Embedded Files
Some lives aren’t rebuilt in grand moments. They take shape in long drives, shared meals, late-night conversations, and the quiet promise that someone will still be there in the morning. As Nellie and Jack settle deeper into partnership and family, they learn that trust isn’t just about facing monsters together. It’s about letting someone see what you’re afraid to lose. And sometimes, the hardest secret to keep is the one that makes you feel whole.
Word Count: 11.9k
TW: light angst. use of mild language
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HUNTING
HUNTING
The next couple of months falls into a comfortable routine of hunts and bunker life. Hunts are always start off the with the Impala pulling onto the highway just after sunrise. Nellie drives with one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around a paper cup of gas-station coffee. The road stretches ahead in long gray lines, the sky pale and cloudless. Jack sits in the passenger seat with a folded map spread across his knees. Not because they need it. Because he likes understanding where they are.
“You ever get tired of driving?” he asks.
“No.”
“Never?”
She shrugs. “The car likes moving.”
He considers that seriously. “That makes sense.”
• • •
One hunt takes them to a farmhouse outside Salina. It’s quiet work. Salt lines. Cold rooms. Dust that hasn’t been disturbed in years. Jack forgets the back window. Nellie notices. She doesn’t say anything until they’re outside again, standing beside the Impala.
“You missed an exit,” she says.
He exhales. “Yeah. I realized when we hit the stairs.”
“Good.”
He nods once, filing it away. They don’t talk about it again.
• • •
A diner somewhere in Missouri. Jack stares at a menu like it might test him later.
“You’re overthinking it,” Nellie says.
“I don’t know what I feel like eating.”
She doesn’t even look up. “Burger. Fries. Chocolate shake.”
“That’s specific.”
“Trust me.”
He does. When the food arrives, he takes one bite and blinks in surprise. “Oh.”
She smirks into her own milkshake.
• • •
A motel room in Arkansas. Jack sits cross-legged on one bed, carefully cleaning a hunting knife. Nellie writes in her journal at the table. The heater rattles loudly.
After a while, he asks, “Do you always write after hunts?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
She pauses, pen hovering. “Allows me to feel like a hunt if finally over,” she answers.
He nods like that answer is enough. It is.
• • •
A cemetery outside Tulsa. Jack holds the flashlight steady while Nellie opens a coffin.
The body hasn’t moved. They both relax.
“That never stops being weird,” he mutters.
“Nope.” She sprinkles salt and throws in a lighter on the corpse, closing the lid.
• • •
Another long drive. Fields blur past in gold and brown. Jack watches Nellie shift gears.
“You drive like Dean,” he says.
Her grip tightens slightly on the wheel. “Yeah.”
“That’s a good thing,” he adds quickly.
“I hope so, cause in this business, sometimes we need it.”
• • •
The bunker garage door rattles open. The Impala rolls inside, the engine ticking softly as it cools. Nellie sits behind the wheel for a moment. Jack doesn’t move to get out. Eventually she turns the key. Silence settles around them.
“Not bad,” she says.
He looks over. “The hunt?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. Us hunting together. We’re doing good with this teamwork thing.”
He smiles.
• • •
BUNKER LIFE
BUNKER LIFE
The bunker learns Jack’s routines slowly. He wakes earlier than Nellie. Makes coffee he doesn’t to drink to feel awake. Leaves books stacked neatly instead of spread open. Turns lights off in rooms she forgets to. She notices. She pretends she doesn’t. The place feels less like an archive and more like a house now. Not warm, but lived in.
• • •
Jack finishes the book late at night. The bunker is quiet except for the low hum of electricity in the walls. Nellie’s door is open down the hallway. Not an invitation, exactly, but not closed either.
He pauses outside the doorway. Her room still looks like Dean’s in shape, but not in spirit. The bed is made with military precision. A duffel sits at the foot like it’s always ready to leave. But the walls are different now, shelves lining them, stacked with novels instead of weapons.
She sits cross-legged on the bed with another book open in her lap. “You done hovering?” she asks without looking up.
He steps inside, holding the paperback. “I finished it.”
She glances up, sees the cover, and closes her book. “Frankenstein.”
“Yeah.” He holds it out, but she doesn’t take it.
“Well?” she asks.
He hesitates, then leans against the doorframe instead. “I thought it would feel like lore,” he answers. “Like a monster story.”
“And?”
“It didn’t.”
She nods once.
He turns the book over in his hands. “He didn’t choose what he was,” he says quietly. “He just… existed. And everyone reacted to that.”
She watches him carefully now.
“Victor kept running from the consequences of creating him,” he continues. “And the creature kept trying to understand why he was alone.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
He looks up. “I didn’t expect to feel bad for both of them.”
“That’s the point.”
He nods, absorbing that.
After a moment, she scoots back against the headboard and gestures to the desk chair. “Sit.”
He does.
The conversation stretches, unhurried. They talk about loneliness. About responsibility. About whether monsters are born or made.
At one point he asks, “Do you think hunters and monsters are that different?”
She considers that for a long time. “Depends on the hunter.”
They don’t talk about the coven, Ruby, or Heaven. But the conversation brushes those edges anyway.
When he finally stands to leave, he sets the book on her desk instead of handing it back. “Thank you,” he says.
She nods. “Anytime.”
• • •
The movie happens three nights later. They’re sitting in the war room, surrounded by lore books and half-finished notes. Jack is trying to describe something philosophical about destiny and choice.
“…people still decide who they are,” he says.
Nellie squints at him. “That is the most Casablanca line you’ve ever said.”
He blinks. “The what line?”
She stares. “Do you know what it is?”
He shakes his head with confusion.
“You’ve never seen Casablanca.”
“I don’t think so.”
She pushes her chair back immediately. “That’s unacceptable.”
He laughs. “Is it?”
“Yes.” She’s already walking toward the hallway. “Dean Cave,” she calls over her shoulder.
The den still smells faintly like old leather and microwave popcorn. She drops into the couch like she’s done it a thousand times. He sits more carefully, hands folded at first.
The movie starts. For a while, he watches Nellie more than the screen. The way she relaxes here, shoulders lowering, posture softening in a way it never does in the library. Halfway through, he forgets to watch her and gets pulled into the film. By the final scene, he’s leaning forward, completely invested. When the credits roll, the room is quiet.
“That was really good,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know movies could feel like that.”
She glances at him. “Like what?”
“Small, but important.”
She smiles faintly. “Next time, I’m showing you ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’”
• • •
The cooking lesson starts with confidence and ends with smoke. Jack stands at the stove, stirring a pot of chili with intense concentration. Nellie sits on the counter, swinging one boot idly.
“You’re burning it,” she says.
“I’m not burning it.”
“It’s smoking.”
“That’s part of cooking.”
“No,” she replies, “that’s part of arson.”
He adjusts the heat. Too late. The smell of charred beans fills the kitchen. He stares into the pot like it betrayed him. “I used to know how to do this,” he says.
“You still do. Your muscle memory just forgot.”
He laughs quietly.
She hops down from the counter and grabs two bowls from the cabinet. “Cereal,” she says.
“Cereal,” he agrees.
They sit at the table eating in silence, both smiling despite themselves.
“You laughed,” he says after a moment.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
She points her spoon at him. “Do not get used to it.”
He grins.
• • •
The bunker settles differently at night. The hum of the lights fades into the background, pipes clicking faintly somewhere deep in the walls. Nellie sits cross-legged on the bed with a book open in her lap, the bedside lamp casting a warm circle of light across the pages. She turns another page.
“You always read the sad ones,” a voice says.
She doesn’t look up. “You always say that.”
Dean leans against the wall near the door like he’s been there the whole time, arms crossed, wearing a flannel and that familiar half-smile. He looks solid tonight, clearer than some nights. “What is it?” he asks.
“Frankenstein.”
He squints. “That the doctor or the big green dude?”
“The doctor.”
“Good. Doctor’s the jerk anyway.”
She glances up. “You’ve read it?”
“Sam ranted about it once. Long drive, no radio. I complained the whole time.”
“That tracks.”
He grins and pushes off the wall, wandering the room slowly, taking in the shelves, the books stacked on the desk, the lamp glow. He doesn’t touch anything, just looks. Finally, he sits on the edge of the desk, elbows on his knees. “You sleeping?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly’s not great.”
“It’s better than before.”
He nods, accepting that answer for now. “You eating?”
“Yes.”
“Real food?”
“Sometimes.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Okay, doing as best I can on diner food,” she says.
“That’s what I thought.”
He watches her read for a moment. “You and Jack doing okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it? ‘Yeah’?”
“He’s back in the swing of it. Definitely still learning things.”
He smirks. “He always was.”
“He burned chili.”
He laughs, loud and real. “Oh man. I wish I’d seen that.”
“I laughed,” she admits.
“Good. Kid needs that.”
She flips a page. “He’s careful. Doesn’t pretend he knows things he doesn’t. He listens.”
“That’s new. Both of those.”
Nellie smiles faintly.
Dean studies her for a moment. “You trust him?”
She thinks about it. “Yeah.”
That answer settles something in him. His shoulders loosen. “Good,” he says quietly. After a moment, he asks, “You still feeling weird shit?”
“Sometimes.”
The tension shows in his jaw, even if he doesn’t move.
“Not like before,” she explains. “Just background noise.”
He nods slowly. “You tell Sam?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he worries.”
He snorts. “Yeah. He does.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah,” he admits.
Silence settles comfortably between them. Nellie turns another page.
Dean glances toward the bookshelves. “You’re eventually going run out of space.”
“Like that is going to stop me.” She smirks, looking up at him. “Do you remember that one time a couple years ago when you tried to read Shakespeare to me?”
“Yeah.”
“You did the voices.”
“I did great voices.”
“They were terrible voices.”
“They were award-winning.”
“They were criminal.”
He laughs again, the sound filling the room for a moment before fading. “You’re doing okay, kiddo.”
She closes the book, holding her place with a finger. “Yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He looks around the room again, the shelves, the lamp, the life she’s built here. “You’re building something. Routine. Partner. A life.”
“Trying.”
“That’s enough.”
Dean stands, stretching slightly like he used to after long drives. He pauses in the doorway. “You’re tougher than you think.”
“I know.”
“You’re also allowed to not be.”
Nellie nods. “I know that too.”
He smiles; proud, protective, unmistakably Dad. “I should go.”
“Yeah.”
He lingers just long enough to say, “Don’t get dead.”
She smiles. “Don’t get more dead.”
His grin widens, and then he’s gone. The room returns to its quiet, the lamp still glowing beside the bed. She sets the book aside and turns off the light. For once, sleep comes easily.
• • •
The Impala slows as the roads narrow into a grid of quiet suburban streets; the kind lined with identical mailboxes and carefully trimmed hedges. The late afternoon sun hangs low, turning windows into sheets of gold as they pass. Nellie drives with both hands on the wheel now, slower than she had been on the highway. The car idles forward in that steady, familiar way, engine rumbling softly beneath them. Jack watches the houses go by. It’s been a while since they’ve been to visit the Winchesters. Not long in calendar terms — just a few weeks — but hunting stretches time differently. Motels blur together. Roads repeat themselves. Days stack without shape.
Places like this feel distant when you’re gone too long.
Jack smiles faintly. “Dean’s probably been watching the window all day.”
“Probably,” she says. She doesn’t say she’s been thinking about this visit since they left the last hunt. She doesn’t have to.
The car turns the corner. Sam and Eileen’s house comes into view, familiar and steady. A soccer ball rests in the grass beside the walkway. Her shoulders loosen without her noticing. He does. She pulls into the driveway and shifts into park. The engine settles into a low idle for a moment before she turns the key. Neither of them moves right away. Then the front door flies open. A small figure bolts across the yard.
“THEY’RE HERE!”
She laughs under her breath as she opens the driver’s door.
Dean reaches her just as she steps out, colliding with her knees at full speed. She steadies him automatically, hands dropping to his shoulders. “Hey, bud,” she says.
“You took forever,” he accuses.
“It’s been three weeks.”
“That’s forever.”
She helps him crawl onto her back, where he hooks his arms around her neck.
Jack steps around the front of the Impala, smiling. “Hi, Dean.”
The boy waves enthusiastically. “Hi, Jack!”
Sam appears in the doorway next, one hand braced against the frame, the other still holding a dish towel. Relief flickers across his face when he sees them.
“There you are,” he says.
Nellie shifts her cousin’s weight slightly. “Miss us?”
Sam smirks. “Dean’s asked about you two every day.”
“That is not true,” the boy says immediately.
“It is absolutely true,” he replies.
Jack laughs softly.
The air smells like garlic and tomato sauce drifting from inside the house. Nellie glances toward the open door, then back at her uncle. For a second, something quiet and grateful crosses her face. “Smells good,” she says.
“Lunch is almost ready,” he replies.
Dean squirms on her back. “Can I show Jack my dinosaurs?”
She sets him down. “You don’t need permission for that.”
He grabs Jack’s hand instantly and starts pulling him toward the house. “Come on!”
The young man looks back once, amused, then lets himself be dragged inside.
She slips off her boots near the door and follows the smell of food into the kitchen. The room is warm, sunlight spilling across the counter in a wide rectangle. A cutting board sits beside the sink, half-covered in chopped vegetables. Something simmers on the stove, bubbling quietly.
Eileen stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, knife moving in steady, practiced rhythm. She looks up the moment her niece steps in. Her face lights immediately. Nellie doesn’t think before crossing the room and pulling her into a hug. She hugs back just as tightly. It lasts longer than either of them comments on.
When they pull apart, her aunt asks, “Where’s Jack?”
Nellie smiles. “Dean kidnapped him.”
Eileen nods knowingly, already turning back to the cutting board. “Of course he did. How was the drive?”
“Easy,” she replies, moving automatically to the sink to wash her hands. “No traffic. No monsters. No existential crises.”
The woman raises an eyebrow at that.
She amends, “Minor existential crises.”
That earns a small smile.
Eileen slides a bowl of chopped onions toward her and hands her a wooden spoon. Nellie takes the hint and moves to the stove, stirring the pot without needing instructions. The motion feels familiar. Normal.
“You two eating enough?”
“Yes.”
“Real food?”
“Mostly.”
“Sleeping?”
“Sometimes.”
Eileen pauses mid-slice and gives her a look.
Nellie sighs. “Okay. More than sometimes.”
Another glance.
“Fine. We’re eating, we’re sleeping, and we are not currently hiding any life-threatening injuries.”
Her expression softens, though concern never fully leaves it.
The girl adds, with a small grin, “We’re okay. Not dying this time. Satisfied, Mom?”
That finally gets a quiet laugh. The stove pops softly as the pot simmers. She lowers the heat without thinking.
Eileen nudges a plate toward her. “Set the table?”
“Sure.”
Nellie grabs bowls from the cabinet she remembers without looking. Four larger ones, one smaller plastic bowl with faded cartoon dinosaurs along the rim. She arranges them around the table in the next room.
From down the hallway, Dean’s voice carries clearly. “— and THIS one is a T-rex but he’s friendly!”
Jack answers with sincere interest. “That’s unusual for a T-rex.”
She shakes her head, smiling to herself.
Lunch settles into place the way it always does in this house — naturally, without anyone needing to announce it. Dishes are passed around the table. Pasta, spaghetti, and a bowl of warm rolls. Dean immediately reaches for before Sam gently nudges it toward the center.
“Food first,” he says.
The boy sighs dramatically but obeys.
Nellie sits across from him, Jack beside her. Eileen settles at the end of the table, Sam across from her. For a moment, it’s just the sound of eating. Then Dean starts talking.
“So did you fight any dragons?”
“No,” she answers.
“Evil unicorns?”
“No.”
“Big scary ghosts that ‘boo?’”
Jack nods. “Yes.”
He lights up. “Really?!”
“It was a quiet one,” she adds.
“That’s boring.”
“It’s supposed to be boring,” she replies.
Dean considers that while chewing. “Did Jack kill it?”
The young man blinks. “We both helped.”
“Did Nellie save you?”
He smiles. “Sometimes.”
She nudges him lightly with her elbow. “Don’t encourage him.”
The little boy points at her. “You DID save him!”
“Eat your spaghetti,” she says.
He studies them both carefully, like he’s checking for evidence. “Okay,” he says finally, satisfied, and returns to his food.
Conversation shifts naturally after that. Sam leans back slightly, watching the two hunters over his glass of water. “So,” he says, “how’s bunker life treating you two?”
Nellie shrugs. “Quiet.”
Jack nods. “Good quiet.”
He smiles faintly. “That’s the best kind.”
Eileen turns to the young man. “Settling in?”
“Yes. I think so.”
She glances at him, then back to her plate. “He hasn’t burned down the kitchen yet,” she says. “And he’s gotten good with the coffee maker.”
“That’s important,” Sam says.
“Very,” he agrees.
At this point, Dean has got distracted from his spaghetti and is building a tower out of carrot sticks.
Jack watches with genuine interest. “That’s structurally unstable.”
“It’s a carrot castle,” he replies.
“Ah… That changes things.”
The tower collapses. The little boy laughs.
Chairs scrape softly against the floor as lunch winds down. Sam gathers plates without being asked. Jack follows his lead, stacking cups carefully like he’s still learning the rhythm of someone else’s kitchen. Nellie carries a serving dish back to the counter while her cousin narrates an elaborate story about dinosaur superheroes to no one in particular.
Eileen wipes the table in slow, practiced circles. Halfway through clearing dishes, she pauses. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She crosses to the counter and picks up an envelope that had been tucked beside the fruit basket. Turning back, she holds it out to her niece. “This came for you.”
Nellie frowns slightly and takes it. The handwriting is familiar before she even reads the name in the corner. Marianne Collins, the head of the foster home she and Sam saved awhile ago. Something small and warm settles in her chest. She leans against the counter and opens it carefully. The paper inside is folded twice. The message is short, Marianne’s letters always are, but neat and thoughtful. She reads silently. Then she smiles. It’s small. Quiet. But real.
Sam notices immediately. “Good news?”
“Yeah,” she says, still looking at the letter. “Ruthie got adopted.”
“That’s great.”
She nods, eyes still scanning the page. “Family she’s been placed with the last few months decided to make it permanent. Marianne says she’s doing really well.”
From across the room, Dean asks, “Who’s Ruthie?”
“A kid,” she replies. “From a hunt a while back.”
Jack looks up from the dishes, curious. “What hunt?”
She folds the letter once, then again, casual. “Group home case. A guy living the walls of the home was being influenced by his dead mother.”
He blinks. “Oh.”
Eileen glances at her husband, then back at Nellie. “You saved those children,” she says, signing as she speaks. “That wasn’t small.”
She looks away, uncomfortable.
Sam leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “You helped that place heal,” he adds.
She folds the letter again, smaller this time. “It was just a hunt,” she mutters.
Jack studies her for a moment. He’s seen this before. Every time someone thanks her. Every time a hunt ends well. Every time she walks away like it didn’t matter. He dries his hands on a towel. “Sounds like it mattered,” he says.
She doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t argue either. She slips the letter into her jacket pocket instead of setting it down.
Dean tugs on Nellie’s sleeve before the conversation can settle again. “Come see my Lego spaceship,” he insists.
“You already showed me the dragon,” she says.
“This is different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
She sighs dramatically, then lets herself be pulled toward the hallway anyway. “Five minutes,” she calls over her shoulder.
“That’s what you said last time!” Sam replies.
The little boy ignores him completely, dragging his cousin out of the room. Their voices fade down the hall. The kitchen grows quieter. Eileen rinses the last plate and sets it in the drying rack. Jack wipes the counter with slow, careful movements, unsure if he should stay or excuse himself.
She glances toward the hallway where Nellie disappeared, then back at him. She signs first, then speaks softly. “How is she?”
He understands immediately. He rests the towel on the counter. “She’s good. Really.”
She watches his face, reading more than the words.
“She wasn’t hiding any life-threatening injuries,” he adds, a faint smile forming.
That earns a small laugh.
He leans back against the counter, more relaxed now. “I’ve loved being back. On Earth. Hunting again. Being… part of something. And Nellie’s been patient. She lets me try things. Even when I mess up.” He smiles slightly. “Especially when I mess up.”
She raises an eyebrow, amused.
“I burned chili,” he admits.
She laughs quietly.
“She laughed at me,” he adds, not sounding offended in the slightest. “But she still helped.”
Her expression softens. “She’s always been like that. Careful. But kind.”
He nods. “She’s a good partner. She doesn’t rush me. She lets me figure things out. Like Sam did for her.”
She dries her hands slowly, thinking. “I think this is good for both of you,” she replies. “She needed someone watching her back again. And you needed somewhere to belong.”
He smiles, small but sincere.
She glances toward the hallway again, where her son’s excited voice echoes faintly. “I’m happy to see you two getting along,” she says.
He follows her gaze. “So am I,” he replies quietly.
• • •
Night settles gently over the house, the quiet kind that only comes after a long day with a five-year-old. The hallway is dim, lit only by a small lamp near the kitchen sink and the faint glow from the porch light filtering through the curtains. Jack wakes slowly, unsure what pulled him from sleep. The house is still. He listens for a moment, letting his senses settle. The unfamiliar ceiling, the softer mattress than the bunker’s, the distant creak of the house adjusting to cooler night air. Then he notices the empty bed across the room. Nellie’s blanket is folded back, pillow slightly indented but clearly abandoned. He doesn’t worry. He’s seen this before, in a motel room or the bunker, the occasional late-night footsteps, the library lamp glowing at odd hours. Nellie doesn’t always sleep through the night. He slips quietly out of bed and heads toward the bathroom, careful not to disturb the quiet.
When he steps back into the hallway, he notices the light. A warm glow spills from the living room. He pauses, then walks toward it. Nellie sits curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket draped loosely over her legs. A paperback rests open in her hands. Miracle lies beside her, head resting against her thigh, tail thumping once lazily when Jack appears. The lamp beside the couch casts soft shadows across the room. She looks calm. Too calm.
He recognizes the stillness now. The deliberate kind. He lingers in the hallway, not wanting to intrude. He assumes what he’s always assumed: a nightmare, or the fear of one returning. She doesn’t talk about them, but he’s seen the aftermath, the late nights, the quiet pacing, the way she grounds herself in routine. He starts to turn back toward the bedroom.
“You don’t have to sneak,” Nellie says without looking up.
He stops. “I wasn’t sneaking,” he replies.
She turns a page. “You’re bad at it.”
He steps into the room, keeping his voice low. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t,” she says.
He raises an eyebrow. “You literally did.”
That earns the faintest smile.
He shifts his weight, already preparing to leave her to it. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” The answer comes too fast. She keeps her eyes on the page, but she isn’t reading anymore. “Just couldn’t sleep,” she adds.
He nods, accepting the explanation even if he doesn’t believe it entirely. “Bad dream?”
She shrugs. “Nothing new.” Her hand tightens slightly on the book. The terrier nudges his nose against her wrist. She scratches behind his ears automatically. “I’m fine.”
He starts to turn away.
“I hate when they feel real,” she adds quietly.
He stops.
She exhales slowly, still not looking up. “Like you’re back there. Like nothing actually changed.”
The room is very still.
Jack looks at her. The rigid shoulders, the way she’s holding herself together piece by piece. He doesn’t say anything. He just walks into the room and sits in the armchair across from the couch. Nellie doesn’t acknowledge it out loud, but her posture softens slightly, the tension easing just enough. Miracle settles again. He waits a minute before speaking, giving the quiet time to settle into something less fragile. Her eyes are on the page, but he can tell she isn’t reading it.
He clears his throat softly. “What are you reading?” he asks. The question is careful. Tentative. He knows better than to interrupt her when she’s actually reading for pleasure. That time is usually protected, almost private. But tonight, the book feels more like an anchor than a story.
She glances up, surprised he asked. She shifts the paperback slightly so he can see the cover. “The Three Musketeers.”
He nods. “I haven’t read that one.”
“Most people haven’t,” she says. The dog adjusts beside her, letting out a slow, contented breath.
He leans forward slightly in the chair. “What’s it about? Besides… musketeers.”
She studies him for a moment, like she’s deciding whether this is small talk or something else. Then she closes the book, keeping her thumb between the pages. “It’s about loyalty. And ego. And growing up too fast.”
He tilts his head. “That’s not what I expected.”
“Everyone thinks it’s just sword fights,” she replies. “But it’s really about friendship and politics and people making bad decisions because they’re proud.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Yeah.” She shifts on the couch, blanket sliding slightly, posture changing without her realizing it; less defensive, more engaged. “D’Artagnan thinks being brave means never backing down. And the older musketeers know bravery is knowing when you’re already in too deep. It’s messy. They’re loyal to each other, but they don’t always agree. They make mistakes. They hurt people. But they still show up when it matters.” Her voice gains a little energy, the tired edge fading.
He notices. “So, it’s about chosen family,” he says.
“Yeah. Exactly.” She taps the book lightly against her knee. “And identity. Who you think you’re supposed to be versus who you actually are. Dumas writes people like they’re contradictory on purpose. Heroes who are selfish. Villains who are loyal. Nobody is just one thing.”
Jack smiles. “You’re really into this.”
Nellie pauses, realizing it. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he replies immediately. “I like hearing you talk about it.”
She hesitates, then relaxes back into the couch. “It’s easier to talk about stories.”
He nods. “Stories make things make sense.”
“Sometimes.” Miracle shifts again, pressing closer against her side.
He watches her settle back into the couch, the tension from earlier finally beginning to loosen. After a moment, he says, “What should I read next?”
She looks up. “Next?” she repeats.
“Yeah. From your collection.”
She studies him, a little surprised. “You don’t have to read the same stuff as me. There’s a whole world of books that aren’t two hundred years old.”
He smiles faintly. “I know.”
“You could try something modern.”
“I could.”
“You could read literally anything else.”
“I could.”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “But?”
“But I’ve been enjoying them.”
That catches her off guard more than she expected. She shifts the blanket around her legs, thinking. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Then… it depends what you want.”
He considers that. “Something like Frankenstein.”
“Emotionally devastating?”
Jack nods.
Nellie almost smiles. “Well, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is good for that. Anne Brontë. It’s quieter, but it sticks with you. And if you want adventure,” she taps the book in her lap, “The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“I’ve heard of that one.”
“It’s long,” she warns.
“That’s okay.”
“It’s really long.”
He laughs softly. “Still okay.”
She relaxes a little, settling deeper into the couch. “If you want something harder,” she adds, “Dante’s Divine Comedy. But that’s… a commitment.”
“What kind of commitment?” he asks.
“The kind where you reread pages until they make sense. And then reread them again when you realize you were wrong.”
He smiles. “That sounds familiar too.”
“Hunters and Italian poetry have more overlap than you’d think,” she replies.
He leans back in the chair. “What are your favorites?” he asks.
She pauses. She doesn’t hesitate often when it comes to books. “The Three Musketeers,” she says, holding it up slightly. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes.
“The ones I’ve recommended are some personal favorites. I also like The Iliad and The Picture of Dorian Grey.”
He nods, listening carefully. “That’s a very specific list.”
“Yeah.”
“What do they all have in common?”
She thinks about that longer than she expects to. “They’re about people trying to survive what they’ve done,” she says finally.
He doesn’t respond right away. Miracle’s tail thumps once against the couch cushion. She glances down at the dog, then back at her book. “You don’t have to read all of them,” she says.
He smiles. “I might.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling too.
Jack sits quietly for a moment, letting the conversation settle instead of fade. Nellie has gone back to holding the book open in her lap, but she’s not fully lost in it anymore.
“What else do you like reading?” he asks. “Besides classics.”
She glances up again. “I read other things,” she says, a little defensively.
“I figured.”
She shifts slightly, thinking. “I like poetry. Not all of it. The kind you read slowly. And some horror. Not the cheap stuff. The unsettling kind.”
“That tracks.”
She ignores that. “And occasionally some old school fantasy. When I want something… less real.” She taps the edge of the book against her knee, thinking. “If you ever want to try that, I think you’d like The Lord of the Rings. Personally, I recommend Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory.”
He smiles faintly. “Knights and legends?”
“Yeah. Mythic tragedy. Everyone trying to live up to something impossible.”
“That does sound like something you’d read.”
She shrugs.
He tilts his head. “Anything you don’t like?”
“Science fiction,” she says immediately.
“That was fast.”
“I’ve tried. I just don’t connect to it.”
He nods.
After a moment, she adds, “You might, though.”
He looks surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah. You spent time… up there.” She points vaguely to the ceiling.
He understands what she means without her saying it.
“Science fiction and science fantasy might feel different to you,” she continues. “Less hypothetical.”
He considers that. “Maybe,” he says.
She glances down at the terrier, then back at her book. “I like stories about people. Even when they’re set somewhere impossible.”
He nods. “That makes sense.”
The room settles again into quiet, softer now, steadier. After a while, Nellie’s eyes slow on the page. She reads the same paragraph twice, then closes the book gently, sliding a scrap of paper between the pages to mark her place. “I’m going to try sleeping again,” she says.
Jack nods and stands from the chair without comment. Miracle lifts his head as they move toward the hallway, nails clicking softly against the floor as he follows them. The house remains quiet, Sam and Eileen long asleep, the kitchen dark except for the faint glow of the stove clock.
They walk back to the guest room together without speaking. She pushes the door open and steps inside. The room is dim, moonlight slipping through the curtains in pale stripes across the floor. She sets the book on the small nightstand beside her bed. The dog circles once and hops up onto the mattress, settling into a familiar spot near the foot. She pulls the blanket back and pauses before climbing in. For a moment, she just stands there, looking at the floor. Then she turns toward Jack.
“Thanks,” she says.
He looks up.
“For listening to my… rant about books,” she adds, a little awkwardly.
He understands what she actually means. He shakes his head slightly. “I didn’t mind.”
She nods.
“I appreciated the recommendations,” he adds.
That earns a small, tired smile. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”
She climbs into bed, Miracle shifting closer as she settles under the covers. He turns off the lamp, and the room falls into darkness. This time, when the quiet returns, it feels gentler. Sleep comes easier.
• • •
Morning comes gently in the Winchester house, sunlight slipping through the kitchen windows and warming the counters. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixed with toast and bacon. Jack sits at the kitchen table with a mug in his hands, listening to the quiet rhythm of the house. Sam stands at the sink rinsing dishes while Eileen dries them beside him. Dean sits at the table coloring, tongue sticking out in concentration.
The hallway stays quiet. Then slow footsteps approach. Nellie appears in the kitchen doorway looking exactly like someone who is not a morning person. Her hair is a mess, eyes half-open, movements slow and slightly uncoordinated. She pauses like she’s adjusting to the brightness.
“Morning,” Sam says.
She responds with a tired hum that might be a greeting.
The little boy looks up immediately. “You didn’t punch Jack this time!” he announces.
Jack laughs into his coffee.
Eileen covers a smile, shoulders shaking slightly.
She blinks, processing. “Yet.”
Dean giggles.
She shuffles toward the table and drops into the chair beside him.
“You sleep forever,” he says.
“I slept eight hours.”
“That’s forever.”
She suddenly reaches over and tickles his side.
He bursts into laughter, squirming in his chair. “That’s cheating!” he says between giggles.
“You started it,” she replies.
Eileen signs something quick to her husband, both of them smiling.
Sam leans back against the counter. “Nice to see you functioning before noon.”
She squints at him. “I am barely functioning.”
“That’s still progress.”
She gestures vaguely in his direction. “At least Jack doesn’t snore like you, Mr. Freight Train.”
“That is a lie you made up because one time I made you drive at 3 in the morning.”
“It was cruel and unusual punishment. And I was covered in ectoplasm.”
He laughs.
Jack watches the whole exchange, clearly entertained.
Nellie notices. “You’re enjoying this.”.
“Maybe.”
“Careful,” she mutters, still half-asleep. “I’m unpredictable before coffee.”
Dean gasps dramatically.
He smiles. “Good to know.”
She reaches for a mug on the table, takes a slow sip, and winces. “That’s terrible coffee,” she says.
“It’s Daddy’s,” the little boy replies.
“That explains it.”
Sam shakes his head, still smiling.
She leans back in the chair, waking up inch by inch, while the kitchen fills with quiet laughter and the easy comfort of family.
• • •
Later that afternoon, the house settles into the slow quiet of a weekend day. Sam disappears into the garage to fix something that probably isn’t broken, and Eileen folds laundry in the living room with Miracle stretched across her feet like a very large obstacle. Jack sits on the floor near the coffee table, flipping through a children’s dinosaur book Dean had insisted he read earlier. Nellie leans against the arm of the couch, half-watching, half-resting, a glass of water balanced loosely in her hand.
Dean bursts into the room at full speed. “I need you,” he declares.
Jack looks up immediately. “Okay.”
Nellie doesn’t move. “That sounds suspicious.”
The boy ignores that. “There’s a dragon,” he says, pointing dramatically down the hallway. “And it stole my spaceship.”
He nods seriously. “That’s a problem.”
“A big problem.”
Dean turns to his cousin. “You have to help.”
She sighs heavily, setting her glass down. “I just woke up two hours ago,” she says.
“The dragon doesn’t care.”
Jack stands, offering a hand. “Sounds urgent.”
She stares at both of them for a second, then takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m not negotiating with a dragon.”
The hallway becomes a battlefield within seconds.
Dean runs ahead, narrating everything. “The dragon lives in the laundry room but sometimes he’s invisible,” he explains. “And the spaceship is under attack.”
Jack crouches slightly, scanning the hallway with exaggerated seriousness. “I think I hear wings,” he says.
He gasps.
Nellie leans against the wall, arms crossed in faux seriousness. “Classic dragon mistake. Too loud.”
He grabs her hand and pulls her forward. “You’re the knight!”
“I thought I was backup.”
“You’re both knights.”
The young man nods. “That’s fair.”
They reach the laundry room. Dean points dramatically at a pile of blankets. “There!”
Jack approaches cautiously.
She grabs a rolled-up magazine from the nearby table like it’s a sword. “On three.”
The boy counts loudly. “ONE — TWO — THREE!”
They attack the blanket pile together.
He shouts in victory. “The dragon is defeated!”
Jack bows slightly. “Excellent teamwork.”
She pokes the blanket once more for effect. “Confirmed,” she says. “Dragon neutralized.”
He beams. “You saved the spaceship!”
“That’s what we do,” the young man says.
He runs back down the hallway immediately, mission already complete in his mind. The two hunters remain in the laundry room for a moment.
“That was intense,” Jack says.
“Harrowing,” Nellie replies.
They share a small smile.
From the living room, Dean’s voice echoes again. “NOW THERE’S A ROBOT!”
He looks at her.
She sighs. “Five more minutes,” she says.
He grins.
The boy’s imagination has expanded from dragons and spaceships into something involving robots, a haunted castle, and at least one invisible ally. The living room floor is covered in blankets, blocks, and plastic dinosaurs. Jack sits cross-legged in the middle of it, listening seriously to the little boy’s explanation of the current mission. Nellie leans against the couch, arms folded, occasionally offering dry commentary that her cousin ignores completely. Eventually, he runs out of breath.
“I need water,” he declares, sprinting toward the kitchen.
Miracle trots after him. The kitchen is quiet when he arrives. Sunlight spills across the counter where Nellie’s phone sits face-up. It starts ringing.
Dean stares at it for half a second, then grabs it with both hands and presses the green button. “Hello?” he says proudly.
There’s a pause on the other end. Then a calm, older voice says, “Hello… is Ms. Branscomb available?”
“Who’s this?” he asks.
Sam steps into the kitchen just in time to see it. “Dean,” he says gently but firmly, crossing the room. “We don’t answer other people’s phones.”
The boy hands it over immediately. “It was ringing.”
“I know, buddy.” He lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
The voice on the other end responds, “This is Father O’Donnell. I may have called the wrong number.”
“Father,” he says, surprised. “It’s Sam. Wow… it’s been a while.”
Dean watches curiously.
“Is Nellie there?” the priest asks.
“She is. Everything okay?”
There’s a small pause.
“Oh yes,” Father O’Donnell replies warmly. “Nothing urgent. Nellie and I call occasionally. I was just hoping to catch her.”
He relaxes slightly. “That makes sense. Hold on a second.” He covers the phone and looks at his son. “Go grab Nellie for me.”
The boy nods and runs back down the hallway. A moment later, Nellie appears in the doorway, slightly out of breath. “What happened?” she asks.
Sam holds out the phone. “Father O’Donnell.”
Her expression shifts immediately, surprise, then warmth. “Oh,” she says, taking the phone. “Thanks.” She lifts it to her ear. “Hi, Father.” She steps into the guest room and closes the door halfway behind her, lowering her voice as she sits on the edge of the bed.
A little while later, Jack steps into the kitchen, glancing down the hallway.
“Have you seen Nellie?” he asks.
Sam looks up from the counter where he’s rinsing a mug. “She’s in the guest room. On the phone.”
He pauses. “On the phone?”
“Yeah.”
“With who?”
“Someone from a hunt.”
His posture tightens slightly. “Oh.”
Sam notices immediately. “No, not like that. You’re not getting called out.”
The young man relaxes a fraction.
“She keeps in contact with some people,” he explains, setting the mug in the drying rack. “Some of which helped her just as much as we helped them.”
From the living room, Dean’s voice rises in excitement again, followed by the sound of blocks hitting the floor.
He smiles faintly, then continues. “Father O’Donnell checks in on her sometimes. After that case, once he understood what Nellie does… he worried. She is pretty young to be handling something like that, and her abilities made it more complicated. He’s a good guy. Grounded. Keeps perspective.”
Jack glances toward the hallway. “Should I wait?” he asks.
He shrugs. “She won’t be long.”
The house continues around them. Quiet kitchen sounds, Dean narrating another imaginary battle, Miracle padding across the floor. It isn’t long before he is pulled back into the magical chaos of a five-year-old boy, while Nellie listens to the comforting words of a priest who cares about her enough to check in every now and then.
• • •
A couple of days pass faster than either of the hunters expect. The house falls into an easy rhythm: meals together, Dean’s endless imagination, quiet evenings that don’t require anyone to be on alert. For a little while, the world feels small and safe. But eventually, it’s time to leave. The Impala waits in the driveway, trunk open. Containers of leftovers sit carefully packed in a box Sam insisted on finding, wrapped in foil and plastic containers Eileen labeled with a marker.
She presses one more container into her niece’s hands. “Are you sure you packed everything?” she asks, speaking and signing at the same time.
“Yes,” Nellie says.
“You’ll eat it?”
“Yes.”
“Before it goes bad?”
“Yes.”
Eileen studies her for another second, then nods, satisfied.
Jack closes the trunk gently.
Sam steps forward, pulling his niece into a quick hug. “Drive safe,” he says.
“Always,” she replies.
He claps Jack on the shoulder next. “Take care of each other.”
The young man nods. “We will.”
Dean stands on the porch, arms crossed dramatically. “You’re leaving again.”
“Yeah,” Nellie replies.
“When are you coming back?”
“Soon.”
“That’s not a real answer.”
Jack smiles. “It’s the best one we’ve got.”
The boy considers that, unhappy but accepting. “Can I go with you?” he asks hopefully.
Sam answers immediately. “Not until you’re at least thirty.”
“That’s forever.”
Nellie crouches in front of him. “We’ll bring you souvenirs,” she says.
“From monsters?”
“No.”
“From ghosts?”
“No.”
Dean sighs. “Okay.” He hugs her tightly anyway. Then he hugs Jack.
Miracle trots down the steps, tail wagging slowly, and nudges Nellie’s hand. “Yeah,” she murmurs, scratching behind his ears. “We’ll miss you too.”
Eileen wraps her in another hug, longer this time. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will.”
She hugs Jack too. “Be careful,” she tells them both.
Sam opens the car door for his niece out of habit. She pauses before getting in, looking at the house one more time, the porch, the windows, the quiet normal life inside. Then she slides into the driver’s seat. Jack climbs in beside her. The engine turns over with a familiar rumble.
Dean waves from the porch. “Bye!” he shouts.
“Bye, buddy,” she calls back.
The Impala pulls away slowly, leaving the house behind as the road opens up again. For a while, neither of them speaks. But the quiet feels full, not empty.
“Dean’s robot voice was pretty convincing,” Jack says eventually.
“It was not,” Nellie replies.
“He committed to it.”
“That’s because he’s five.”
He smiles.
The bunker garage door rattles open a few hours later. The Impala rolls inside. Nellie sits behind the wheel for a moment before turning the key.
Jack doesn’t move. “Back to work,” he says.
“Back to work,” she agrees.
• • •
The next hunt is in a small town outside Wichita. An old church with peeling paint and a cemetery out back. The air smells like damp earth and cold stone. Jack salts the back entrance while Nellie checks the side windows.
“Done,” he says.
“Okay.”
They move inside together. Their timing isn’t perfect, but it’s natural now; the quiet awareness of where the other person is without needing to look. Later, they burn old bones behind the church while smoke drifts into the gray sky.
“That one was pretty straightforward,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He watches the flames for a moment. “I like straightforward.”
“Me too.”
• • •
A diner in Oklahoma. Nellie slides into a booth while Jack carries two plates back from the counter.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I wanted to.” He sets the food down carefully.
“You’re getting used to diners,” she adds.
“I like knowing what to expect,” he replies.
She nods. After a moment, she pushes half her fries toward his plate without comment. He takes them just as casually.
• • •
A motel room with flickering lights. Jack studies a map spread across the bed. “I think the pattern moves east,” he says.
Nellie looks over from the table. “Why?”
“The timeline between deaths.”
She nods once. “Good catch.”
He smiles, small but satisfied.
• • •
Another hunt goes wrong before it goes right. A spirit manifests fast in an empty house, throwing a chair across the room. Jack ducks instinctively, grabbing iron from his jacket.
“Behind you,” Nellie says.
He turns.
The ghost vanishes when the iron connects. Silence rushes back in.
He exhales.
“You okay?” Nellie asks.
“Yeah.”
“You moved faster.”
“I didn’t think,” he says.
“That’s the goal.”
• • •
The bunker kitchen smells faintly of dish soap and reheated soup. Lunch had been simple and now the routine cleanup unfolds in comfortable silence. Nellie stands at the sink rinsing a bowl while Jack dries dishes beside her, placing them carefully into the cabinet like each one might break if handled wrong. The overhead light hums softly. Water runs steadily over ceramic.
He glances toward her once, then back to the dish in his hands. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says.
She doesn’t look up. “That’s never a good opening,” she replies.
He smiles faintly, drying another plate. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Just… something I noticed.”
The faucet keeps running. She finishes rinsing the bowl and sets it in the rack before turning off the water. “What did you notice?” she asks.
He leans against the counter, folding the towel once in his hands. “Sometimes I hear you talking at night.”
She freezes. It’s small, almost invisible, but he sees it. Her shoulders go still. Her hands pause mid-motion before reaching for the next dish.
He softens his voice immediately. “Not every night,” he says quickly. “Just once in a while.”
She picks up a spoon from the sink and begins rinsing it, even though it’s already clean.
“When I wake up,” he continues, “I can hear you talking in your room.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “And… another voice.”
The spoon clinks softly against the sink. She then dries it carefully, placing it into the drawer with unnecessary precision. “What do you mean?” she asks, voice steady but quieter now.
He keeps his posture relaxed, making it clear he’s not accusing her of anything. “I was just curious who you were talking to,” he says.
She wipes her hands on a dish towel that doesn’t need wiping. Her mind moves faster than her body. Dean. Of course he had heard her talking to Dean. She keeps her back to him. “Sometimes I call Sam,” she answers. “I put it on speaker. You’re probably hearing him.”
He considers that and then nods. “Okay.”
She rinses the sponge and drops it back into the sink. “Well,” she says, a little too quickly, “kitchen’s done.” She walks past him before he can respond, footsteps steady but faster than usual as she disappears down the hallway. The bunker hum fills the space she leaves behind.
He stands there with the dish towel still in his hands. The explanation makes sense. Mostly. He thinks about the voice he heard. Low, steady, familiar in a way he can’t quite place.
But she had answered him. And she hadn’t sounded afraid. That matters. He folds the towel and sets it on the counter, turning off the kitchen light before heading back toward the library.
• • •
Dean appears the way he usually does, quietly, like he’s been standing there longer than the room has existed. Nellie doesn’t notice him at first. She’s balanced on a chair near the doorway of her room, sleeves rolled up, a piece of white chalk moving carefully across the bunker stone. The sigil is precise, curved lines intersecting with smaller marks that would mean nothing to anyone else. A faint dusting of chalk coats her fingertips. Another sigil already sits above the doorframe. Another near the vent. Another low along the baseboard.
He watches for a while, arms folded. “What’re you doing?” he finally asks.
She startles, the chalk squeaking slightly against the wall. “God, Dad,” she mutters. “Warning next time.”
He smirks. “You’re telling me that that spidey-sense of yours didn’t pick up your own dad?”
“It would’ve eventually.” She finishes the last line of the symbol and blows gently across it, sending chalk dust drifting down to the floor.
He steps further into the room, glancing from wall to wall. “You redecorating?”
“Security upgrade.”
He studies the markings. “Silencing sigils?”
“Yeah.”
“Inside your own room?”
She hops down from the chair and crouches near the floor, beginning another symbol along the baseboard. “Jack mentioned hearing me talking,” she says. “He said he hears another voice sometimes.” She finishes the sigil and brushes chalk dust from her palms.
He exhales slowly through his nose. “Guess I should whisper more.”
“You don’t whisper.”
“Fair.”
She sits back on her heels, scanning the room to make sure she hasn’t missed anywhere obvious.
He watches her carefully. “You didn’t tell him?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good.”
She stands, setting the chalk on the desk. She wipes her hands on her jeans, leaving faint white streaks. “I told Jack I was calling Sam.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That believable?”
“I said I had him on speaker.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Nice.”
She leans against the desk. “He believed me.”
“Mostly?” he guesses.
“Mostly.”
He nods. “That kid notices things.”
“I know.”
Dean steps closer to one of the sigils, studying it. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he says.
“It’s easier than explaining why I talk to empty air,” Nellie replies.
He smiles faintly. “Nells,” he says after a moment, “you shouldn’t have to keep secrets from your family.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m not.”
He tilts his head.
“I’m keeping one for you,” she clarifies.
That lands. He looks at her for a long moment, something complicated passing through his expression. Pride, guilt, gratitude. “Thanks, kiddo” he says.
Nellie shrugs like it’s nothing.
Dean leans back against the wall near the door. “How’s Jack doing?”
“Better,” she replies. “He’s getting faster. More confident.”
“He good to you?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
Dean watches her face, making sure.
“Yeah,” she repeats.
“Good,” he says. Dean pushes off the wall. “You gonna get some sleep?”
“Eventually.”
He smiles. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
She smirks. “You’re one to talk.”
His grin widens. Then he’s gone. The room returns to its quiet hum, chalk dust still scattered across the floor.
• • •
The bunker is quiet in that late-night way that makes even small sounds feel deliberate. It had been a few days since that awkward conversation in the kitchen. Jack sits alone at the library table, a notebook open in front of him. A pen moves slowly across the page as he writes, pausing every few lines to think. The overhead light casts a small circle across the paper, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. He writes the date first. Then the location. Then the creature. His handwriting is careful, deliberate, like he’s trying to make the memory stay where it belongs.
“Salt-and-burn,” he murmurs to himself, jotting it down. “Basement manifestation… delayed appearance…” He pauses. Something about the timeline feels wrong.
He leans back slightly, pen hovering above the paper. The hunt had been simple. A farmhouse outside Dodge City. A lingering spirit attached to the property line. Nothing unusual. Nothing dangerous. But the details don’t line up in his memory. He taps the pen once against the notebook.
“Three hours,” he says quietly.
No. Two. He frowns. He flips back a page in the notebook, rereading what he’s already written. The words are accurate, but the gaps between them feel larger than they should be. Like something missing. He presses his thumb against the edge of the paper, thinking.
“Okay,” he says to himself. Nellie would remember. She always does.
He closes the notebook halfway and stands from the table. His footsteps echo lightly in the hallway as he leaves the library, moving toward the sleeping quarters. The corridor feels longer at night. When he reaches Nellie’s door, he notices the faint glow beneath it, a lamp still on. He hesitates for a second, listening. Then he raises his hand to open it the rest of the way.
• • •
Nellie sits cross-legged on her bed, a book forgotten beside her, one hand gesturing as she talks. “I’m telling you,” she says, “it wasn’t even a real haunting. Residual energy, faulty wiring, and a town that wanted a ghost story.”
Dean leans back in the desk chair across from her, boots hooked around the chair legs, looking completely at ease. “Hey, I’ve seen worse cases,” he replies. “Remember that motel in Reno?”
“That was not a ghost. That was plumbing.”
“Still terrifying.”
She smirks despite herself. “Jack handled it well, though. He is gotten good at reading my moves.”
He nods, proud in that quiet way he never tries to hide with her. “Kid always had potential.”
She leans back on her hands, shoulders loose, posture relaxed. “You’d like him now,” she says.
He smiles. “I do like—”
The door pushes open and Jack steps in slowly, notebook in hand. “Hey, Nellie, I had a question about the timeline on that basement —” He stops. The notebook lowers. His eyes move past her. To Dean. Everything in him goes still.
The Winchester straightens in the chair, equally surprised.
Nellie’s body locks up. Her stomach drops. “No,” she whispers.
He blinks once, twice, like his vision might correct itself. “Dean?” he says.
The name sounds fragile in the room.
Dean lifts one hand in a small, uncertain wave. “Hey, kid.”
His face changes instantly; disbelief, relief, joy all colliding at once. “You’re — you’re here,” he says, voice breaking slightly. “You’re alive?”
“Nope. Still dead.”
Jack lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh. “I don’t understand,” he says, stepping further into the room. “How is this possible?”
Nellie stands abruptly. “Jack, you need to go.” Her voice is sharp enough to cut through the moment.
He looks at her, confused. “What? Nellie —”
“I said go.” She moves toward him, trying to guide him back toward the hallway, hands firm against his arm.
He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t leave either. “Nellie, he’s right there.”
“I know.”
“Then why —”
“Please,” she says, voice tight.
Dean watches the panic rise in her, the way her breathing changes. “Nellie,” he says.
She doesn’t look at him.
He sighs quietly. “Kid,” he says, gentler now, “it’s too late. Cat’s out of the bag.”
She stops.
Jack looks between them, stunned. “This is who you’ve been talking to?”
Silence answers.
He turns fully toward Dean again. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he says, voice full of something fragile and grateful.
The Winchester smiles softly. “Missed you too.”
But Nellie hasn’t moved. She stands in the center of the room, staring at her dad like the world might disappear if she looks away. Her hands tremble slightly. Her chest rises too fast.
Jack notices first. Then Dean. His expression changes immediately.
“Hey,” he says, stepping toward her. “What’s wrong?”
The young man looks between them. “Nellie?”
She doesn’t answer.
He moves closer, careful, like approaching a frightened animal. “Nell…”
Her eyes shine now, tears gathering without falling. She looks smaller somehow, like the room is too big around her. Her voice barely comes out. “Please don’t leave me.”
He stops a few feet in front of her, the humor from earlier gone completely. “What do you mean?” he asks.
Nellie tries to answer, but her voice catches before the words can form. She presses her lips together, blinking hard, trying to force the tears back where they came from. It doesn’t work. One slips down her cheek anyway. Then another.
Jack has never seen her like this. Not on hunts. Not after injuries. Not even when she thought no one was looking. She is always controlled, always steady, even when she’s scared.
Now she looks like she’s barely holding herself together.
“Hey,” Dean says, softer now. “Talk to me.”
She shakes her head, breathing uneven. “Please don’t leave,” she says again, voice small and raw. “I don’t want you to go.”
His brow furrows. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She shakes her head again, faster, like the words aren’t enough. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m literally standing right here,” he says gently.
“No,” she replies, voice breaking. “Not tonight. After this.”
Jack’s stomach drops.
Dean glances back at him briefly, then returns his attention to his daughter, focus narrowing completely onto her. “What are you talking about?”
Nellie wipes at her face with the heel of her hand, frustrated with herself, angry that she can’t stop crying. “Now that Jack’s seen you,” she answers, struggling to keep the words steady, “you’re not going to come back.”
The room goes quiet.
Jack feels the weight of that immediately. “Oh,” he says softly. “Nellie, I didn’t — I didn’t mean to ruin anything.”
Dean shakes his head before she can respond. “You didn’t ruin anything.” Then he turns back to her. “Baby,” he says, voice steady but gentler than the young man has ever heard it, “why would you think that?”
She can’t look at him. Her hands twist together, knuckles pale. “I just got you,” she says, barely above a whisper.
His expression softens, something aching moving behind his eyes.
“I just got my dad back,” she continues, voice trembling now. “After everything. After… after not having you at all.” Her shoulders shake once, and she swallows hard. “And this was my only chance. This was it. And now you’re not going to come back.” The words sound like something she’s been afraid of since the first night he appeared.
He steps closer, careful, slow. “Whoa, hey. That’s not how this works.”
She finally looks up at him, eyes red and shining. “You won’t be able to. Because Jack knows.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Just because Jack knows doesn’t mean I stop visiting.”
Nellie blinks. The idea doesn’t land. Her confusion is immediate, genuine. “You… wouldn’t?”
He frowns slightly. “Why would I?”
She hesitates, searching for words she’s never had to say out loud before. “Because that’s how it works,” she answers.
He tilts his head. “How what works?”
Her voice gets quieter. “When people find out things they’re not supposed to know… you lose them.”
Jack feels that one like a punch to the chest.
Dean’s face shifts, understanding clicking into place. “That’s not this.”
She shakes her head weakly. “It always is.”
He steps closer again, not quite touching her yet. “Nellie,” he says softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
She looks at him like she wants to believe it but doesn’t know how. “You promise?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I promise.”
Her breathing starts to steady, but her confusion remains, the kind that comes from a lifetime of rules suddenly not applying. She looks between Dean and Jack, uncertain, vulnerable in a way neither of them has ever seen. “You’re… still going to come back?” she asks again.
Dean nods once. “Yeah.” Then he glances toward Jack. “I don’t mind Jack knowing.”
Nellie looks up, surprised.
He meets Jack’s eyes directly now. “But I’d still like to keep this between us,” he adds. “At least when it comes to Sam.”
The young man nods slowly. “Of course.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, a familiar nervous habit. “Sam already went through losing me. He mourned. He figured out how to keep living. Built a life with Eileen. Got a kid. Found some peace. If I just show up again, that tears all of that open.”
Jack nods. “You don’t want to disrupt that.”
“Yeah. Exactly.” He shifts his weight slightly, uncomfortable with how exposed the conversation feels. “Cas told me about Nellie not long after I got to Heaven. Told me I had a daughter on Earth. A kid who didn’t know who she was. Who’d been through hell already. I couldn’t stay away. So, I started visiting when I could. Checking in. Talking. Being… her dad. As much as a ghost can be. It’s not much, but it’s what I’ve got.”
He nods again, understanding fully now. “And it matters.”
Dean gives a small, grateful smile. Then he looks back at his daughter, making sure she’s okay, father mode still fully engaged.
Jack nods slowly, the pieces settling into place. “I won’t tell,” he says. “I promise.”
He watches him for a moment, measuring the sincerity there, then nods once in return. “Thanks, kid.”
The young man looks at Nellie next, offering a small, reassuring smile; the same quiet one he uses after hunts when things don’t go perfectly but everyone’s still standing. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “Really.”
She nods, still a little shaken, but calmer now.
“I’ll… leave you two to finish talking,” he adds. He turns toward the door.
“Hey,” Dean calls after him.
He pauses.
“You can join us sometimes. Doesn’t always have to be a secret meeting.”
He looks surprised, then pleased. “I’d like that.”
The Winchester nods once.
Jack steps into the hallway and pulls the door closed behind him, leaving the room quiet again. For a moment, neither Nellie nor Dean speaks. The bunker hum fills the silence.
He steps closer, softer now, all the sharp edges gone. “Hey,” he says.
She looks at him, eyes still a little red.
“I’m still here.”
She nods, but he can see she’s still afraid to believe it fully.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats. “Jack knowing doesn’t change anything.”
Her voice is small when she answers. “I thought it would.”
“I know.” He reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder. Not solid, but somehow real enough that she feels it. “You don’t lose people just because someone else sees them.”
She lets out a slow breath. “I’m still getting used to that,” she admits.
“Yeah. That takes time.”
The room feels smaller now, safer.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he adds.
She shakes her head. “I lied.”
“You protected something that mattered to you,” he replies. “That’s different.”
She considers that. After a moment, she gives him a small smile. “You’re still going to visit?” she asks again.
He smiles. “Yeah, baby. I’m still gonna visit.”
This time, she believes him.
• • •
Morning in the bunker arrives slowly, the kind of quiet that feels heavier after a restless night. Jack steps into the kitchen and immediately notices Nellie at the table. She’s already awake, wrapped in an oversized flannel, a mug of coffee cradled between both hands. The overhead lights are still dim, casting long shadows across the floor. She looks tired. Not physically, but emotionally.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” she replies. Her voice is steady, but softer than usual.
Jack pours himself a cup of coffee, moving carefully, deliberately quiet. He doesn’t sit right away, leaning against the counter instead, giving her space to exist in the silence if she needs it.
Steam curls from both mugs.
She stares into her coffee like she’s trying to gather the right words from the surface. Finally, she speaks. “I’m sorry.”
He looks up immediately. He crosses the kitchen and sits across from her, elbows resting lightly on the table.
“For last night,” she continues, still not looking at him.
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do.” Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug. “I didn’t mean to… react like that.”
His voice stays gentle. “I understand. And I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with Dean.”
That makes her look up briefly. “I know.” The apology isn’t really about him. They both know that.
He takes a sip of coffee and starts to stand, thinking the conversation has ended.
“There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” she says.
He sits back down immediately. “Okay.”
She takes a slow breath, steadying herself. “When you first showed up, and we went back to Sam and Eileen’s… I was scared. I thought I was going to have to share them. My family.” Her voice is calm, but vulnerable in a way he’s never heard before. “I didn’t know where I fit.”
He nods slowly.
“But that part’s okay now,” she adds. “It’s actually… good.”
He smiles faintly. “You belong there.”
“But there’s more.”
He waits.
“I was jealous of you.”
He blinks, confused. “Jealous?”
She nods once. “You knew my dad when he was alive.”
The realization hits Jack immediately. “Oh.”
“I never got that,” Nellie continues. “I never got to know him like that.” Her gaze drifts to the table. “He couldn’t be there when I was growing up. My mom…” she starts, then stops. Her jaw tightens. “She really wasn’t a mother. When things were bad, I used to imagine my dad showing up. Like in stories. Just… walking through the door and taking me away.” Her fingers tremble slightly against the ceramic mug. “I thought if he knew about me, he’d come. But by the time he did know, he was already dead. I never got the chance to hug him. I never got the dad I needed growing up. And that hurts.”
He nods slowly. He understands now. Why Dean’s visits matter so much. Why losing them felt impossible. Why the secret mattered.
“Even like this,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, “it matters.” Her words sit between them, heavy but honest. She doesn’t look up right away, eyes fixed on the slow swirl of coffee in her mug.
He doesn’t speak immediately. He rarely does when something matters. Instead, he sits there for a long moment, fingers loosely wrapped around his own cup, thinking.
Then he exhales softly. “I understand,” he says.
She glances up.
His gaze drops to the table again as he continues. “I would give anything to see my mom,” he admits. “I only know her from what Sam, Dean, and Cas told me. And from the videos she made.” He smiles faintly, sad, but warm. “She knew she wouldn’t get to see me grow up. So, she left messages. For later.”
She nods slowly.
“I still watch them sometimes. When I forget what she sounded like.” The honesty in his voice is simple and unguarded. “And my father…” he hesitates. “You know. He wasn’t much of a parent. Mostly he just caused problems.” That’s the gentlest way to say it, and they both know it.
He looks back up at her. “So, I understand.” Not sympathy. Understanding.
Nellie leans back slightly in her chair, absorbing that. She had known parts of Jack’s story before but hearing it like this — plain and personal — makes it feel different. More real. “Yeah,” she says quietly.
“I won’t tell Sam.”
She looks up.
“I promise,” Jack continues. “That’s your time with Dean. I won’t interfere with that. And I won’t bother you when he visits. Unless you want me there.”
She nods once, grateful. “Thank you.”
He shifts slightly in his chair, thinking. “It was… strange,” he admits.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Seeing him like that,” he clarifies. “With you.”
“How?”
He searches for the right words. “Soft. I knew Dean when he was…” he gestures vaguely, “…Dean. Sarcastic. Tired. Always pretending things didn’t bother him.”
“That sounds right.”
“But with you, he’s different.”
She looks down at her coffee again.
“He’s still Dean. He still jokes. Still deflects. But he doesn’t hide it as much.” He hesitates, then adds, “He’s a natural at it. Being your dad.”
Her grip tightens slightly around the mug.
“He won’t admit that,” he says.
That earns a small, real smile. “No,” she agrees. “He wouldn’t.”
He leans back slightly. “I’ve seen Dean care about people. But seeing him care about you is… different. It’s rare. Even when he was alive.”
The kitchen grows quiet again. But the quiet feels steadier now, grounded in something shared rather than hidden.
Nellie turns her mug slowly between her hands, thinking. “I don’t mind you joining us sometimes,” she says. “When he visits.”
Jack nods.
“But I still need time that’s just… me and him,” she adds.
“Of course.”
She exhales, shoulders lowering as she settles more comfortably into the chair. “He is the reason why I hunted alone for so long.”
He tilts his head slightly. “How so?”
“He’d ride with me sometimes. In the Impala.”
Jack smiles faintly, imagining Dean in the passenger seat of the Impala, giving commentary she definitely didn’t ask for.
“Or he’d show up in motel rooms. Before a hunt. After a hunt. Whenever I needed him.” She pauses. “He can’t do much physically, but he helped. Emotionally and… teaching.”
“Teaching?”
“Hunter stuff. How to think through cases. How to trust my instincts. How to keep going when things got hard.” She shrugs lightly. “As much as a spirit can.”
He nods. “That sounds like him.”
She nods in agreement. She traces a finger along the rim of her mug. “It made being alone less… alone. But —” she looks up at him now “— it’s different with an actual partner.”
He sits a little straighter.
“Better,” she says.
A small smile crosses his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “It’s nice having someone there for real.”
He smiles, quietly happy with that.
The kitchen feels warmer somehow, the morning finally settling into something steady and normal again.
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