straightens. “I can drive if you want —”
“Nope,” she says instantly. “Absolutely not.” She jabs a finger at her uncle. “No one drives the Impala but me. Ever.”
Dean giggles.
Jack nods solemnly. “I understand. The car has rules.”
“It has standards,” Nellie corrects.
Sam laughs quietly. “Just like your old man.”
Jack’s smile flickers, soft and a little sad.
Dean suddenly wriggles free of Eileen’s grasp and barrels toward his cousin, arms wrapping around her waist with surprising force. “You have to come back,” he says seriously. “Soon. And you have to bring Jack because he’s fun.”
Nellie crouches and hugs him back, pressing her forehead to his. “I promise I’ll come back.”
The young man kneels beside them. “I’ll come too,” he says earnestly. “If you want.”
He nods decisively. “Good.”
Sam watches, arms folded, pride and worry warring quietly in his expression. “Call if you need anything. And I mean anything.”
“I know,” she replies. “I will.”
Eileen steps forward and pulls her into a firm hug. “You don’t have to be perfect,” she murmurs. “Just be safe.”
She swallows. “I can do that.”
Jack hesitates, then hugs Eileen too, awkward but sincere. “Thank you. For letting me stay.”
“You’re welcome,” she replies. “Be careful.”
Nellie climbs into the driver’s seat, hands settling on the wheel like it’s muscle memory. He slides into the passenger seat, buckling in with careful attention.
Dean waves wildly from the porch. “Bye!”
She lifts a hand. “Bye, bud!”
The Impala pulls away, tires crunching softly on gravel. In the rearview mirror, she watches Sam wrap an arm around his wife’s shoulders, both of them standing there long after the car disappears from view. The road stretches out ahead. For the first time since she took over the bunker alone, she doesn’t feel like she’s driving back into silence.
She glances sideways at Jack. “Alright. Rule one.”
He looks at her immediately. “Yes?”
“Don’t touch the radio.”
He smiles faintly. “Understood.”
The Impala hums beneath Nellie’s hands, steady and familiar. She settles into the rhythm of it quickly: eyes forward, coffee cooling in the cup holder, muscle memory taking over. He sits quietly, hands folded in his lap, gaze fixed on the passing Kansas fields like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. Silence fills the car. It isn’t uncomfortable. Just careful. The kind of silence that isn’t empty but still figuring out what shape it wants to take.
After a while, Jack speaks. “The last time I was in the Impala,” he says softly, “it was with Sam. And Cas. And Dean.”
Her grip tightens on the wheel, just slightly.
“I missed this,” he continues, voice warm with something like wonder. “The road. The music. Being… here.”
She nods once, eyes still on the highway. “Yeah.”
There’s no accusation in his tone. No comparison. Just memory. Still, that old, unwanted pang stirs in her chest; jealousy, sharp and quiet. She hates it. Hates that it exists at all. He isn’t wrong to miss them. He knew them. He was part of that family. Doesn’t make it hurt any less.
He shifts in his seat. “Dean tried to teach me how to drive this car once.”
That gets her attention. “He did?”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah. It didn’t go well.”
She snorts despite herself. “That tracks.”
“He kept telling me to ‘feel the engine.’ And then he yelled when I stalled it. And then he apologized for yelling.”
She shakes her head. “Sounds about right.”
“I don’t think he liked me much at first,” Jack adds quietly. “But he still tried to make me feel… normal.”
The word sits heavy between them.
She swallows, eyes fixed on the road. She never had anyone teach her how to drive, except for the driving program her high school offered. Learned out of necessity. No father in the passenger seat pretending not to be nervous. She tells herself she’s glad Jack had that. And she is. But she wishes — just once — that it had been her. She adjusts her grip on the wheel and keeps driving.
The fields slide by in long, uninterrupted stretches, the road humming beneath the tires in a way that feels almost familiar enough to relax into. The Impala keeps its steady pace, engine purring like it knows exactly where it’s going.
Jack breaks the quiet again, gently. “So, what kind of hunts have you been on?”
Nellie exhales softly through her nose. “That’s a loaded question.”
He smiles. “I figured.”
She keeps her eyes on the road. “Ghosts are the most common — residual hauntings, vengeful spirits tied to buildings or objects. Poltergeist in an old boarding house once. Took three days just to find what it was anchored to. I’ve dealt with a couple of werewolves. Newly turned. Messy. Sloppy. Usually means someone didn’t know what they were becoming until it was too late.” Her jaw tightens. “Those aren’t fun.”
“I imagine not.”
“Wendigo up in Wyoming a few months ago,” she adds. “That one nearly killed me. Cold, dark, no cell service. Whole town pretended nothing was wrong.”
“You handled it alone?”
“Yeah. Didn’t really have a choice.” She shifts her grip on the wheel, but her voice stays steady. “A kelpie in Louisiana. That one dragged me into a river and tried to drown me. Nearly had a chunk of hair eaten. Still worth it.”
He watches her carefully. “You talk about it like it’s routine.”
“It kind of is,” she replies. “You learn fast or you don’t make it.” She glances at him briefly. “What about you?”
He considers the question. “Some overlap. Vampires. Demons. Spirits. But also things… bigger. Ancient beings. Cosmic entities that didn’t belong anywhere humans were. There was a time when scale didn’t register the same way for me. Everything felt distant. Abstract.”
“And now?”
“Now, it feels more personal. Smaller. Real.”
She nods, understanding more than she expects to.
Another stretch of road passes, the silence easier now.
“…You’ve done a lot,” Jack says finally.
She shrugs. “Had to.”
“You did more than survive.”
Her mouth twitches despite herself. “Don’t get poetic on me.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Jack goes quiet for a few miles, watching the road unwind ahead of them. Eventually, he speaks again, softer this time. “Can I ask you something? About… before?”
She glances at him briefly, then back to the road. “Like, before hunting?”
“Before Sam. Before all of this.”
Nellie exhales through her nose. The fields blur by as she chooses her words carefully. “I grew up in Texas,” she begins. “Small town. Hot. Dusty. Not much happens unless you make it happen. It was just me and my mom. I went to school there. Graduated with honors.” No pride, no bitterness, just fact. “Worked at a diner through high school and after. Same booth rotation, same regulars every morning.”
He smiles faintly. “You don’t sound unhappy.”
“I wasn’t miserable,” she replies, then amends, “not all the time. It was… normal. Or what I thought normal was.” She keeps her eyes on the road. “I always wondered about my dad. Never knew his name. Didn’t know anything about him. Just knew he existed somewhere. So eventually, I started looking.”
“And that led you to Sam.”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates, then asks gently, “How did your mom take it?”
Her jaw tightens, subtle but unmistakable. “Badly.” She takes a breath, steadying herself. “She panicked. Got angry. Desperate. That’s when I found out she’d been dabbling in witchcraft. Not anything impressive. Half-understood spells. Folk stuff. The kind of thing you pull from bad books and worse sources.”
Jack’s brow furrows. “She was a witch.”
“Mediocre at best,” she says flatly. “But dangerous enough.” She swallows. “She held me hostage. Tried to use me as leverage. Sam had to come and save me.”
“That’s… a lot.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “It was.”
“Sam mentioned the coven. The one that… led to the possession.”
Her shoulders shift almost imperceptibly. Not a flinch. More like a tightening of bolts. “Yeah. Them.” She keeps her gaze forward, jaw set. The road curves gently, and she follows it without hesitation. “My mom tried to join them. Didn’t make it very far. Turns out she wasn’t what they were looking for.” A pause. “But I was.”
Jack nods slowly. “Because of your abilities.”
“They saw potential. Or leverage. Hard to tell with people like that. Sam and I spent a few months tracking them down. They moved a lot. Had layers. Wards, proxies, leyline access. Pain in the ass, honestly.”
He turns toward her, brows knitting together. “A few months? That’s… a long hunt.”
She lets out a short breath that might almost be a laugh. “Welcome to the job.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She doesn’t answer. As she adjusts her grip on the steering wheel, her sleeves ride up just enough. Jack notices something he hadn’t seen before. Pale scars ring her wrist; thin, precise, unmistakably deliberate. Old sigils, burned and carved into skin that healed because it had to, not because it wanted to. Suppression marks, ritual restraints. The kind meant to contain something.
His breath stills. She realizes a half-second later and pulls her sleeves back down, the movement sharp and practiced.
“It’s over,” she says quickly, as if cutting off a thought before it can finish forming. “Just another hunt.”
Jack doesn’t argue. But he doesn’t miss the way her voice tightens. Or the way she presses her thumb into the steering wheel like grounding herself.
“Still,” he says after a moment, carefully neutral, “that’s not nothing.”
Her jaw clenches. “Doesn’t matter now.”
He looks back out the window, giving her space. Not because he’s disinterested but because he understands restraint. Understands what it means to choose survival over explanation.
Sam hadn’t warned him not to ask. He hadn’t needed to. Some stories aren’t avoided because they’re unimportant. They’re avoided because they’re still healing. Whatever she’s survived, it isn’t something she left behind. It’s something she learned to carry quietly.
• • •
The bunker greets them the way it always does, with cool air, low lights, the quiet hum of something ancient and alive beneath the walls. Nellie pops the trunk and hefts her duffel out with practiced ease. Jack follows, taking in the space like it’s both familiar and newly strange all at once. The garage door groans shut behind them, sealing the outside world away. As they head inside, she slows.
“Oh —” She stops short, glancing at him over her shoulder. “You’re gonna need a room.”
He blinks, like the thought hadn’t fully landed yet. “Right.”
“You can take any open one. Or… your old room. If you want. It might be locked.”
He hesitates. Not fear. Something heavier. “I think I’d like to see it.”
She nods once and turns, leading him deeper into the bunker. The halls grow quieter, less traveled. Dust clings thicker here, corners untouched for years. They stop in front of one of the many doors she never bothered to unlock. She pulls the bunker key from her pocket. The metal is cool, grounding. The lock clicks softly as she turns it. The door swings open. The room beyond is small. Minimal. Almost monastic. A narrow bed. A desk pushed against the wall. A lamp. No clutter. No warmth. But it’s intact, untouched by time in the way only abandoned places can be.
He steps inside and stops. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t breathe, it seems. Just stands there, eyes moving slowly, like he’s cataloging ghosts only he can see.
She stays by the door, giving him space. She eventually clears her throat. “I’ll grab some cleaning stuff. And sheets.”
He turns, startled. “You don’t have to —”
“I know,” she says gently. “But you should feel at home. And dust isn’t exactly welcoming.”
She disappears before he can argue. When she comes back, arms full of supplies, he is still standing in the same place. He looks embarrassed, like he’s been caught lingering. They work without talking at first. She strips the bed, shaking out sheets that smell faintly of old fabric and time. He wipes down the desk with careful, deliberate motions, like he’s afraid to erase something important. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy but shared. She dusts the shelves, her movements efficient, practiced. This is something she knows how to do. Fixing spaces. Making places livable. Giving order to things that have been left behind.
Her foot brushes against something solid on the ground. A picture frame is face-down on the floor nearly under the bed. She picks it up. The photograph inside is of a woman. Soft smile. Kind eyes. There’s a warmth there that doesn’t fade with age.
“Who’s this?” Nellie asks quietly.
Jack’s breath catches. He steps closer, gaze softening in a way she hasn’t seen yet. “My mom. Kelly.”
“Oh.”
“She died giving birth to me. I never met her. But… she mattered. I wanted her here.”
She hands the frame back carefully, like it might break. “She looks kind.”
“She was,” he says. “From everything I’ve been told.”
Something tight coils in her chest. An awful parent and an absent one. Different kinds of loss. Same empty space.
She returns to her tasks. She smooths the clean sheets onto the bed, tucking the corners in tight. Grounding herself in the small, controllable things. When she steps back, the room looks different. Not full, but lived in.
“That should do it,” she says softly. “I’ll let you get settled.”
He looks at the bed. At the desk. At the photo now upright again. “Thank you. For this. For… making it easier.”
She shrugs, already turning toward the door. “Unpack. Take your time.” She leaves him there, standing in a room that’s no longer just memory. Down the hall, she heads toward her own space. She closes her bedroom door with a soft click and drops her duffel onto the bed. Her room is exactly as she left it. Books stacked two-deep on the desk and nightstand, weapons cleaned and racked with almost obsessive precision, flannels hung in neat rows like a uniform she never consciously chose but always ends up wearing. The bunker hums beneath her feet, steady and familiar.
She unpacks on autopilot, but her mind doesn’t stay quiet. She keeps circling the same thoughts, turning them over like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit yet. Jack’s skills. Or what might be left of them. He hunted with power once; cosmic, effortless power. That changes how you move through a fight. Changes what you rely on. She’s going to have to figure out where he hesitates, what instincts stayed and which ones dulled when he stopped needing to fear things. And then there’s the other part. His story overlaps with hers in ways that make her chest feel tight if she thinks about it too long. A parent lost before they ever really had one. Another who failed spectacularly. Growing up feeling like something about you is dangerous, unwanted, or too much. He’s still a stranger. But she doesn’t mind him the way she expected to. That realization surprises her more than anything else.
She smooths a shirt into the drawer and exhales slowly. She’ll have to get used to the bunker not being hers alone. To footsteps that aren’t her own. To another presence in the silence. To motel rooms shared and research spread across tables again. It’s a lot. But she’s willing to try.
She sighs and turns back to her desk, jumping in surprise. She throws her now empty duffel at Dean Winchester, even though it phases through him. “God! You know, one of these days you’re gonna announce yourself like a normal ghost.”
He grins at her from beside the desk, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he’s always been there. “Where’s the fun in that?”
She stalks over and picks up her discarded bag. “What are you doing here? We’ve got to be careful. Jack is just down the hall.”
He shrugs. “Figured you’d be busy unpacking and overthinking.”
She scoffs. “Rude. Accurate. But rude.”
His expression softens as he looks around the room, then back at her. “You okay, baby?”
She nods. “Yeah. Just… adjusting.”
He studies her for a moment. “What’d you decide?”
She leans back against the dresser. “I’m giving him a try. No hunts yet. Gonna help him refresh the basics. See how he does.”
He nods slowly, approving. “That sounds like you.”
She huffs. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It is coming from me.”
They share a quiet smile.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he says gently. “Letting someone new in. Letting things change.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still doing it anyway. That takes guts.”
She looks away, uncomfortable with the praise. “Don’t get used to it.”
He chuckles, then sobers. “I’ll check in on you. Same as always.”
“I know,” she says softly.
He gives her one last look; proud, protective, painfully familiar. “You’re doing good, Nells.”
Then he’s gone, the air settling back into its usual hum.
She stands there for a long moment, the silence fuller now. Then she throws her duffel onto the floor of her closet. Tomorrow, they start figuring it out together. Right now, the bunker needs to be prepped for two occupants. With that thought, she leaves her room.
She stops by Jack’s open door, then she knocks on the frame. “Hey,” she says. “I’m gonna run out and grab groceries. You want anything specific?”
He looks up from where he’s setting a book down on the desk, clearly still orienting himself to the room. “Oh — um. I’m good with whatever you usually get.”
She nods. “Alright.”
He pauses. “Do you need help?”
She shakes her head. “I won’t be long. You should… get reacquainted with the bunker while I’m out. Figure out where things are.”
A smile flickers across his face. “Okay.”
When she gets back, arms full of bags, the bunker smells faintly of something warm. She rounds the corner into the kitchen and finds Jack standing at the counter, kettle steaming softly. Two mugs sit beside it.
He startles slightly when he sees her. “Hey. I made tea. I —” He gestures awkwardly to the second cup. “Just in case.”
“Thanks,” she says, setting the bags down. “That’s… thoughtful.”
They put the groceries away together, easy, wordless cooperation. He learns quickly where things go. When everything’s settled, he takes a seat at the small table, fingers wrapped around his mug. She lingers by the counter, then finally sits across from him, chair scraping softly.
She exhales. “Okay. So.”
He looks up immediately, attentive. “Yeah.”
“I’ve been thinking about your refresh. What that actually needs to look like.”
He nods. “Me too.”
She leans back slightly, crossing her arms, not defensive, just grounding. “I don’t know where you’re at skill-wise without… everything you used to have. So I wanna see it. Fighting. Weapons. Research. Problem-solving. How you think on your feet.”
He absorbs that, serious. “Okay.”
“You’ve got full access. Shooting range. Gym. Library. Whatever you need. I’ll want to do some sessions with you too. Sparring, drills. Not to test you. To see if we can learn how to fight together.”
“That matters.”
“It does. Because if we’re gonna be partners, we can’t just be good individually. We have to move right together.”
“I want that.”
She studies him for a moment, then adds, quieter, “And if something feels off, if you’re not comfortable with something, you say so. Same goes for me.”
He smiles faintly. “Deal.”
They sit there for a beat, steam curling between them, the bunker humming softly around them.
“Tomorrow,” Nellie says finally, lifting her mug. “We start.”
Jack lifts his in return. “Tomorrow.”
• • •
The afternoon settles into a quiet rhythm. Nellie retreats to her room, shutting the door with a soft click and spreading her notebooks across the bed. They’re thick with use, leather covers worn, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite and ink. Her hunting journals have always been meticulous. These… are not. The entries from those six months blur together in uneven lines. Dates repeat. Handwriting slants strangely, letters formed too sharply or too loose, like someone imitating her without fully understanding her cadence. Margins are crowded with symbols she doesn’t remember writing. Notes trail off mid-thought, then resume pages later like nothing happened. She swallows and keeps reading. Some entries are hers. She can feel it. Grounded, precise, practical. Others make her stomach twist.
She flips back and forth, comparing, reconstructing. Correcting what she knows is wrong. Filling in gaps with hard-earned clarity. She writes clean summaries beneath each corrupted entry, reclaiming the information without letting it claim her back. Observed signs of possession, missed at the time. Lore cross-referenced post-exorcism. Trust instincts. Trust patterns. Don’t ignore inconsistencies. Her pen moves steadily, even when her thoughts don’t.
Down the hall, Jack wanders the bunker. He spends most of his time in the library, drawn there like gravity. The place smells the same; old paper, dust, iron. He runs his fingers along the spines of books he remembers and many he doesn’t, cataloging the changes. Nellie’s system is bit different from Sam’s. Cleaner. More intuitive. Color-coded tabs. Cross-references that actually make sense. He catches himself smiling as he learns it, impressed. He pulls books from shelves, stacks them neatly, reads without urgency. For the first time in a long while, there’s no looming threat. No countdown. Just learning. Just being.
The bunker hums around him, familiar and changed all at once. Sam’s presence no longer echoes in the halls. Dean’s laughter isn’t around every corner. Cas’s quiet footsteps are gone. And yet, it doesn’t feel empty. As evening approaches, he closes a book and looks around the library, heart unexpectedly full. It isn’t the same. But it still feels like home. And for both of them — working separately, quietly reclaiming pieces of themselves — the bunker holds steady, patient as ever.
He doesn’t mean to lose track of time. It just happens. The bunker has that effect. One minute he’s standing in the library, skimming spines and relearning the quiet logic of Nellie’s system, and the next the lights have shifted to evening, and his stomach reminds him, politely and insistently, that humans need to eat. He hesitates in the doorway of the library, listening. Nothing. No footsteps. No movement from down the hall. He considers knocking on Nellie’s door, then thinks better of it. She’d been buried in her notes when he last saw her, shoulders hunched in that way that means don’t interrupt unless something’s on fire.
So, he makes himself a sandwich. Simple. Bread, turkey, cheese. He eats it standing at the counter, then glances at the kitchen doorway. Still nothing. A thought occurs to him: what if she forgot? He exhales, grabs the bread again, and makes a second sandwich. Wraps it carefully, like presentation matters even when it’s just the two of them.
He wanders the bunker’s residential wing slowly, not wanting to intrude. Doors pass by; some closed, some open, all quiet. Then, faintly, he hears it. Music. Low. Classical. Something restrained and aching, notes curling softly through the air. He stops. The door it’s coming from is familiar. Dean’s old room. He swallows and knocks lightly. A moment passes. Then the music pauses, and the door opens. Nellie stands there, blinking like she’s been pulled out of deep water. Her sleeves are pushed up, pen still in hand. There’s ink smudged on her fingers.
“Oh —” she says. “Hey.”
“Sorry,” Jack says quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… um. I made dinner.”
She looks at the wrapped sandwich in his hand, surprised. “You did?”
“Yeah. I made one for myself, and when you didn’t come out, I thought maybe you forgot.” He offers it to her, awkward but earnest. “So, I made you one too.”
Her expression softens, something unguarded slipping through before she can stop it. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “I, uh… yeah. I definitely forgot.”
They stand there for a beat, neither quite sure what to do next.
He shifts his weight. “This is… Dean’s room.”
She nods once. “Yeah.” There’s no explanation attached to it. Just fact. After a second, she steps aside. “You can… uh. You can come in.”
He hesitates, then steps over the threshold.
The room smells faintly of old wood and clean fabric. It still has Dean’s bones — same desk, same bed frame — but it’s different now. Softer. A small handheld CD player sits on the desk, the source of the music. Papers are spread everywhere; journals, loose notes, books open to marked pages. He looks around carefully, like the room might bruise if handled wrong. His gaze drifts to the bookshelf. It’s full, but not with lore. CD cases. Cassettes. Paperbacks and hardcovers stacked two deep. Poetry. Classic literature. Worn spines, cracked bindings, notes tucked between pages.
“These aren’t from the library,” Jack says gently.
“No,” Nellie replies. “They’re mine. I started collecting them when I was in middle school.”
He moves closer, reading titles quietly to himself. “You have… a lot.”
She shrugs. “Helps me think.”
He straightens, turning back to her. “It’s nice. Seeing life in here again.”
She swallows. “I chose this room,” she says, voice steady but thin, “so I could feel close to him. It’s… the only way I can.”
His chest tightens, not with pain, but recognition. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I get that.”
They stand there in the quiet, the music filling the space where words aren’t needed.
She clears her throat. “If you ever want a break from lore… you can borrow one. Any of them. Fair warning, I’ve broken a cardinal sin by writing in them.”
His smile is small but sincere. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
He steps back toward the door, pausing once more. “And… thanks for letting me see this.”
“Anytime.”
He leaves her to her notes. Nellie closes the door and leans against it for a moment, breathing out slowly. Somehow, without meaning to, they’re both finding ways to stay close to the people they lost.
• • •
The days that follow fall into a rhythm. Not a smooth one, not yet, but a rhythm all the same. Jack starts in the gym. At first, it’s awkward. His movements are careful in the wrong places, overcommitted in others. He still thinks like someone who used to feel the fight before it happened. Nellie watches from the doorway once, arms crossed, saying nothing as he recalibrates, misses a step, corrects it, tries again. He doesn’t get frustrated. That alone impresses her.
In the shooting range, his aim is steady but hesitant. He pauses before pulling the trigger, recalculating distance the hard way now. She notices the way he listens, to the echo, to the recoil, to the feedback of the weapon instead of instinct. By the third session, he’s already better.
In the library, he thrives. Books stack up beside him as he relearns not just lore, but process. Cross-referencing. Verifying. Double-checking assumptions. Nellie catches him reorganizing a subsection one afternoon, not changing her system, just refining it, and for once, she doesn’t feel territorial.
In sparring sessions, they’re clumsy together at first. Too cautious. Too polite. They circle instead of commit. She barks corrections. He absorbs them without argument, adjusts, tries again. Slowly, something clicks. He starts anticipating her movements. She starts trusting that he’ll be where he’s supposed to be. Not perfectly, but enough. She observes from the edges more than she participates at first. Leaning against railings, flipping through notes, pretending not to watch when he wipes sweat from his brow and squares his shoulders for another attempt. He’s learning fast. Not because he remembers everything, but because he wants to.
There are evenings when they’re both exhausted, sitting at opposite ends of the table with mugs of tea or coffee, trading observations instead of praise.
“This needs work,” Nellie says once.
“I know,” Jack replies. “But it’s getting clearer.”
She nods. “Yeah. It is.”
It will take time. They won’t move like Sam and Dean. They won’t fight the same way. But as the days stack up — training, research, quiet dinners, shared space — it becomes obvious: he isn’t trying to reclaim who he was. He’s building who he is now. And she, watching him do it, realizes something she hadn’t expected: working together doesn’t feel impossible. It just feels unfinished.
• • •
The bunker is quiet in that early-morning way that feels almost sacred. Jack pads down the hall toward the kitchen, still half-asleep, following the faint promise of coffee. He slows when he passes the library, something about the air feels different. Charged. Focused. He pauses in the doorway. Nellie is kneeling on the floor near one of the metal plaques set into the concrete, the ones inlaid with layered sigils and protection wards that lace the bunker’s bones. Her jacket is discarded nearby, sleeves pushed up. Both hands are pressed flat against the etched metal. Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t notice him. He stays perfectly still, afraid that even breathing too loudly might break whatever delicate balance she’s holding. The sigils begin to glow. Not harsh. Not blinding. A soft, silvery-white light blooms beneath her palms, tracing the grooves of the wards like moonlight poured into metal. Her brow furrows in concentration, shoulders tightening as if she’s pushing against something unseen.
He watches, transfixed. He can feel it, not power the way he used to, not overwhelming or cosmic, but intention. Will. Care. She isn’t forcing the wards alive. She’s feeding them. Strengthening them from the inside out. The glow flares once, then slowly fades.
She exhales sharply and pulls her hands back, swaying slightly as she sits back on her heels. She looks drained. Like she’s just run a mile she didn’t tell anyone about. She starts to stand.
“— Nell —”
She whirls, startled, energy snapping outward before she can stop it. A nearby lamp bursts with a sharp crack, glass spiderwebbing before going dark. They both freeze.
Her heart is clearly racing now. “Shit — I — I didn’t hear you.”
Jack raises his hands instinctively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She scrubs a hand over her face, mortified. “I get… focused. Too focused sometimes.”
He glances at the shattered lamp, then back at her, concern outweighing surprise. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says quickly. “Just winded.”
He gestures gently toward the plaque. “What were you doing?”
She hesitates, just a beat, then sighs. “Powering the bunker wards. They need upkeep. Especially after everything that’s happened. I want this place to stay safe.”
He nods slowly, understanding settling into his features. “That makes sense.” Then, without pressure, without assumption, he asks, “Can I help?”
She blinks at him, genuinely surprised. “I mean —” She shifts her weight, uncomfortable but not defensive. “It’s… kind of my thing. I’d rather do it alone.”
He doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t look hurt. “Okay,” he says simply. “I get that.”
She studies his face, waiting for disappointment that doesn’t come.
Instead, he smiles faintly. “You’re doing something important. I won’t get in the way.” He turns toward the kitchen. “I’ll make breakfast. Let me know when you’re done.” And just like that, he leaves her to it.
Nellie exhales, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. She looks down at the plaque again, at the wards still faintly warm beneath her fingers. For the first time, she realizes something quietly significant: He saw her ability and didn’t try to fix it, question it, or take it from her. He just respected it. She kneels back down, steadier now, and moves onto the next ward.
• • •
Jack doesn’t announce that he’s watching. He just… does. At first, it’s unconscious. Curiosity more than strategy. But the longer they train together, the more deliberate it becomes; not to copy her, not to mirror her movements, but to understand the logic behind them. In the shooting range, he notices patterns. Nellie never rushes the first shot. Ever. She settles, tests her footing, breathes in, breathes out. Only then does she fire. After that, she adjusts, micro-corrections so small they’d be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for them. He watches her hands. Steady. Relaxed. No white-knuckle grip.
When he shoots, she doesn’t hover. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“You’re bracing too early,” she says once. “Let it surprise you.”
He tries again. Misses wide.
She doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t judge. Just nods. “Again.”
By the end of the session, his shots are tighter. Not perfect, but honest.
In the gym, he learns something else. She fights like someone who learned the hard way. Every movement has a purpose. No wasted momentum. No unnecessary strength. She uses leverage, angles, gravity. When they spar, she doesn’t overpower him, she redirects, destabilizes, waits for the moment he overcommits. And when he does, he’s on the mat before he realizes how he got there. She offers him a hand without comment.
“You rely on momentum,” she tells him as he gets back to his feet. “Which worked when you had backup.”
He nods, breathing hard. “I’ll fix it.”
She watches him try again. Lets him fail again. Then, just once, steps in, showing him how to shift his weight, how to let the movement finish before transitioning. “That’s better,” she says quietly. It feels like praise.
In the library, Jack observes something different entirely. She doesn’t research quite like Sam did. She doesn’t spiral outward into endless possibility. She narrows. Fast. Efficient. She trusts her instincts enough to follow them, but never enough to stop checking. She keeps her own notes, compact, sharp, sometimes brutal in their honesty. Lore contradicts eyewitness account. Verify before engaging. Pattern repeats. Trust it. He watches how she handles uncertainty. How she doesn’t panic when answers aren’t immediate. She just waits. Reads. Thinks.
Sometimes she catches him watching.
“Ask,” she says once, without looking up.
He hesitates. “Why do you start with regional folklore instead of global entries?”
She pauses, considering. “Because monsters don’t care about encyclopedias. People do.”
He nods. That makes sense.
And then there are the quieter moments. He watches how she enters rooms. Always clocking exits, shadows, reflective surfaces. How she grounds herself before using her abilities. How she shakes out tension afterward like it’s something she refuses to carry longer than necessary. He notices the difference between when she’s confident and when she’s cautious. The subtle tells. The way she tightens her jaw when something feels off, even if she can’t name it yet. He doesn’t comment. He remembers.
Nellie, for her part, lets him be. She corrects him when it matters. Redirects when necessary. But she never forces him into her mold. Never demands he fight the way she does or think the way she thinks. She watches him, too. Noticing how he adapts. How quickly he integrates feedback. How he listens, not just to her, but to the space around him. How he checks in without hovering. How he steps back when she needs room.
They’re still awkward sometimes. Still misstep. Still clash in rhythm. But slowly, deliberately, the spaces between them start to make sense. He isn’t trying to become her, and she isn’t trying to replace what he once was. They’re learning how to occupy the same fight without crowding it. Learning how to trust without assuming. Learning how to move forward. Not in sync yet, but in conversation. And the bunker, ancient and patient, hums steadily beneath their feet as it always has: holding space for hunters figuring out who they are now, and who they might become together.
• • •
The gym is quiet in the way that means intent. Nellie stands near the mat, rolling her shoulders, flexing her fingers as she tightens the wraps around her hands. She’s done this enough times that it’s muscle memory but today feels different. Sharper. Purposeful. They’ve sparred before. Those sessions were about Jack getting his footing back. Relearning balance. Timing. How much force is enough and how much is too much. She corrected. Redirected. Pulled punches when she needed to. Today isn’t that.
Jack can tell the moment he walks in. She’s looser somehow, but also more focused. Her posture isn’t instructional. It’s ready. He stops a few feet away. “This feels different.”
She glances up at him, eyes steady. “Good. That means you’re paying attention.”
He straightens. “So, what’s the plan?”
She finishes tightening the wrap and drops her hands to her sides. “I’m not going easy on you today.”
He doesn’t smile, but something brightens behind his eyes anyway. “Okay.”
She steps onto the mat. “This isn’t about winning. And it’s not about hurting each other. It’s about seeing how we move when things get messy.”
He nods, serious. “Got it.”
She takes her stance. It’s subtle, the difference. Anyone watching casually might miss it. But he doesn’t. Her center of gravity shifts just a fraction. Her breathing evens out, deeper now. She grounds herself the way she always does before a fight that matters. He feels it before he understands it. Not power the way he once knew power but pressure. Like the air around her has weight now. Her awareness expands outward, brushing the edges of the room, tracking him without staring. Her abilities don’t make her faster than humanly possible. They make her earlier.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Nellie moves. Not recklessly. Not explosively. Just decisively.
Jack blocks the first strike, pivots, counters. And she’s already adjusting. Anticipating. She slips past his guard and forces him to reset, pressure building fast enough that his instincts flare. Focus. He grounds himself, remembers what she’s taught him. Doesn’t chase. Doesn’t overcommit.
She presses anyway. Her advantage isn’t brute force, it’s perception. She senses the moment he hesitates, the fraction of a second where his balance isn’t settled yet, and she exploits it. He barely manages to twist away before she sweeps his leg. He hits the mat, breath knocked loose. She’s not on him instantly. She waits.
“Again,” she says.
He grins despite himself and gets back up. This time, he adjusts. Slows his breathing. He Listens. to her footsteps, to the shift of air when she moves, to the rhythm underneath the chaos.
They clash again, harder now. Faster. Sweat slicks his palms. His muscles burn. She catches him off-guard once, twice, but the third time, he anticipates her angle and counters cleanly.
Her eyebrow lifts. That’s new. She doesn’t pull back. If anything, she pushes harder. She feints left, drives right, her perception flaring as she threads between possibilities. He doesn’t try to match her speed. He waits. Lets her commit, then moves with intent instead of reaction.
They separate, breathing hard. Nellie wipes sweat from her brow, studying him with a critical eye. Not cold. Not disappointed. Interested.
“Better,” she says. “You’re adapting.”
He nods, chest rising and falling. “You’re not holding back.”
“Nope,” she replies. “Because out there?” She gestures vaguely, meaning the world. “They won’t be.”
They circle again, but slower now. Calmer. This isn’t about domination. It’s about understanding.
When they finally stop, both of them breathing hard, she steps back first. “That’s enough for today,” she says.
Jack straightens, muscles screaming, heart still racing. “So?”
She considers him for a long moment. “So,” she says, “you can keep up.”
Not praise, not reassurance. A statement of fact. And he feels something settle into place, something solid and earned. They aren’t ready yet. But they’re closer than they were yesterday.
• • •
Dinner stretches out in the quiet, unhurried way that’s become familiar. The overhead lights are dimmed to their usual evening glow, casting long shadows across the table. The bunker hums steadily beneath them, a low mechanical heartbeat neither of them really notices anymore, except in moments like this, when everything else is still. Jack eats slowly, methodically. Nellie doesn’t. She pokes at her food, clearly distracted, mind drifting somewhere else entirely. He notices. She’s been like that all afternoon. Restless, focused, itching in a way he’s come to recognize. It’s the same look she gets before sparring sessions, before diving into research, before using her abilities.
Eventually, she sets her fork down. “I think it might be time to start looking for hunts.”
The words land flat and casual.
He looks up sharply. “Wait… really?”
She doesn’t look at him right away. “Yeah.”
“You think I’m ready?” he asks, careful not to sound like he’s asking permission.
She finally meets his gaze. There’s no uncertainty there, just calculation. “I think you’re ready enough.”
He exhales, relief and excitement tangling together. “Enough?”
She smirks faintly. “Enough to not get yourself killed on something low risk. Which is the bar we’re aiming for.”
He laughs under his breath. “I can work with that.”
“I’m not throwing you into anything big. No nests. No rituals. No cosmic nonsense. Something close. Simple. Clean.”
“That sounds… perfect.”
She studies him for a moment longer, as if reassessing all the quiet work he’s put in. The hours in the gym, the library, the range. Finally, she nods once. “You’ve earned a shot. And I’m ready to get back out there.”
He tilts his head. “Even with a new partner?”
“Especially with a new partner. Sitting still isn’t good for me. Never has been.”
“And managing someone else again?” he asks gently.
Nellie’s mouth tightens for half a second. Then she shrugs. “It’ll be an adjustment. But I had Sam watching my back for a while. I miss that.” She hesitates, then adds, “I don’t hate the idea of having someone there again.”
Jack doesn’t push. He just smiles, warm and genuine. “I won’t take that lightly.”
She pushes her plate away and stands, already halfway into motion. “I’ll go dig through the database. See what’s nearby. Something that lets us ease into this. For now? Eat. Rest. We’ll prep once I find something.”
• • •
Just because they hadn’t found a hunt yet, doesn’t meant that Jack is going to just sit around. He found his way over to one of the archive rooms. He flips the light switch, casting the small room in dim yellow light. Shelves of boxes and ledgers line the room, stretching from floor to ceiling, the air heavy with dust and old paper. Labels mark decades, sometimes centuries, of Men of Letters knowledge. Dates blur together, a quiet testament to how long this place has been watching the world.
He scans the shelves slowly, reading names, years, locations. He pulls a ledger free, flips it open, skims the contents. Field notes. Cross-references. Careful handwriting. He returns it and pulls another, repeating the process, keeping some, placing others back. Eventually, he makes his way to the small table at the back of the room, stacking his chosen ledgers neatly before settling into the chair.
He moves slowly through field notes, studies sketches of creatures half-forgotten by the world, skims bunker upkeep records written in a practical hand that assumes the reader knows what they’re doing. Once he finishes one, he stands and returns it to its place, methodical, respectful.
There are no windows here. No clocks. He doesn’t know how much time has passed.
When he finally finishes his stack, he stretches, joints popping quietly, and places the last ledger back where it belongs. He surveys the room with quiet satisfaction, something close to pride warming his chest. He’s missed this. Learning, contributing, being useful without the weight of power.
That’s when he notices the back shelf. Several boxes sit there, labeled neatly in Sam’s handwriting. Jack crouches, knees protesting slightly, and runs his hand gently across the cardboard tops, as if touch alone might let him relive memories stored inside. Then he notices it. Something wedged at the very end of the shelf is a leather-bound file holder. His brow furrows. Sam always put records into boxes. Carefully, he pulls it free and opens it. The title page stares back at him: THE NIGHTSHADE COVEN: A RECORD & FIELD NOTES - Compiled by Samuel Winchester & Eleanor Winchester. His thumb pauses over the second name. Eleanor? That must be Nellie’s full name.
He swallows. This must be the coven. The one she brushed off with practiced dismissal. The one Sam mentioned only carefully. The one that ended with possession and months she refuses to linger on.
His knees finally protest the crouch, so he rises and returns to the table, setting the file down with more care than strictly necessary. The first pages are dense, written in the precise, clinical language of the Men of Letters. Coven structure. Known rituals. Long-term objectives. The Nightshade Coven wasn’t flashy or chaotic. It was patient. Organized. The kind of evil that plans years ahead instead of reacting. He turns pages slowly, absorbing fragments without trying to piece them all together at once.
Then his eyes catch on a subsection header. CONFIRMED OPERATIVES. He scans the list, most of the names unfamiliar, impersonal. Until one stops him cold. Eleanor Branscomb (Deceased). He frowns. Branscomb. That must be Nellie’s real last name. She didn’t grow up a Winchester. Of course, she’d still carry her mother’s name. But deceased? That doesn’t make sense. Nellie isn’t dead. She was in the gym this morning, sweat-damp and sharp-eyed, correcting his stance without mercy. She was alive in every way that mattered; frustrating, capable, stubbornly present. He flips the page back, then forward again, searching for context. It doesn’t describe her correctly at all. It describes someone else. But then why list the name at all?
His gaze drifts forward, scanning until another header catches his attention. DESIGNATED CONDUIT - Subject: Eleanor Branscomb. Jack stills, confused. His eyes flick back to the earlier entry, then forward again, trying to reconcile the two. He knows Nellie’s mother was involved in magic, a mediocre witch who’d gone too far, gotten tangled up in something she couldn’t control. How was Eleanor Branscomb both deceased and the conduit for a ritual? There had to be more to this. It feels bigger. Planned. Deliberate. Like his new partner had been part of something long before she ever knew to be afraid of it.
Jack’s fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the table as he keeps reading, unease settling deeper in his chest with every line. Whatever happened here wasn’t just a hunt gone wrong. It wasn’t a single bad decision. It was a story with roots. And Nellie, somehow, was standing at the end of it.
• • •
Nellie finally closes the last notebook. Her hand lingers on the cover longer than necessary before she exhales and stacks it neatly with the others. Six months of half-memories, distorted thoughts, handwriting that sometimes isn’t quite hers. Six months she’s spent slowly reclaiming, annotating, correcting. Putting it to rest. She gathers the stack and heads down the hall toward one of the archive rooms, intending to file them away and be done with it for the night. The door is already open. The light is on. She slows. That’s odd. She’s certain she turned everything off earlier. She steps inside and sees Jack at the back table, seated, shoulders slightly hunched, a file open in front of him. He’s reading intently, brow furrowed, completely absorbed. Relief flickers first. He’s just reading. That’s normal. Then her eyes track the shelves, specifically the back shelf. The space where the leather-bound file should be is empty.
Her stomach drops. Her body reacts before her mind catches up. She freezes where she stands, the stack of notebooks clutched to her chest like a shield. The room feels suddenly too small, the air thick and heavy.
He glances up. He notices her immediately. The way she’s gone still. The way her face has drained of color. “Nellie?” he asks gently. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice comes out tight. Controlled. “How much of that did you read?”
His gaze flicks down to the file in his hands. Understanding dawns slow and painful. “All of it,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat, softer, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize —”
She shakes her head once, sharp and final. “Just —” Her breath stutters, but she forces the words out anyway. “Just put it back.”
He closes the file immediately, fingers careful, like the leather might burn him. He stands, clearly unsure, guilt etched across his features. “Nellie, I —”
She doesn’t wait to hear it. She turns and leaves the room quickly, steps clipped, shoulders tight, retreating down the hall like she needs distance more than air.
He stands there, file pressed to his chest for a moment before he returns it to the shelf exactly where he found it. His heart is heavy, caught between two instincts pulling him in opposite directions: Follow her. Apologize. Fix it. Or give her the space she so clearly asked for. For the first time since coming back, he doesn’t know which choice is the right one.
Nellie closes her door a little harder than she means to. The sound echoes in the small space, sharp and final, and she leans her forehead against the cool metal for just a second before forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. She hadn’t been naïve enough to believe Jack would never find out. If they were going to hunt together, if they were going to share space, trust, backs turned in the dark, then the subject would come up eventually. She knew that. But she wanted it to be her choice, her timing. Not ripped open by a leather-bound file she’d deliberately buried in the archive, tucked away like a bone she didn’t want dug up.
She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, hands twisting together in her lap. Her thoughts spiral, sharp and uneven. It isn’t the coven that hurts the most. Not really.
It’s what the coven is tied to. Her childhood isn’t something she remembers in neat chapters. It’s fragments. Moods. The constant tension of waiting for something to go wrong. The way silence could feel louder than shouting. The way she learned, very early, how to make herself smaller. Quieter. Easier to ignore.
Even now, over a year after her mother’s death, Eleanor Branscomb still lingers. In dreams where Nellie is young again and trapped in a house that never felt like home.
In memories that surface uninvited, sharp as glass. In the way her body still reacts before her mind does. Flinching, bracing, preparing. She hates that. Hates that someone who hurt her so deeply still has power over her, even in death. That a name written in ink can make her chest tighten. That a past she fought so hard to escape keeps finding ways to reach back and touch her.
She presses her palms into the mattress, grounding herself. Jack didn’t mean to hurt her. She knows that. He wasn’t digging for secrets. He wasn’t trying to pry. He was learning, doing exactly what she’d encouraged him to do everywhere else in the bunker. And that almost makes it worse. Because now she has to sit with the fact that something so carefully hidden slipped out anyway.
She stares at the far wall, jaw tight, fighting the familiar urge to retreat completely, to shut down, lock everything away, pretend she’s fine. She isn’t. Not right now.
• • •
The next day stretches slow and quiet. Nellie makes herself scarce. She leaves early in the morning, long before Jack comes down for coffee, slipping into the library with a mug and a stack of lore she doesn’t really need. When he passes through later, she’s already gone; down in the gym, or the range, or buried in some corner of the bunker that gives her room to think. She answers him when she has to. Short. Polite. Distant. Not hostile but closed.
Jack doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions she clearly isn’t ready to answer. He keeps his distance the way Sam once taught him to, with intention, not avoidance. He gives her space without pretending nothing happened. Still, the guilt sits heavy in his chest. He replays the moment in the archive room over and over. Her frozen posture. The way her voice tightened when she asked how much he’d read. The way she didn’t raise her voice or lash out, just asked him to put it back, then left. That hurt more than anger would have. He knows he didn’t mean to cross a line. He also knows that intent doesn’t erase impact. So, he waits.
He occupies himself in the library, reorganizing volumes she’s already sorted, training alone in the gym, carefully avoiding the archive rooms entirely. When their paths do cross — passing in hallways, brushing by in the kitchen — he offers a small, apologetic smile she doesn’t quite return. She isn’t punishing him. She’s thinking. And that somehow makes the waiting harder.
He sits on the edge of the bed long after the bunker has settled into the evening. The room is dark except for the low lamp on the desk, its light catching on its surface. Everything feels too quiet. Too still. He turns a phone over in his hands. It’s an old one, Sam’s originally. Worn edges. A faint crack in the corner of the screen. It still feels strange that it’s his now, that someone thought to make sure he had a way to reach out if he needed to.
He stares at the contact list. Sam Winchester. He exhales slowly. He doesn’t want to bother him. Doesn’t want to overreact. Nellie needed space, and he’s been giving it. He knows that’s the right thing. Or at least, he hopes it is. But the silence has started to feel heavier than the mistake. He presses call. It rings twice.
“Jack?” Sam answers, voice immediately alert. “How’s it going? Everything okay?”
He swallows. “I — yeah. I mean. Not really.” He rubs his thumb along the edge of the phone. “I think I messed up.”
There’s a pause. Not judgment. Just attention. “Alright. Tell me what happened.”
He explains. About the archive room. The leather-bound file. How he didn’t realize what he was reading until it was too late. How Nellie froze. How she asked how much he’d read. How she told him to put it back and left. “And now she’s avoiding me,” he finishes quietly. “I gave her space like you said. But I think… I think she might rethink hunting with me. And I wouldn’t blame her.”
Sam doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer. Heavier. “Okay, first, what has Nellie actually told you about the coven?”
“Not much. That her mom got involved with dangerous magic. That the coven went after her because of her abilities. That it was… long. And bad.”
“That tracks.” There’s another pause. “I think you need a little context, things you aren’t going to find in that file. The Nightshade coven wasn’t just dangerous. It was prolonged. Months of tracking, retaliation, escalation. Before the main ritual, they put her through purification rites. Blood magic. Suppression sigils. Stuff that is meant to break people and hollow them out. She almost died near the end. She was stabbed. Bad. We barely got her to a hospital in time. That whole hunt is tied up with something else for her. Something older.” He hesitates, just long enough for Jack to brace himself. “Her mother. What that file doesn’t tell you is that Nellie is named after her, which is why she doesn’t use that name. Eleanor was never really a parent. She blamed Nellie for her dad not being around. Took it out on her. Emotionally. Physically. When Nellie finally tried to leave, tried to find answers, I had to go get her. Eleanor held her hostage. Things went bad. I got hurt. Nellie had to fight her. To protect herself. To protect me.” A pause. “She killed her mother.”
The words land heavy and final.
“So yeah,” Sam finishes quietly. “Even though Eleanor’s been gone for over a year… she still has power over Nellie. In memory. In fear. In the way trauma doesn’t always stay in the past.”
Jack stares at the wall, throat tight, heart aching in a way he doesn’t have words for.
“She’s scared,” he says gently. “Not of you. Of what those memories bring up. Of who she might become if she doesn’t keep everything locked down.”
“I never meant to—”
“I know,” he cuts in, firm but kind. “And she knows that too. She’s not mad at you, Jack. She’s working it out. Like she always does.”
Jack lets out a shaky breath. “I thought I ruined everything.”
“No,” Sam says without hesitation. “You didn’t. You just stepped into something raw. I’ll call her. Check in. Let her know you talked to me. Sometimes it helps to hear it from someone outside the bunker walls.”
He nods again, blinking hard. “Thank you. For telling me. For trusting me with this.”
“Just, be patient. You’re doing that already. Keep doing it.”
• • •
Nellie attempting to distract herself with reading when her phone buzzes. She stares at it for a second too long before answering. “Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey,” Sam replies. His voice is gentle, careful in the way that means he’s already pieced things together. “You got a minute?”
She exhales. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause on the line, not awkward, just deliberate. He never rushes her into anything. “Jack called me.”
Her stomach drops anyway. “Oh,” she mutters. “Of course he did.”
“He told me what happened.”
She closes her eyes, shame creeping up her spine. “I didn’t mean to freak out like that. I just — I needed time and then I didn’t know how to say that without sounding… dramatic.”
“You’re allowed to need time,” he says firmly.
“Doesn’t feel like it. I feel stupid. Like I overreacted.”
“You didn’t. But you did go quiet. And Jack doesn’t always know how to read that. And now, he thinks you don’t want to hunt with him anymore.”
That hits harder than she expects. “What?” Her voice cracks before she can stop it. “No. I — Sam, that’s not —”
“I know,” he says quickly. “But from his side, he crossed a line, you pulled away, and he doesn’t know if he just lost the one thing that made coming back feel real.”
Nellie sinks into a chair, elbows on the table, forehead dropping into her hands. “God,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“I know,” Sam repeats. “And he knows you didn’t mean to either. He’s just… sensitive right now. So are you.”
She rubs her eyes, frustration turning inward. “I feel like I’m being childish.”
“Maybe a little. But you’re learning how to live with someone. Really live with them. Share space. Share history. Share things you didn’t plan on sharing yet. That’s hard. Especially when the stuff that comes up is tied to old wounds. You’ve been surviving on your own instincts for a long time, Nell. Letting someone see behind the curtain, even by accident, is scary.”
Her throat tightens. “I hate that she still gets to matter.”
He doesn’t need to ask who she is. “I know. But needing time doesn’t mean you’re pushing Jack away. It just means you’re human.”
She exhales slowly. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No. And neither did you.” A pause. “It might help to tell him that you’re not backing out.”
She nods, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. I will. I just… needed my head to catch up to my heart.”
“That’s okay. This is part of learning how to be partners with someone.”
She smiles, even though her uncle can’t see it. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Always,” he replies.
The call ends. Nellie sits there for a moment longer, phone resting in her hand, the bunker humming softly around her. She’s not running. She just needs to remember that letting someone in doesn’t mean losing control.
Once she gathers enough courage, she rolls off her mattress, grounding herself on the cold floor. Before she realizes it, she finds herself standing outside Jack’s door longer than she needs to. Then she knocks. It’s soft. Measured. Not the sharp, utilitarian knock she uses when something’s wrong, just a quiet request. There’s a pause, footsteps, and then the door opens.
He looks genuinely surprised to see her. “Oh — hey,” he says, straightening instinctively. “I — hi.”
She exhales, steadying herself. “Can we talk?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He steps ushering her in.
The room is dim, lit only by the desk lamp. It still smells faintly of detergent and paper, new things layered over old memories. He waits, clearly unsure whether to sit, stand, or do something else entirely.
She doesn’t waste time. “I’m sorry. For freezing up. For being distant.”
His brow furrows. “Nellie, you don’t —”
“I do,” she cuts in gently. “At least… I want to.” She folds her arms loosely, grounding herself. “The coven was a heavy-hitting hunt. Not just because it dragged on, but because it was tied to my mom. So, when you found that file, it hit closer than I expected. I was going to tell you. I just wanted it to be on my time. When I had my footing. So… it wasn’t your fault. And I’m not mad at you.”
Relief flickers across Jack’s face, fragile but real. “I’m glad. I was worried I’d… I don’t know. Ruined things.”
Nellie shakes her head. “No. I never thought about not wanting to hunt with you.”
That gets his full attention. “Really?” he asks quietly.
“Really. I just needed to get my head straight. If you’re still willing to try… I am too.”
A smile breaks across his face, soft and unmistakably hopeful. “Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Absolutely.” He hesitates, then asks, “What can I do? To help you feel more comfortable?”
She considers him for a moment. This earnest, careful person standing in a space that’s still new to him too. “Like I told before: keep being yourself,” she answers. “And stop acting like you’re a guest.”
His head tilts. “I am one.”
She shakes her head again, firmer this time. “No. The bunker’s your home. It always was.”
Something settles in his expression at that, something deep and quiet. “Okay,” he says softly. “I can do that.”
They stand there for a beat, the tension finally easing.
Then she nods once. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, Nellie.”
She turns and leaves, lighter than she was when she arrived.
Jack closes the door slowly behind her, leaning back against it for just a second, heart full in a way he hadn’t expected. They’re still figuring it out. But they’re doing it together. And that’s enough, for now.
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