Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This is gonna hurt like a bitch.

That was Dean’s first thought as the floor of Heaven dropped out from under him, hurling him into open air like some cosmic bad joke. Wind whipped past him, slapping his face, tugging at his clothes—but he had no control over his fall, no way to steer or brace.

They say falling feels like flying—until you hit the ground. So far, the first part checked out.
The air grew hotter as he plummeted, a blistering heat that licked at his skin like the breath of Hell itself. And then—

Crash.

He slammed through the roof of a long-forgotten building, wood and dust exploding around him. When the haze settled, he stood, brushing debris off his jacket, blinking into the familiar wreckage. He scanned the place for a moment before he saw it. 

There it was. 

The rebar, the one that impaled Dean and took aways his last moments on earth, now lay lonesome and innocent in the middle of the abandoned property. 

Dean took a few careful steps toward it. The rest of the room melted away, sound dulled, like time was folding in on itself. Was this real? Had the years in Heaven with Sam just been a dream? Some angel’s idea of a kind lie?

Then the rumbling started.

Low at first—like distant thunder—but growing fast. On instinct, Dean spun around, looking for the source of the sound, now cursing his luck and lack of weapons. 

He heard the distinct crunch of gravel as burrows started appearing around him, the soil falling through them making way for God knows what. 

Dean stepped closer to get a better look. A hand. Alive. Clawing its way out of the dirt like some zombie rising from the dead. 

Five others followed around him, and owing to his lack of ammunition, he could only come up with one plan. 

Run. 

Chapter Text

Dean’s boots pounded the earth, lungs burning, heart doing double time.

He didn’t know where he was running to—only that he needed to get the hell away from here. Every few strides, he risked a glance over his shoulder, expecting something to be just a breath away— 

Thump.

He slammed head first into someone, crashing backward onto the dirt.

Dean groaned and looked up— Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Standing over him was a familiar face.
A vampire.
Not just any vampire— that vampire. The one Dean had killed right before he died.

How’s this even possible? 

“What the hell…” Dean muttered, scrambling backward as the bloodsucker bared his teeth.

The vamp looked freshly resurrected and twice as pissed. And hungry.

“Well,” Dean said, stalling. “You look good. Guess that whole beheading thing didn’t stick, huh?”

The vampire snarled. “No thanks to you.”

Dean’s smile wavered as he heard the crunch of approaching footsteps. More of them. They were circling—taking their time. Savoring this.

Of course they were.
Why wouldn’t they want to be the ones to finally end Dean Winchester (again)?

Dean’s internal monologue was cut short by the sensible part of his brain telling him to Move. He tried to make a break for it once again but the vampire was having none of that. He lunged for Dean’s neck, teeth bared, and they crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and fury.

The bloodsucker snarled, inching closer, breath foul with rot and thirst. Dean gritted his teeth, straining to push him off, but he was pinned—out of options and out of time.

Then—red.

A violent splash of crimson blinded him. Dean flinched, wiped at his face—only to realize the vampire’s head was now lying next to him. .

“What the hell—” he gruntled, as he pushed the dead vamp off him and scrambled to his feet, looking around for his knight in shining armour. 

All he caught was a blur of movement and a wild head of hair—then a machete hit the dirt beside him with a satisfying thunk .

Dean didn’t think twice before grabbing the blade, just in time to meet the second vampire mid-lunge. He ducked out of the way before swinging hard, slicing the head clean off its body. It went flying into the dirt like a dropped melon. 

Two down.

Dean was counting off in his head, making sure none of them are missed. He barely had time to assess his whereabouts before another one tackled him from the side. They rolled with punches flying in vain before he had Dean pinned to the ground, his machete held between them the only protection he had. Dean had the blade pressed against his jaw as the vampire bared its fangs, bringing them inches from his neck. 

Suddenly—schwick!

As if re-living the moment from seconds ago, the vampire's head toppled off him, spraying more blood off his face. 

“Three,” came a voice. A woman’s. Dean looked up to see her smirking back at him, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Sorry about the blood.” She said before she moved away, heading for the fourth. 

Another vamp charged her from the side, teeth bared. She sidestepped, ducked, and jammed her blade upward through its jaw, angling toward the brain. With a sharp yank, she tore it out sideways, taking half the head with it.

“Four,” she muttered.

The last one hesitated. It eyed Dean and the girl, baring its second set of fangs with a hiss, unsure of its next move.

Dean glanced at the girl. She met his look, brow arched in a silent challenge.

“Wanna share this one?” she asked, already raising her blade.

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Dean muttered, gripping his machete.

The vampire hissed, sensing the shift, and lunged—teeth bared, ready to attack. Dean twisted, catching it mid-charge and holding it in place.

The girl was already there—blade flashing in a perfect arc. The vampire’s head came clean off.

It hit the ground with a dull thud. The body sagged in Dean’s grip, dead weight.
Dean let it drop, and wiped vampire blood off his cheek.

“Well… that’s a hell of a way to meet a girl.”

“Come on. We’re running late,” the girl called over her shoulder, already moving.

“Late for what? A date?” Dean smirked, falling into step behind her. The main road wasn’t far—close enough to ease off the tension, if only slightly.

She glanced back at him with a crooked, teasing smile.
“You can say that.”

They moved in silence for maybe two minutes before Dean couldn’t take it anymore. “So… where are we going?”

“Wow,” she said, not looking at him. “You really can’t handle silence, can you?”

“Hey! I’ve got reasons to be curious, okay?” Dean exclaimed, offended at the accusation. 

“Reasons like… you just came back to life in the exact spot you died?” she said, raising an eyebrow before turning back to the road.

Before Dean could register what she said, something caught Dean’s eye, stopping him in his tracks. They were almost out of the woods when Dean saw it—a shape in the clearing. A car.

Wait… that looks familiar.

Too familiar. Dean would recognize that grille anywhere.

He bolted, sprinting past the girl in two strides like a man possessed. There she was, just as he remembered.

Baby.

He skidded to a stop in front of the Impala, his hand hovering before finally resting on the hood.

Dean paused, his eyebrows coming together in confusion before turning back to face the girl, who had made no effort to pick up her pace. 

She was just reaching the clearing when he immediately asked, “Why do you have her? he demanded. “And how the hell did you know that I came back from the dead?”

She stopped a few feet away, completely unbothered. “I know a lot of things about you, Dean.”

“Yeah, but how?” he pressed, his lips stretching wide at the last word. His mind noticed, but brushed over the fact that she knew his name. If she had his car, it wasn’t surprising she knew her name.

“I have my ways. I’ll tell you on the way,” she said, tossing him the keys.

He caught them one-handed, and after a moment’s hesitation, slid behind the wheel in a move perfected over the years… adjusting the seat just how he liked it, scanning everything—radio, mirror, glovebox. All there.

“On the way to where? ” he asked, hand already on the ignition.

“To your date,” she said sweetly, flashing him a crooked, honeyed smile.

“Now can you tell me who am I driving and where are we going?”

"I'm Emma." She smiled.

Emma. Have I heard that name before?

“And as for the where… I’ll give you directions, don’t worry. Just drive.” 

They eventually pulled up to an old cabin nestled between thick pines. It looked worn, but lived in. The walls were sun-bleached, not rotting. The doors rusted, but sturdy. The porch sagged slightly—but not a single speck of dust clung to it.

“Home sweet home,” Emma announced, hopping out of the car and heading for the door without looking back.

Dean followed, his boots crunching against gravel as he took it all in, instincts buzzing.

As they neared the front steps, a figure emerged from the shadows of the porch.

Flannel shirt. Broad shoulders. Long hair.

Dean stopped dead.

His breath caught in his throat as the figure stepped fully into the light.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, voice cracking on the word.

Sam's eyes filled with recognition as he broke into a wide grin, raising his hand to wave at his big brother.

“Sammy!” Dean exhaled, crossing the distance in three long strides and yanking his brother into a bone-crushing hug.

Even though he’d just seen Sam hours ago in Heaven, it felt like it’s been years. They slap each other’s backs—one, two, three times—before finally pulling apart.

“Well,” Emma cut in, arms crossed. “Now that we’re all caught up, can we go inside and talk about why we’re here?”

Dean shot her a look but didn't argue. With a sigh, he followed them in.

The air inside was thick with the scent of whiskey… and weed. It was late—almost midnight—and the chill in the air was starting to settle in.

"Sam, why don’t you get the fire going while I fix us some dinner?"

Sam lifted a brow. "Dinner? You? No, thanks. How about you handle the fire while I make the food? Dean just fell from the damn sky —I’d rather not have him crash and burn twice in one night."

From the doorway, Dean watched the exchange in silence, feeling like an outsider while these two talked like they’ve known each other forever.

Emma brushed past him as he stood there, trying to figure out what to do with his hands. "You want a beer? There’s a six-pack in the fridge," she said over her shoulder, nodding toward the kitchen.

"Don’t mind if I do," Dean muttered, shaking out his hands before heading in.

The second he was alone with Sam, he didn’t waste time. "Alright, what the hell is going on? Why are you acting like you live here? Who is this girl? I swear, if this is another one of your flings—"

"Dean, stop." Sam replied, his voice firm and low. He glanced toward the doorway before stepping in closer. "I got here yesterday . I don’t know what’s going on either. One minute, I was in Heaven, the next, I woke up here, and she was already waiting for me."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "And you just trusted her?"

"Of course not!" Sam snapped. "I don’t trust any of this. But until we figure out what the hell is happening, we need to play it smart. So let’s eat, get our bearings, and then start asking the real questions. Okay?"

Dean exhaled sharply, but he can’t argue with that logic. "Fine. But I’m not letting my guard down."

"Yeah, no kidding," Sam muttered, turning back to the stove.

The room was dim, lit only by the crackling fire in the hearth. The wooden table between them felt too small as the Winchesters racked their brains for what's about to come. Sam’s fingers tapped absently against his beer bottle, eyes locked on Emma. Dean, arms crossed, leaned back in his chair, watching her like a wolf sizing up a threat.

“Alright, enough stalling. We’ve eaten. We drank. Now, talk.”

Emma, who’d been stalling for time since she stepped foot in the house, finally stopped pacing. She took a breath, eyes flicking between the two brothers sitting across from her.

“So,” she started, a little hesitant. “As you know... you’re back. Alive. You weren’t a couple days ago.”

Dean gave a dry snort. “Yeah, we noticed.”

Emma ignored the sarcasm and pressed on. “And I’m guessing you didn’t exactly get a memo from upstairs, either.”

Sam leaned forward, his brow tight. “We just… showed up. One second we’re in Heaven, the next—”

“You wake up back where you died,” Emma finished for him, nodding. “Yeah. I know.” 

Silence fell in the cabin, as the boys waited for her to continue. 

“Well. Go on.” Dean urged, growing impatient by the second. Emma cleared her throat before speaking again. 

“So… there’ve been strange occurrences lately. Monsters who were seemingly killed-slash-destroyed many years ago, are showing up again. Not just purgatory freaks. Some are from Hell too.”

“What do you mean ‘coming back’?” Sam asked, brows furrowed. “Like someone’s bringing them out?”

“Yeah. At first, I didn’t even know those were old, ‘once-dead’ monsters. I just went on hunts, business as usual. Until… I caught a pattern on one of them.” 

She took a breath.

“A couple weeks ago, I picked up a case. Group of campers went missing in Colorado. No bodies. Just blood, wrecked tents, torn-up packs. No tracks leading in or out. Like they vanished into thin air.”

The boys sat in silence, listening.

“But when I tracked it, I realised the patterns were similar to something I had read about.”

Sam frowned. “Read where?”

Emma didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached into her bag, pulled out a worn leather book, and dropped it onto the table.

John Winchester’s journal.

Dean’s gaze flicked to it, but he chose not to react. 

Then she pulled out another—printed pages, bound together. Sam’s old case files.

Sam shifted slightly, his jaw tightening.

And then, the last one.

Dean picked it up before she can say anything, flipping through the pages. His own writing stared back at him. Notes. Sketches. Everything he’d ever written down.

His fingers drummed once against the table. Then he exhaled, sharp and short, and tossed it back. 

“All right. You’ve got our attention,” he said. “What is all this? You some kind of grave robber?”

Emma whipped her face to Dean on that comment, offended. “What–No! No.” She exclaimed, shaking her face  vigorously. “And how could I possibly be when both of you were cremated? Did you forget about the hunter’s funeral?” She asked, trying to talk some sense into him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, right. Whatever. How did you get these?” He asked, his tone raising back up. 

Emma’s gaze didn’t falter. “Research.” She said, her eyes big like a puppy’s. 

“Let’s not digress,” she added, turning the conversation back on track. “The campers. It was clearly a wendigo, right? But look at this.”

She flipped open John’s journal and tapped a page where coordinates were scrawled in messy handwriting.

They both leaned in, still confused.

She looked between them, eyes alight with urgency. “Now look at where I found the one hunting the campers.”

She spun her iPad around, the screen glowing in the low light.

“35° 45.383°, -111° 00.55°W.”

Sam’s expression darkened.

Emma nodded. “Blackwater Ridge.” Her voice, steady.

“That was one of our first hunts together,” Dean muttered, still staring at the coordinates. “A wendigo.”

Emma nodded once.

“Two in the same place within twenty years?” Sam shook his head. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Exactly. “Wendigos don’t just pop up,” Emma added. “It takes centuries. The transformation’s slow. There’s no way a new one has formed there already.”

Dean was already on his feet, pacing, iPad still in hand.

“So you’re saying… this was the same one we killed? And it’s alive?”

Emma met his eyes, her silence answering the question for her.

Chapter Text

The morning came and so did Emma’s responsibilities. While the boys caught some sleep, trying to regain some strength from having just come back from the dead, Emma stuck to her morning ritual: leave out some kibble for the friendly neighborhood cat, work out, shower, and then sit at her desk, scanning for anything strange that might have cracked the earth and crawled out overnight.

Faint snores from the living room filled the silence as she scrolled through local newspapers, searching for patterns or anything weird happening across the country. She started with national news—nothing. Then regional sources. Since she already knew these resurrected bastards would be showing up where they died, that narrowed the search down significantly.

Kansas... still quiet.

Utah... nothing so far.

Chicago... some weird activity, but nothing that screams undead horror. She made a note to pass it along to Garth.

Wisconsin… wait. What IS this?

Baxter's Hollow, North Freedom, Wisconsin.

Unsettling Animal Deaths Shock Town!
A series of local animals, including deer and smaller creatures, have been found mutilated, their organs missing. Authorities are baffled, with no clear explanation for the brutal killings. Experts say the method of organ removal is highly unusual, sparking fears of something far more sinister at work. Residents are urged to stay alert, especially pet owners, as the mystery deepens. Authorities have yet to find any solid leads.

This sounds oddly familiar. She bookmarked the tab and moved on.

A few obituaries and many wedding announcements later, she came across another one.

Heart-Ripping Killings Stun Locals!
A string of brutal murders has rocked the community, with victims found with their hearts ripped out. Authorities are struggling to find any clues. As fear spreads, the police urge anyone with information to come forward. But as the body count rises, no answers have emerged.

Emma exhaled. Clear as day.

Werewolf.

That, on its own, wasn’t enough for her to ditch the bigger picture. She bookmarked the articles, jotted down some notes, and started drafting an email to Garth. He can take care of this one for now.

However, before she could move on to the next city in her list, something stopped her. She was having an uncomfortable feeling that she missed something.

Something about the first tabloid seems odd.

Her cursor hovered over the first article.

She clicked on it and reread it. Once. Twice. Three times.

Mutilated animals. That could be anything. Organs missing… maybe a scavenger? A sicko with a scalpel?

But the location is what stuck out to her.

Wisconsin.

Wisconsin. Why is that bothering me? Isn't that where Garth lives?

Her fingers drummed against her desk as she flipped through her own journal, straight to the section where she kept notes on other hunters’ whereabouts.

G..... Garth - Wisconsin. Yes! He does. But why does that matter. Am I missing something? What am I missing?

After racking her brain for a few more minutes, she gave up trying to find what her brain finds wrong and decided to move on to the next city.

If it's important, it'll come back to me.

She reached for Dean’s journal, flipping through pages to see which other cities she could check, until a familiar word caught her eye.

Wisconsin.

Hmm.

She decides to have a look and finds a bunch of entries from January 2014, including tabloid articles, missing person's reports and several crime scene photographs.

"...Local pets turning up dead, organs missing. Clean cuts. No signs of struggle...."

"...First human body. Heart ripped out..."

"...The Maw of Fenris.... cult... Joy Meyers..."

"... Sam and I went in guns blazing, dropping a few of Joy’s goons before they even knew what hit them. Joy didn’t get away. We ended it—put her down and took out her fanatic followers. The pack was done."

Emma’s breath hitched as she slammed the journal shut.

Another one. A werewolf pack.

It's time to hit the road.

She pulled up the map on her phone and bookmarked the location. She scribbled down the names from the articles—there weren’t many, but it was a start. More answers would come once they got boots on the ground.

While packing up, she grabbed everything in her house that screamed silver. Personal silverware. A knife she’d stolen off some thug who tried to mug her in Houston. A couple of throwing stars she’d made from old jewelry. And, of course, the classics— silver bullets.

Once she was ready, she rushed into the living room.

"Come on, boys," she said, shaking Dean awake.

He frowned and immediately turned over, hugging his pillow tighter.

"Beauty sleep is over," she said, already shaking Sam next. "We've got a lead."

Sam groaned, but was already sitting up, stretching. "Lead on what?"

"No time to explain. It’s a long drive to Wisconsin."

Dean, face still buried in the pillow, grumbled, "How far?" to which Emma didn’t answer.

"Speaking of..." He finally peeled his face from the pillow, squinting at her. "Where are we anyway? I don’t remember seeing any markers on the way in."

"We are right outside Yellowstone, my friends."

Dean sat up so fast, she almost laughed.

"Yellowstone?! As in Montana? That’s like a 20-hour drive to Wisconsin!"

"Yup." Emma casually slung her bag over her shoulder. "Good thing we’ve got you to drive."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "No way in hell."

"Oh? Guess I could drive..." She let the words hang just long enough. "But do you really wanna hand off Baby to some stranger on your first day back?"

Dean clenched his jaw.

He knew what she was doing.

And, annoyingly, it worked .

Grumbling, he threw off his blanket and stomped toward his duffel. Emma had taken the liberty of buying them both clothes—good, in theory. But, while she stuck with good ol' flannels for Sam, she had gone off the rails for Dean.

He picked out the least offensive option from his lot - a T-shirt with Smurfs on it - and wore it quickly so as not to second-guess himself and heard a soft chuckle behind him.

I swear I'm going to kill her one day.

Thankfully, she didn't show the same creativity with his overshirts and jackets.

While Sam and Dean sat up front in silence, Emma lounged in the back, one leg propped against the opposite window of Baby , scrolling through more reports on the Wisconsin deaths.

"So, spill. What’s so damn important in Wisconsin that we have to drive straight through without pit stops?"

Emma didn’t look up. Instead, she smirked and quipped, "Were you always such a lazy bum, Dean? Or did Heaven scrub away every last bit of adventure in you?"

Dean gritted his teeth. It took everything in him not to throw her out of the car right then and there.

“At least I have an excuse sweetheart.” He fired back. “You, on the other hand. Were you always such an annoying bitch? Or did something special happen?” 

Emma narrowed her eyes and was about to say something but Sam cut her off with a sharp, "I cannot do this for 20 whole hours. Either talk about something productive… or shut up."

He turned in his seat to give Emma a pointed look, and she signalled as if zipping her mouth shut. 

A few beats of silence passed before she spoke again. "I was going through some local news this morning to see if anything stood out." She handed Sam her iPad, where she’d compiled clippings from the two articles.

Sam read them aloud, his voice steady as Dean listened intently.

The second he finished, Dean gave Sam a quick look. "Werewolf?"

"At first, that's all I thought it was." Emma starts rummaging through her rucksack. "But look" she said, flipping some pages through Dean's journal before handing it over to Sam when she found what she was looking for.

His eyes scanned the entries—and then widened with realization. "I'll be damned."

"What?" Dean asked, trying to glance over without taking his eyes off the road.

“It’s that culty mother-in-law of Garth. Do you remember? She went on and on about Ragnarok and stuff-”

“–Oh yeah." Dean cut in, his brow furrowed as the memory clicked. "The—The Maw of Fenris, right? I remember killing the bitch myself." Dean replied with a smirk.

Emma leaned forward, tapping the middle of the page. "Look. Same location. Same series of events. I'm thinking maybe Joy has come back to pay us a visit." She looked between them, waiting for their take.

Sam stayed quiet, a small crease forming between his brows.

After a few moments, he handed Emma back the iPad and murmured, "We’ve looked into cases for less. It’s definitely worth the trip, Dean."

Both Emma and Sam look at Dean with bated breath, waiting for his opinion on the seriousness of the case.

Dean glanced at Sam, then Emma, before rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You’re right. We’re on the road already, anyway. Doesn’t hurt to check it out."

Emma let out a quiet sigh, sinking back into her seat.

Dean flicked a glance at her before smirking at Sam. "Besides… about time we paid that scrawny cowboy a visit."

And with that, he cranked up the volume. The Impala’s engine growled in agreement as he stepped on the gas, Metallica’s “ Of Wolf and Man ” roaring through the speakers.

They crossed the marker for North Freedom, Wisconsin at just about half past midnight. Baby pulled up in front of Garth's house and surprisingly enough, the lights were still on in their living room.

Emma walked up to the door and knocked, and as a sort of surprise, decided to put Dean and Sam up front, to give Garth a shock.

Once the door swung open, Dean extended his arms, as if expecting a hug. "Heya there, cowbo-" splash splash splash

Dean and Sam stood there with their front drenched in holy water. Emma let out a small chuckle.

"We aren't demons, Garth, what are y-" But Garth paid no heed to them and continued to splash them some more - this time, with Borax.

"Emma, say SOMETHING. Garth. Buddy, it really is us! Aren't you happy to see- MOTHERFUC -" Dean exclaimed as Garth wrestled with the sleeves of his jacket and slashed his skin with a silver knife, followed by an angel one. He did the same to Sam, who cooperated more once he knew Garth wasn't going to listen.

After he was done, Garth waited for a few moments and looked them both up and down before breaking into a huge smile. "Sam? Dean? I can not BELIEVE IT" he said, as he pulled both of them in for a bear hug.

“Emma, I can’t believe you actually pulled it off!”

Emma flinched at the sudden attention. She offered a sheepish smile, shrinking under the spotlight. “Oh! No, I didn’t really do anythi—”

“Don’t be so humble!” Garth beamed, clapping her on the back. “When you told me Death gave you that ultimatum, I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Dean’s voice cut in like a blade. “What do you mean she pulled it off?”

Garth’s grin froze, realising he’d said something he shouldn’t have. “Oh! I meannnn… she pulled off driving you guys all the way out here! You know how long that can take, and I didn’t think you’d wan—”

“Cut the crap, Garth.” Dean’s tone turned to iron. “What’s going on?”

Meanwhile, Sam seemed to have caught on quicker than his older brother. 

“Emma, were you the one who brought us both back?” Sam said, looking directly at Emma. 

She looked between the both of them, with no escape in sight. Her eyes fell to the floor before she sighed. “Let’s at least get inside. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.” 

Once inside, they got seated around Garth's large living room. Bess, Garth's wife, also decided to join them. 

“So… you know how all these monsters are coming back, right?” Sam nodded while Dean continued to look hostile. In a moment, Dean’s attitude towards Emma had gone from playfully annoyed to downright distrusting. 

“Well… When that happened, I tried very hard to look for the reason as to why this was happening. In doing so, I may have employed some…. less-than-ideal-methods to get information out of people.” She said, looking at the floor. 

That got Dean’s full attention. “Define ‘less-than-ideal.’”

Emma looked down again, fidgeting.

“Emma.” His voice climbed.

“I may have used some witchcraft here and there to talk to some people who I thought might know…”

“Okay…” Dean’s face relaxed but he still looked annoyed. Admittedly, that was better than the things they had done, but it was still sketchy. 

“...and, some of them may have been demons.”

 “Okay…” Sam said, now looking more worried than before. 

“...and some of them may have come out of hell.” 

“WHAT?!” 

Both brothers shot up from their seats.

“I– I didn’t mean for it to happen! Apparently, the veil was particularly thin that day!” 

“What kind of witchcraft would you have to do to get DEMONS out of hell?” Dean was practically screaming now and Sam made no move to stop him. Neither did anyone else. 

“It was something an old friend taught me. He was a witch, and he was into all sorts of obscure, forgotten spells and rituals. He said I could summon a demon, trap it, squeeze it for answers, then banish it. Simple in-and-out.” Emma said, now pacing the room behind Dean, trying to explain as best she could. 

“And you trusted that? You thought you could just give a demon a day pass to Earth?!”

“Hey! It would have worked, and the demon would have been back to hell, if it were any other demon that came through.” Emma’s voice went down to a whisper at the end of her sentence, hoping they wouldn’t fixate on that. 

She had no such luck. 

“What demon did you bring?” Sam asked her, stepping closer to her, his voice dangerously low. 

Emma stayed silent. 

“Answer him,” Dean growled.

She whispered it. “Azazel.”

The silence thickened.

“Azazel? Azazel.” Dean muttered under his breath, having nothing else he could possibly say. Meanwhile, Sam went white. He backed up, sat down hard, like the floor had disappeared under him.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, her voice barely audible as she sat beside him. “I didn’t mean to. All I wanted to do was talk to him. That’s it. But something went wrong. He got through.”

Sam said nothing. Jaw clenched.

Emma took a breath and pushed forward. “After that, people started dying. Cities nearby. No signs. No explanation. I thought it was just some other monster at first, but then… he found me. Death.”

That pulled Dean’s attention back like a hook.

“When Azazel came back, Death knew immediately. When he came to me…” she shuddered. “I thought I was done for.”

“What did he say?” Dean asked.

Emma looked up briefly, then dropped her gaze. “He was furious. He said hunters were constantly disrespecting the natural order. That we need to face the consequences of our actions so that we can learn some respect.” 

Dean rubbed his face, already bracing for more.

“I… may have mouthed off,” Emma admitted, sinking deeper into her seat.

Sam exhaled sharply. “What. Did. You. Say.”

“I told him: what choice did I have? Monsters are coming back from who knows where , and the only hunters who knew how to kill them? Dead. So I needed help . From anywhere .” Her voice cracked under the weight of it. “I couldn’t do it alone.”

She swallowed. “So then he basically said , ‘If you’re going to break the rules because you can’t hunt them… maybe I should bring back the hunters who could.’” She did a poor imitation of Death, trying to lighten the tension and immediately regretting it.

“‘Let’s see what they think of your decision,’” she finished, barely a whisper now.

The tension in Garth’s living room could be cut with a knife. No one spoke. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, until finally—Emma snapped.

“Okay, people. I know I fucked up. I know I’m the bad guy here. But right now, we’ve got bigger problems.” She threw her hands up. “There is a werewolf cult—” she paused to glance at Garth, “—being led by your mother-in-law , and it’s running rampant.”

“So maybe we handle that before we start playing ‘Let’s Punish Emma.’”

With that, she dropped her iPad, journal, and a stack of notes onto the table like a gauntlet.

Dean looked at Emma with fury in his eyes, but didn’t protest. 

Soon, they were all crowded around the dining table, going over everything. The surface was a mess of notes, maps, and highlighted articles—every scrap they could find laid out for a bigger-picture view.

"Yeah, these are definitely werewolves.” Garth said, flipping through Emma’s notes and comparing them to his own. “I caught a trail in the beginning of the month when I saw an article about a man being attacked right outside Baxter's Hollow - no heart."

Dean raised a brow. “By the way, how are you two managing your… I’m gonna say lifestyle .” He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Garth shrugged. 

"Same ol', same ol'. Making do with animal hearts. Nothing too crazy." 

“So these resurrecting monsters… do they always come back where they died?” Garth wondered, the last question, directed at Emma.

Emma nodded. “Always.”

Garth sighed and glanced at Bess. “Well… that’s good and bad.”

“Why bad?” Emma asked.

“Because it means we already know where to go.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, finally sitting next to Sam. He stared out the back window and muttered, “Right behind this damn house.”

Chapter Text

The room was filled with the sound of rustling pages, clackity keyboards and crickets whispering to each other. As the group sat, plotting their plan of action, a sharp hiss crackled through the police scanner on the dining table. They huddled closer, straining to make out the garbled transmission. 

"… scratch scratch …Come in… there’s scratch something strange down by the old cemetery. screech Send a— scratch —team. And— screech —transplant— scratch ."

"Where's the old cemetery?" Sam asked, all of them getting to their feet at the same time.

"It's on the other side of town," Garth answered, already grabbing his car keys. "But I know a shortcut—we'll get there in ten minutes." He turned to Bess. "Honey, are you good with the kids?"

"I'll stay with her," Emma said before Bess could answer. "That way, if any dog comes knocking, I’ll make sure they don’t walk out alive."

Dean looked unsure but nodded at last, and the three of them stepped out at once, leaving Bess and Emma alone in silence.

Once everyone else was gone, Emma took to the living room with Bess, both of them settling into silence with a couple of beers.

Emma had known Garth for a long time—long enough to know just about everything about him. But after he and Bess built a life together, they hadn’t caught up as much. Partly because Garth didn’t have a lot of spare time, but mostly because… he had something real. A family. A home.

And everywhere I go, I bring some evil with me. 

She never wanted to bring that to Garth’s doorstep. She wouldn’t have this time either—if it wasn’t happening smack-dab in the middle of his hometown.

Bess sat across from her, her beer untouched on the table between them. Her fingers traced absent-minded circles against the condensation on the glass, her mind occupied with worries about her beloved husband.

After a beat, Bess sighed and finally picked up her beer, taking a sip before giving Emma a look. "You sure this thing won’t take long?"

Emma shrugged. "Shouldn’t."

"Good." Bess exhaled. "Because I love my husband, but if this screws up the twins’ soccer tournament this weekend, I will kill him."

Emma chuckled. "Fair."

Just then, they heard a faint shuffle behind them, just outside the window.

Emma’s grip tightened around her gun as she gestured for Bess to pick up the rubber-based silver blade from the table. Step by step, they inched closer.

At the window, Emma signalled for Bess to stay back and leaned forward to take a look.

Nothing. Just trees swaying and their car parked in the driveway.

“Probably just the wind,” Bess whispered. Emma's shoulders stayed tight.

The trees were moving. But there’s no wind.

Emma turned sharply—just in time to see an ugly-ass dog lunging at Bess.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots to the chest. The werewolf growled in pain and dropped instantly.

That ought to do it.

They looked at each other, breathing heavily. "Well, that was quick!" Emma said. Uncomfortably quick.

Stepping closer, she crouched beside the body, inspecting the wounds.

Shouldn’t there be more blood? This looks dryer than the Sahara.

She didn’t have to wonder for long.

The werewolf’s eyes shot open.

Before she could react, it let out a deafening roar as it grabbed her by the throat and yanked her across the floor—teeth bared.

No. No. No. This is NOT how I’m going out.

Emma braced herself against the weight, pushing back with all her strength, but the thing had her pinned against the wall. She kicked, twisted—anything to create distance—but it kept pressing closer.

Just as its teeth hovered over her shoulder—

A sharp shriek.

The werewolf’s body jerked.

Bess stood behind it, knife buried deep in its back. She met Emma’s gaze, giving the slightest nod before yanking the blade free and grabbing its head.

Emma didn’t need to be told twice.

With a final push, she helped wrench its neck back—Bess pressed the blade against its throat and didn’t stop until the head separated from the body, blood splattering on both their faces.

The werewolf crumpled.

While it definitely looked like it wouldn’t be getting up any time soon, she didn't want to take any chances, so she flung the head as far from the body as she could.

Then, glancing at her bloodied hands, she grimaced and wiped them on her pants.

“Yeah, no. I’m definitely gonna need, like, ten showers.”

After their adrenaline high wore off, Bess and Emma got to work trying to get rid of all the mess they just made. 

Once most of the blood was out of the carpet, Bess grabbed the vacuum, but heard a shuffle from upstairs. 

“Maybe all the noise woke them up. I’ll just go check up on them real quick.” She said, before hurrying upstairs. 

Emma nodded and flipped on the vacuum, running it over the soiled carpet. It did little more than dry the fabric.

Yeah, she’s gonna need a professional for this. That’s gonna be another awkward conversation. Yikes.

At that moment, the dead pup in the corner of the room caught her eye. 

How in the hell did it survive silver bullets to the heart? How is it still fighting?

The thought burrowed into her mind, gnawing at the edges of her reasoning.

The silver wasn’t the issue. It hurt him just fine when Bess stabbed him. And the beheading seems to be keeping it down for now. 

Still, something didn’t add up.

A sick thought curled at the edge of her mind.

No. No way. Can't be.

She shook her head and turned back to the vacuum. There was no way that the werewolves would manage something like that. They're not that ambitious. 

But then again, these were heavily involved in Pagan rituals and beliefs back in the day. Could they have—?

“Oh, for God’s sake. Just check and be done with it,” she muttered to herself, already moving toward the body. 

The thing looked worse up close—its head missing, blood pooling in the plastic bag they’d hastily wrapped around the stump of its neck.

Emma crouched beside it, flipping the body onto its back. Her fingers trailed to the bullet wounds, pressing against the dried blood.

Yep. Didn't miss. Right where all the magic happens. And yet... it didn't die.

Her stomach tightened.

She reached for her duffel, pulling out the switchblade. It glinted under the dim light as she pressed it against the werewolf’s sternum and started to cut.

It had now stopped twitching, and the flesh gave way with sickening ease.

Digging through layers of muscle, she hit the rib cage. She set aside her blade and tore through muscle, pried apart bone, her fingers slick with blood as she searched and found—

Nothing.

Just as she expected.

This little bitch is missing its heart.

On the other side of town, the boys hopped out of the car, fake badges in hand. Luckily, Garth had prepped some ahead of time, knowing Emma planned to bring the boys back.

They approached the two officers standing near the taped-off crime scene.

"Evening, Sheriff," Dean said, flashing his badge. "Gary Rossington, FBI. These are my partners."

The sheriff eyed their credentials, then them, before exhaling through his nose. He didn’t look entirely convinced, but at least he wasn’t sending them packing.

"You boys got here fast," he noted.

"We were in the neighborhood when we caught the call. Figured—why wait?" Dean replied smoothly.

Sam’s eyes drifted past them as two officers carried a large red evidence box toward a van. "What happened here?"

"A trucker pulled over to take a leak. Dropped his keys, started feeling around for them—" The sheriff paused, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"And?" Garth prompted.

"And his hand landed on something unusual."

Dean tilted his head. "Unusual how?"

The sheriff sighed. "A human heart."

The boys stiffened.

"A heart?" Dean repeated, his brows knitting together.

"Are you sure it’s human?" Sam asked.

"Looks like it. It’s fresh, intact. Hasn’t been here long. And that’s not all…” The sheriff said before looking around, making sure no one was in earshot. “...the heart is still beating. " He whispered, grimacing at the thought. 

Sam frowned and looked at Dean to see if he had any clue what could do that. Meanwhile Dean was grimacing as well, unable to get the picture out of his head.

"Can we see it?"

The sheriff led them to the evidence van. An officer popped open the red box and there it was. Nestled within the ice like a rose in snow. A fresh, human heart, beating rhythmically to its own beat. 

Garth whistled low. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

The sheriff shook his head. "Bodies missing organs? Sure. But an organ missing an entire body?" He chuckled dryly. "That’s a first."

Dean and Sam gave him polite, forced smiles before Sam cleared his throat. "Mind if we take a look around? Just to cover our bases."

The sheriff nodded, and they split up, scanning the area for anything out of place.

Dean pulled out his EMF meter and started waving it over the ground, waiting for a hit. Nothing. He stepped further into the woods, away from the road.

Then he saw it.

Claw marks.

Deep gashes torn into the bark. Not just on one tree—on at least ten.

"Sammy!" Dean called, already pushing forward.

Sam jogged over and immediately spotted what Dean had seen. He followed his brother’s gaze as Dean lifted his flashlight, sweeping the beam over the trees.

That’s when they saw the blood.

Thick, fresh blotches smeared against the bark.

Dean checked if something was hiding up in the trees and then lowered the light to the ground. The soil looked… off.

Disturbed .

"There’s something here," Dean muttered, keeping his voice low so the cops wouldn’t hear.

Sam’s eyes flicked to him. "'You thinkin’ a body?"

Dean didn’t answer. He just moved, crouching down, rolling up his sleeves and pushing the loose dirt aside with his hands. No time to grab a shovel from the trunk.

He only dug a few inches before his fingers hit something— squishy .

He froze.

Grimaced.

Then grabbed hold and pulled it up.

Definitely not what we expected. 

"Another heart?" Sam said, voice tight with disbelief.

Dean exhaled sharply and set it aside before digging back in. 

Another heart. 

And another.

By the time they were done, they had a pile of ten.

Eleven, counting the one the cops found.

Dean wiped his hands on a napkin he always kept for situations like this.

"What do you make of this?" he asked.

Sam stared at the pile beating together in sync. "Beats me."

Emma was busy looking through cases on her computer when the door opened. On instinct, she grabbed the knife that had replaced the usual spot for her gun next to her laptop.

"What kind of werewolf leaves hearts unharmed instead of devouring them whole?" Sam exclaimed as they stepped into the house—only to be greeted by the horrifying state of the living room.

She relaxed and put the knife back down before getting up and answering Sam's question for him.

"The kind that has a witch on their side."

"A witch?" Dean quipped, the last to step in. He took one look at the bloody werewolf in the corner of the room and whistled.

"What's all this, then?"

“We had a little visitor after you guys left—”

“So naturally, you gave him a Colombian necktie instead of using silver bullets like a normal person,” Dean quipped. "And what's going on with his chest? Did you host a Hannibal Lecter convention?” he added, staring incredulously at the headless mess on the floor.

“—If you could just let me finish,” Emma continued. “The first thing I did was shoot him in the heart. Three shots. Piece of cake. He didn’t even wince.”

“And my bullets are pure silver. I’ve killed at least a dozen werewolves with these, so don’t say maybe the bullets were the problem,” Emma finished, mocking Dean with the last part. He pursed his lips but didn’t get to interrupt this time.

“When that didn’t work, I went and stabbed him with the silver knife,” Bess chimed in, coming down the stairs. “Sure, he looked like he was in pain, but he was still moving. Beheading him was our only hope.” She finished with her arms crossed, finally taking a look at the werewolf for the first time since she went up to check on the kids.

Her face shifted to one of surprise when she saw the state it was in. “...Although I’m pretty sure we didn’t rip out his insides last I saw him.” She looked at Emma, questions in her eyes.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to talk to you guys about. Just sit down, okay?” Emma said frantically, grabbing a chair, about to sit down.

“Hold that thought. I gotta get heart juice off my hands first,” Dean said, his face contorted with disgust, before heading straight for the shower.

By the time they were all clean and blood-free, Emma was practically bouncing off the walls. She hadn’t sat still for more than two seconds, pacing the living room like a woman possessed.

“Okay,” she finally said, clapping her hands. “Now that nobody’s dripping in guts and blood, can we please talk about what the hell is going on?”

Finally, when everyone was back and settled, she planted herself in the center of the room.

Dean flopped onto the couch, popping open a beer as he did. "Yeah. Why don’t we start with the fact that you’ve opened up that werewolf like an autopsy surgeon on crack. What the fuck is up with that?"

She gave him a look that shut him up.

“I figured it out,” she announced. “Why he didn’t die.”

Silence.

She looked around — Garth, Sam, Bess, Dean — meeting each of their eyes, her voice serious now.

“When the beast kept coming at us - even after Bess and I unloaded silver into it - I got curious. So obviously... I cut him open.” “-obviously-” Dean cut in, his voice dripping in sarcasm. Emma ignored him and continued sheepishly, “-I may have poked around a bit. His tongue’s still where it’s supposed to be, though, so it’s not technically a Colombian necktie,” she said, smiling innocently at the last part. Sam and Dean rolled their eyes simultaneously.

"So, when I groped around in his chest cavity, I found my bullets, and... nothing else. Just empty, hollow space. No heart."

“What do you mean no heart? Like, it disappeared?” Garth asked.

Emma shook her head. “I think it was never there. Not since he came back from the dead.”

Sam leaned in. “You’re saying… he was walking around, attacking people — without a heart in his body?”

Emma nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying." 

She continued, “This isn’t some werewolf hack job. It’s magic. Real, old magic.”

"But how does that even work?"

Emma shifted in her seat. "I wasn't entirely sure, but I remember reading about something similar way back when I was hunting some witches. So I went back to the journals and found something in Bobby's old notes - stuff he picked up in Eastern Europe. Old pagan rituals. Some creatures figured out how to store their power outside their body. Like phylacteries, horcruxes — except flesh and blood."

Garth’s eyes widened. "So, are you saying this is a heart-in-the-parrot type of situation?"

Emma actually looked impressed. “Weirdly accurate, yeah.”

"So what is this magic? Do you know about it?"

Emma’s eyes lit up with dark excitement. "It's a spell. A very old one. Really rare. The kind of thing that’s supposed to be lost."

She handed Sam her laptop, the page open on some old text in Latin. “There’s this theory from some old…buried Romanian lore. Some witches figured out a way to externalize their source of life and power. They’d cut out the heart, plant it somewhere safe, and then use angel magic to keep the blood flowing, the organs alive, the body walking.”

“If the body dies, the heart acts like an anchor. It gives the body time to find a way to survive. It pulls them back — unless the resurrection is interrupted.”

“Angel magic?” Sam echoed. "That’s not easy to come by.”

Emma nodded. “I know. Which means someone really powerful and dangerous is behind this. Someone who knew enough to not only dive deep into Ithariel lore, but also got their hands on a spell that should’ve died out centuries ago.”

“D’you reckon we can break it?” Sam asked. 

“Should be fairly easy if we can find all the hearts. Once we have them, all we need to do is torch and burn them. Even if they found this spell, I doubt they would ward the hearts.” 

“Joy must’ve done it herself,” Bess said under her breath.

Emma went on. “The werewolf that came here… I think after we loaded him with silver, his heart was trying to resurrect him. By trying to reach him.”

“You mean the heart we found at the truck stop?” Dean asked.

Emma nodded. “It was his. I’m sure of it now.”

"That's why that heart was out on the road like that, and why it looked so fresh. It was trying to get back to the body or something." Sam said, slapping Dean on the shoulder. 

Dean looked at Sam, and then at the pages of Bobby's journal, his mind racing with a million thoughts. It would be good to have Bobby here, right about now.

After a beat, Sam chimed in again. "You know what that means..."

They all looked at him, not wanting to say it aloud.

"Those other hearts... the ones we found buried in the woods. They probably belong to the rest of the pack."

"You found more hearts?" Emma asked. 
"Yeah. Ten more of them. All piled up inside a neat little ditch off the street near the old cemetery. We've got 'em in our trunk right now—even the one the cops found." Garth grinned, proud of his quick thinking.

"Wait, how did you manage that?" Emma asked incredulously.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, then back at Emma. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

"We're professional conmen, Emma," Dean said. Emma rolled her eyes.

"Well, then I guess we know what the next logical step is." This was Bess.

They looked at her, waiting for her to finish the sentence.

She looked right back at them, determination hard in her eyes.

“Burn hearts, burn.”

Chapter Text

The house was quiet—almost eerily so, like even the walls knew something was coming. The kids were asleep upstairs, and for a moment, no one moved.
Emma stood by the window, arms folded, watching the trees sway under the weight of the wind.

“Bess… I think you should take the kids and head to a motel for the night. It isn’t safe here,” she said, her voice low but firm.

“Absolutely not. You guys need all the help you can get,” Bess protested immediately.

“Bess. We know they all died right behind this house. We know they’re going to come back here. We can’t have the kids panicking and running straight into danger. You know that’s a real possibility.”

Bess frowned, unable to counter that logic.

“I’m sorry to say this, but right now, the kids are a liability. And as heartless as I am, I don't want to suggest they go away from here alone. You are the best person to look after them,” Emma said, not looking like she’d take no for an answer.

“She’s right,” Garth murmured, stepping closer to Beth. “I’d work better if I knew you and the kids were safe and away from the firing radius.” He added, holding Bess’s hand tightly between his scrawny ones. 

That was all the confirmation Bess needed before she went upstairs, grabbed the kids and an overnight bag, before taking their car away. 

“Now, about our game plan,” Emma announced once they were all gathered in the living room, the eleven hearts stacked neatly inside a large cooler next to the severed head of the werewolf. The lid was shut tight—they couldn’t think straight with the smell.

“We head out back, draw a salt circle, and burn the hearts in it. We stay alert, blades ready, in case anyone decides to struggle a little too loud,” she said, grabbing the cooler and gesturing for the boys to collect the rest of the supplies.

Once outside, Sam immediately began drawing a large salt circle, making sure there were no gaps. Emma popped the cooler open—the smell hit instantly. A disgusting cocktail of blood and magic. The rest of them instinctively took a step back.

Emma didn’t flinch. She reached in, gloved up, and began setting the hearts out in the circle, one by one. They thudded onto the earth like wet fruit. All eleven of them, lined up like offerings.

Garth cracked open the gas can, doused the pile with a generous amount until the earth turned dark and slick beneath it. Dean covered the hearts in salt, the ritual now second nature to him.

Once everything was set, he sparked the lighter with a flick of his thumb.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, tossing it into the center.

The fire caught instantly — a whoosh of yellow and orange — and for a split second, it looked like it was working.

Then it changed.

The flames twisted, curling inward. Yellow turned to blue—not the blue of heat, but something colder, unnatural, wrong . Instead of devouring the hearts, the fire moved around them , like oil on water. It danced over the pile but didn’t touch the meat. Didn’t burn.

Sam stepped closer, head tilted, eyes narrowing. “That’s... not what I was expecting at all.”

“They’re not burning,” Garth said, stating the obvious.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean muttered, inching his hand toward the blade strapped to his belt.

Then came a distant rumble from the woods, and the ground beneath them shuddered.

Sam crouched next to the fire, eyes tracking the way the blue flames skimmed across the surface of the hearts. “It’s reacting to something. Like a barrier. A ward, maybe,” he said, trying to speak over the rising rumble.

“No way. We salted, we gassed—” Dean started.

Emma cut him off. “It’s not us. It’s them . They’re protected. Someone warded the hearts. The spell isn’t just keeping them alive — it’s keeping them from being destroyed.”

The wind shifted. The trees groaned.

And suddenly, one of the hearts twitched.

Not pulsed. Twitched .

Somewhere in the dark woods, something howled. They could hear the faint groans of wolves transforming as they sensed the danger upon them.

Low. Long. And close.

Dean pulled his blade, Sam stood up fast, and Garth stepped in beside Emma.

“Tell me we’ve got a plan B,” Garth whispered.

Emma stared into the flame, expression unreadable.

“You were sure the lore said fire?” Sam asked Emma, his tone accusatory. 

“Yes. It should work. I think it just nee-”

That’s when they saw the first pair of eyes, staring at them from the woods. 

“So what now?” Dean cut her off. “We sing 'Kumbaya' and hope they start burning quick enough before these canines get us?”

Emma didn’t answer.

The werewolves didn’t wait. 

They charged, fast and snarling, tearing across the yard straight for the closest target.

Dean ducked a swipe and buried his blade in a ribcage, twisting hard. 

Meanwhile, Emma’s eyes were locked on the blue flames, on the twitching heart at the center. Something about it itched in the back of her mind. 

Sam slammed the butt of his knife into another’s jaw, then drove it home with a grunt. Garth went down to one knee, barely dodging a snap of teeth, and came up swinging.

Emma realised if she didn’t do something soon, this was a lost battle. Her nose twitched in disdain.

Then, in one swift motion, she yanked the angel blade from her jacket and bolted forward—nearly stumbling over the salt line as she crossed straight into the circle of fire.

“Emma, what the hell—” Dean shouted, stabbing a wolf that collapsed in pain at his feet.

Still writhing. Still not dead.

Before he could finish it off, another slammed into him.

Emma didn’t answer. It was like she didn’t even hear him.

She plunged the blade into the nearest heart.

SHHHHHHHK.

A hiss split the air—like steam hitting snow—and the fire shifted. What had been curling around the heart now sucked inward, digging in like it had finally been given permission to devour.

Across the yard, the werewolf lunging at Sam let out a sharp, agonized howl.

Emma gritted her teeth. Her voice dropped low.

“Ex corde ad cinerem, ab anima ad nihilum. Ignis sanctus, solve vinculum.”

The chant sliced through the clearing, sharper than the wind.

The werewolf went rigid—his body locking, stretching unnaturally. Then his neck began to twist, pushing back, further and further until flesh tore. It kept going, spine bending in a grotesque arc until his head dangled behind him, tongue lolling like a gruesome tie.

The other hearts began to twitch violently now, as if feeling what was happening. The pack turned. Snarls deepened.

Now they charged for Emma—but couldn’t get more than two feet from the circle. Something held them back.

The three boys were now forgotten, the entire pack now focused on breaking through whatever was protecting Emma in there. 

Once she realised it was working, she worked quickly and plunged the blade into the next one.

“Ex corde ad cinerem, ab anima ad nihilum. Ignis sanctus, solve vinculum.”

This one let out a faint, high-pitched whine as it burned — something not quite human, but close enough to churn the stomach. Another werewolf just outside the circle screamed in response, a raw, guttural sound.

Sam stepped forward, eyes fixed on the scene. “What the hell is that?”

He couldn’t look away as this one met the same fate as its brother.

Dean couldn’t find any words to say so he kept his guard up, expecting the werewolves to change their mind and charge at them again any second. 

Emma was already onto the third.

“Ex corde ad cinerem, ab anima ad nihilum. Ignis sanctus, solve vinculum.”

The remaining hearts began to shrivel one by one around the circle. The fire surged, still blue, but now it was consuming .

Simultaneously, the werewolves around the circle started collapsing one by one, their necks dangling off their spine like Christmas stockings. 

Emma moved like clockwork now — fourth heart, fifth, sixth. She could feel sweat drip from her brow and slid down her back, the heat crawling up her spine. With each plunge, the flames grew wilder, less contained.

“Ex corde ad cinerem, ab anima ad nihilum. Ignis sanctus, solve vinculum.”

With the seventh, the ground beneath them thumped . A low vibration, like the earth exhaling.

Eighth heart. Ninth. Tenth.

Dean, Sam, and Garth exchanged a glance, then looked to Emma — bewildered. She moved like she was in a trance.

No hesitation.

She stabbed the final heart, plunged the angel blade deep, twisted once, and whispered:

“Ex corde ad cinerem, ab anima ad nihilum. Ignis sanctus, solve vinculum.”

A final boom rippled through the fire — not a sound exactly, but a wave of pressure. The blue flames collapsed inward, sucked into the hearts like water down a drain. Then, silence.

All that remained was ash, smoke, and the sharp scent of burnt flesh and wolfsbane.

Once the smoke settled, Dean lunged to Emma’s side, his hands firmed as he grabbed her trembling ones, ready to examine the damage from the fire. She tried to pull away, to protest, but he didn’t care. 

“I’m fine,” Emma muttered, trying to pull back. Sam and Garth were beside her in seconds, worry etched deep into their faces.

Dean braced himself for what he’d find — blistered skin, blackened and raw from reaching into fire — eleven times.

Emma kept protesting, but he held on, turning her palms over—

And froze.

They were flawless. No burns. No damage. Just the usual callouses and half-healed scrapes every hunter carried.

Like the fire had never touched her.

Sam stared at her, then at Dean, a thread of unease winding tight in his expression.

Dean’s jaw clenched. His grip tightened, just a little.

He looked up at her, slow and sharp, the last bit of trust fading away from his face. 

His voice, when it came, was rough. Low.

“What the hell did you do?”

They moved wordlessly after that. The adrenaline wore off in jagged drops as they stepped back into the house, covered in soot, blood and flesh. 

The living room bore the weight of what just happened. The couch sagged under Sam’s weight as he sank into it with a quiet grunt, pressing gauze to a deep cut on his arm. Garth rifled through the first aid kit on the floor, patching a gash above his brow with shaky hands.

Emma sat cross-legged on the rug, still and dazed, a chipped mug of tea warming her palms — something Garth had quietly pressed into her hands before retreating to the med kit. The steam curled around her face, softening the bruises and smudges. Her eyes never quite focused. 

Garth was the only one who held an ounce of trust in his eyes for her, the two brothers now watching her like predators. 

Dean sat in the armchair across from her, blood still drying on his shirt, elbows on his knees. He hadn’t said a word since they got back inside. Just stared. 

His jaw was tight. His eyes sharper than before.

When she looked up, Dean didn’t avert her eyes like he had been doing since they got on the road. 

Instead, he stared back. The question in his eyes almost impossible to miss. 

That same question from before.

What the hell did you do?

Chapter Text

Recap:

The question in his eyes almost impossible to miss. 

That same question from before.

What the hell did you do?

The Impala was already on the road before the sun broke through the horizon. Sam had found a lead late the previous night, after poring over the symbols Emma had mapped out in her notebook and cross-referencing them with recent cases in the relevant cities. He finally found a match in Seattle.

“So…” Dean mumbled, breaking the silence for the first time since the night before. Emma and Sam both looked up from their respective tasks, startled by the intrusion. “You wanna tell us what that was all about? Last night?”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked, shrugging innocently.

“You know. Last night. How those fires weren’t even touching the hearts, but somehow you knew exactly what to do to make it work? Not to mention you dove headfirst into a raging fire pit and came out without a scratch,” Dean said, locking eyes with Emma for a moment before turning his attention back to the road.

Emma sighed from the backseat, having fully expected this question sooner or later. Her head was still pounding from the ritual the night before, the pain only just beginning to ease. She feared it might come back now. 

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, keeping her tone measured. “When I was reading up on the spell, I found someone purging the hearts using some Latin incantations. I’m not exactly fluent, so I just memorized it like a parrot.” She sounded tired, wanting the interrogation to end.

“Oh! So you… uh… you read about it? Huh?” Dean’s tone was deceptively light, but his eyes were sharp with suspicion. “Any reason you didn’t think to mention that part to us?” 

“I didn’t think we’d even need it. In most spells, salting and burning the source of magic does the trick—”

“Yeah, no, I get that. I get what you thought would happen. What I don’t get is why you decided to withhold information that everyone should have known. Hell, if you were so worried about the Latin, you could’ve at least told Sam! God knows, he can mutter that nonsense all day,” he said.

Sam frowned at the unnecessary jab but chose to let it slide, considering Dean’s current mood.

“Don’t you think if my brain was working that far ahead, I would have?” Emma snapped, her voice rising a few decibels. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly used to working with partners like you guys.”

“You know what, I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time believing you right now,” Dean said.

Emma stayed silent, her eyes glued to the screen, though she wasn’t really reading anything anymore.

“How come the fire didn’t touch you, huh?” Dean pressed, his impatience rising. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. “How is it that you stepped into a circle that looked like it was all but protecting the hearts and came out untouched?”

“I don’t know,” Emma mumbled, her wild hair falling over her face as she dropped her head lower. Her brows knitted together in a frown, as though she were trying to piece together the puzzle herself.

“What was that?” Dean asked sharply. Sam turned to look at her as well.

“I said, I don’t know, okay?” Emma repeated, her voice clearer now. Her gaze shifted between Dean and Sam, her frustration barely contained.

“I didn’t expect to come out unharmed,” she added, her voice quieter now. She let the iPad drop onto her lap and sat up straighter to face them. “All I knew was that I had to do something, or those silver-resistant werewolves were going to get to us. We had no way of stopping them.” Her eyes flicked from Dean’s piercing green to Sam’s warm hazel. “I saw a chance, and I took it,” she whispered, her own dark eyes brimming with sincerity.

Sam, rubbed his brow in frustration, before finally chiming in. “Let’s just focus on what’s next. We’ve got bigger things to deal with.”

Emma didn’t respond at first. She just glanced at Dean before picking her iPad up again.

“These trust issues are getting real old, Dean,” she said after a beat. “Maybe try a new tone once in a while.”

“Oh, I’d love to drop my trust issues, sweetheart,” Dean snapped. “Hard to do when you still haven’t actually told us anything about yourself.”

Sam didn’t interrupt him. He didn’t need to. Dean wasn’t wrong—they didn’t really know who Emma was. All they knew was that she had yanked them out of Heaven and thrown them headfirst into a war already in progress.

Silence settled over the car. The only sound was Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks,” groaning from the speakers. The Impala tore down the freeway like a black bullet, the trees blurring past on either side like ghosts with somewhere better to be. Emma had long since set her iPad aside, her face a mask as she stared out the window.

A couple of hours later, they pulled into a gas station. Dean stepped out to refuel, while Sam ducked inside for coffee and a few snacks.

The sky had begun to melt into hues of gold and amber, the last stretch of sunlight casting long shadows across the pavement. The world felt quieter now – hushed, like it was holding its breath.

Emma stayed in the car, her fingers drumming absently against her thigh. She could feel the weight of the brothers’ distrust, thick and palpable in the air. It was hard not to. But could she blame them? They really didn’t know her at all.

And yet, here they were, trusting her enough to bring her along on this hunt.

But was that reason enough to open up to them?

She’d only brought them back because she had to—because Death had ordered her to. It’s not like she knew them well enough to trust them, either.

Her eyes traced the movement of the gas pump as it clicked off, then shifted to Dean, standing with his back to her, leaning against the car with his shoulders slumped. He always looked like that - like the weight of the entire world was resting on his shoulders. He met her eyes for a fraction of her second before averting his gaze, the light from the gas station illuminating the side of his face. 

When Sam came back, juggling three coffees, a few granola bars, and a crumpled bag of chips, Emma pushed open the door and stepped out. She stretched her legs, letting the cool air wash over her before standing beside Dean, her back resting against the Impala’s cool metal.

She didn’t speak right away, still unsure of whether she could trust them enough to open up. The silence between them felt like an obligation. A protective bubble that was keeping her safe from them… and vice versa. 

After a long beat, she finally spoke up.

“My full name is Emma Hart.”

Dean glanced up from the pump, his green eyes flickering to her briefly before looking away again. Sam raised an eyebrow, curious.

"I’m from Brooklyn, New York," Emma said quietly, her voice low but steady. "I was an only child. I don’t remember much about my parents, but I’m certain they were good people. At least, that’s how I choose to remember them." She paused, her eyes growing distant.

Sam moved closer, standing beside Dean, watching her closely, waiting for her to continue.

"When I was ten, our house was attacked. By demons. I managed to survive somehow, but my parents… they didn’t make it. I never even got the chance to say goodbye." Her voice cracked, a raw edge of emotion slipping through.

She cleared her throat and went on. "I spent a lot of time in foster homes after that. At least, until I was thirteen."

“What happened then?” Sam asked, his voice soft with concern.

Emma let out a slow breath, as if exhaling the weight of the story. "The night of my thirteenth birthday, I just—ran. Ran to find the ones responsible for my parents’ death."

Dean’s gaze never left her face. He seemed to be studying her, searching for the right words to say after a confession like this.

Emma looked up at him for a moment, then met Sam’s eyes, her expression unreadable. "That’s how I became a hunter. I’ve been on the road ever since. A couple years ago, I found that cabin in Montana and figured—couldn’t hurt to have a place that felt like home." She gave a nervous laugh, rubbing her cheeks to disguise the tears threatening to spill.

“What happened to the demons?” Sam asked finally, unsure what else to say.

“By the time I was able to track down the ones who killed my parents,” she said, her voice hollow, “someone had already gotten to them. They were already dead. Every single one of them.”

Dean pursed his lips, as if he wanted to ask something but stopped himself. He exhaled slowly, his gaze steady.

"There. Now you know.” Emma said, shoving her hands in her pockets. “You know why I do what I do. There’s not much more to it—my life has always been this. I can barely remember what it was like before I had to fight for every breath, like I was living on borrowed time. You wanted to know about me? This is it. Everything else is just the scabs and scars this life leaves behind." She finished, her eyes fixed on Dean’s. 

“If there’s any more hoops you need me to jump through to earn your trust, I’ll do it. But I need to know if you’re going to keep doubting me.” Her voice hardened, the softness and emotion from her confession vanishing completely. “Hell, I know I wouldn’t have chosen to do this with anyone, but here we are. And I’ve chosen to trust you guys. Maybe it’s because I know so much about you from all those damn journals.” She paused, eyes sharp as she looked between them. “I know you don’t have the same luxury with me, but if we’re going after these monsters together, we can’t be watching our backs while we do it.”

The words hung heavy and unyielding in the air. The silence that followed shifted—the edge of distrust giving way to a different kind of tension, like the calm before a storm. Emma’s gaze flickered between the brothers, waiting, uncertain if she’d said enough to close the distance between them. She felt the weight of their eyes, the unspoken questions still lingering.

Sam cleared his throat while Dean shifted against the Impala, crossing his arms and leaning in slightly. Breaking the silence, Dean’s voice carried a sharp edge. “You said your parents were killed by a demon when you were ten. You got a name for that demon? Any idea who it was?”

Emma’s gaze hardened. She squared her shoulders and met Dean’s eyes head-on, standing taller in her stance. “Take a wild guess,” she said, glancing briefly at Sam.

“Hint: he was obsessed with recruiting children in those days, and his eyes were yellow.” 

Dean’s eyes flicked to Sam, a slow understanding dawning between them. Sam’s jaw tightened as he ground out the name, “Azazel.”

Once in Seattle, they checked into a motel—peeling wallpaper, flickering overheads, and a cracked ice machine that growled more than it worked. A couple hours of sleep was all they could manage before heading out again.

The case had drawn them in with its pattern—four dead men in four weeks. Similar MO: all single, all in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all found within 48 hours of their last known whereabouts... which, in every case, happened to be with a woman no one could ever track down.

Throats slashed clean, like with a blade honed over centuries. No fingerprints. No forced entry. And always some kind of weird marking left behind, carved into the chest.

They were almost sure what it was, but they needed confirmation.

Dean was grumbling more than usual. Maybe because he was directly involved with this one in the past. At the precinct, he was short with the detective—snapping out answers, eyes hard. At the crime scene, he paced with his hands on his hips, jaw clenched like it was wired shut. Sam kept glancing over at him, clearly biting back a comment, his lips twitching in amusement.

Meanwhile, Emma was peering down at the symbol, comparing it with a picture she took from Dean's journal. It was identical. Another one out of the ground.

“It’s official, boys.” Emma straightened up, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “Dean’s ex—and daughter—are both alive and hunting.” She grinned, the tension between them easing.

Dean groaned, running a hand over his face. “She wasn’t my girlfriend,” he muttered. “One night. Barely that.”

Sam smirked, brushing dust from his jeans as he moved to check the body. “Still left quite the legacy,” he said. “You know… the kind that grows up overnight and tries to kill you.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “The famous Amazon who gave you a kid with a vendetta.”

Dean shot her a warning look. “We are not calling her my kid . She tried to gut me with a knife the size of her arm.”

“Sounds like a classic case of daddy issues,” Emma muttered, more to herself than anyone.

Sam sighed dramatically. “Guess some people just aren’t cut out for parenthood.”

Dean turned away, muttering something under his breath about finding a bar.

Emma grinned at Sam as they followed him back toward the Impala. “I’m just saying—if she shows up again, dibs on talking to her first. I have some questions.”

“Right,” Sam nodded. “Like, does she get that scowl from you, or is that all Amazon?”

Dean slammed the Impala’s door harder than necessary.

They both winced.

“Touchy,” Emma whispered.

“Very,” Sam agreed, his lips pulling into a small smile.

They spent the next couple of days digging through anything they could find about the next possible victim. They went back to the bar Dean had picked up his crazy ex from, put some feelers out for women repeatedly cozying up to affluent men.

They were now holed up in their usual dingy motel room, racking their brains for a way to draw the Amazons out.

Sam sat at the rickety table, eyes glued to his laptop, flipping through local reports and social profiles. Emma was stretched out on the couch, her iPad resting on her chest. She'd been crashing on the couch lately instead of getting a whole other room. 

Three hunters, fake credit cards running low. It was just more practical.

“Do you think we’re too late?” Emma asked, her voice muffled by the awkward angle of her head. "They spawn every two years to make babies. What if we showed up as they were wrapping up?" 

“No, I don’t think so,” Sam replied, though he didn’t sound totally sold on it. “Every past cycle shows they claim at least five victims before they vanish. So far, we’re at three.”

“Four,” Dean said, pushing through the door like the motel owed him money. He yanked off his tie, tossed his jacket onto the bed, and let the door slam shut behind him. “The bitches got another one,” he added, his frustration shifting into a low chuckle. “And you’re never gonna guess who it is.”

“Yeah, genius,” Emma said dryly, not even looking up. “Of course we can’t. We don’t know anyone here.” Her jab was laced with amusement, and she was starting to enjoy watching Dean get all riled up.

Dean huffed. “I—you—ugh. I know you know what I mean.”

He bulldozed ahead before she could jab again. “It’s a woman. They killed a woman. These Amazons are going full homo.”

“Wait... what?” Sam twisted around. “How’s that even possible? A woman can’t—”

“They can’t,” Emma cut in, now sitting up, her eyes scrunched in confusion.

Silence dropped between them like a pin. Sam’s brow furrowed, clearly working through the implications.

Emma tilted her head, her tone shifting. “Wait… what if it’s not them? I mean, maybe this one is just a regular killer caught up in our pattern of Amazon killers?”

Dean scoffed, peeling off his tie like it personally offended him. “Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Dean. Just a random dead woman doesn’t scream ‘Amazon hit’ to me.”

Dean looked at her, jaw ticking. “You think I don’t know the difference between a psycho with mommy issues and a damn monster?”

Emma blinked, taken slightly aback by the sharpness in his voice.

Dean ran a hand over his face, trying to cool the edge of his frustration. “I’m telling you—I saw the sigil. Same one as before. Carved right between her—” he paused, then awkwardly pointed at his own chest, as if he were a shy teenager.

“Breasts?” Emma offered, arching a brow.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, still avoiding eye contact. “Let’s just say the body wasn’t exactly arranged for modesty.”

Emma blinked. “Okay. So it is them.” She shrugged, a sheepish pout on her face.

"They must be after something else, then."

That was responded with a wave of silence. What could the Amazon's want with luring and killing a woman, if not an offspring?

Sam finally spoke. “We should look through the lore again. There might be rituals, vengeance killings, I dunno—something not tied to reproduction.” He was already clicking through his bookmarks, trying to find something.

Emma picked up her phone. “I’m texting Garth. If anyone’s got a footnote on homicidal Amazons killing women for funsies, it’s him.”

Dean paced once, then snapped, “Okay, nerd squad, you can dig through ancient murder porn later. Right now, we gotta stop number five before they get her. Focus.”

Sam paused his gait and raised a brow. “And how exactly do we plan to do that?”

Dean leaned forward on the table, resting his forearms across the scratched surface, looking only slightly uncomfortable about what he was about to suggest. “Alright. So, say someone walks into one of those bars. Same type of crowd. Same kind of target. Could catch their attention.”

Emma looked confused before realization hit her. “Let me guess. Someone who fits the profile. Young, pretty and female.”

Dean shrugged. “Just saying… it might speed things up.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “So basically, you want me to be bait.”

Dean gave her a look. “I didn’t say that.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly very interested in the grain of the table.

Emma nodded once. “Cool. Your ‘bury the gays’ campaign is really hitting its stride.”

Dean gave her a look. “You’re not even—”

Emma cut in with a smirk. “What if I am?” 
She didn’t elaborate, didn’t blink, just let it hang there like a challenge.

Dean rolled his eyes. “This isn’t about who you’re into, it’s about keeping someone off a slab.”

Sam, still scrolling through his laptop, muttered, “Less flirting, more hunting, please.”

Emma grinned. “Flirting? I thought we were planning a murder prevention party.”

Chapter Text

The bar wasn’t flashy, but exuded class. It was the kind of place where old money drank scotch and young money pretended to enjoy it. It was the only bar in town that didn’t smell like stale beer and regret. It was the bar where all the victims were last spotted. 

Jazz music poured softly from the speakers, the air smelling like old leather and top-shelf whiskey. The lighting was intentionally dim—just bright enough to show off a diamond watch, just dark enough to hide a bad conscience.

Emma walked in like she belonged there. Like she owned the place.

She looked like money—effortless, but deliberate. A fitted blazer, crisp and dark, paired with sleek, high-waisted trousers that skimmed her legs. Her long, wavy brown hair cascaded down her back, tucked just enough to frame her face. The green contacts she wore hid her true brown eyes, giving her a sharper edge. She didn’t need a statement piece; she was the statement. Subtle luxury, like she was born to stand out in a crowd.

She took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink that cost more than a motel room. The door to the bar creaked open, and a tall, striking blonde woman stepped in. She wore the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she wanted, and the eyes of someone who’d never been denied. Her gaze swept the room, locking on Emma almost instantly.

Emma casually shifted her gaze back to her drink, knowing how to play this game a little too well. She wasn't surprised when the woman slid into the bar stool next to her. 

"Can't say I've seen you around here before." The blonde said before looking at the bartender. "I'll have what she's having." 

Emma glanced up at the voice, feigning uncertainty as if the words weren’t directed at her. After a brief pause, she offered a polite smile, her voice soft but tinged with a hint of sadness. “I try not to make a habit of drowning my sorrows in alcohol,” she said, her gaze dropping to her glass. “But today... drowning is exactly what I need to do.” she said as she took a swig out of her glass, averting her eyes as a signal to end the conversation.

The blonde wasn’t having it. 

“Mmhm. And what sorrows would those be?” The blonde crooned, shifting a fraction of an inch closer to Emma, almost unnoticeable. Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, and Emma could practically feel the weight of her gaze. 

Emma sighed, leaning back slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching into a small, self-deprecating smile. “Oh, it’s nothing...” she murmured. “Not the most interesting story.”

"Try me." She fired back, her voice dropped to a whisper and she leaned in closer, their arms brushing lightly. Emma glanced at where their arms met, then back up, the tiniest shift of her gaze betraying a flicker of interest. She blinked quickly, a soft breath escaping her as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I just found out that my girlfriend of 11 years… has been cheating on me. Apparently she thought our relationship was ‘open’,” Emma said, her tone light, as if the whole thing were a joke. “So, I guess... congratulations to me!” Emma raised her glass to her own remark before downing the rest of her drink, her lips curving into a playful, bitter smile.

The blonde didn’t flinch. Instead, her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Well, I’m sure she doesn’t know how big of a mistake she made,” she said, her voice dripping with honey, already making Emma feel like the prey. “I’m sure you have so much more to offer than you give yourself credit for.”

Emma gave her a soft, thankful smile, finally making genuine eye contact with the woman since she started talking to her. “Thanks. I like to think so. And if there’s nothing else, at least I have my business that I built from the ground up." she shrugged. 

The woman smiled back, all charm and allure. She was being so unbearably sweet that Emma was having some trouble keeping her head in the game. She kept reminding herself that this wasn’t about hooking up with a beautiful woman in a bar. This was about hunting a cult of murderers who have already killed 4 people.

You could be next if you don't clear your head, Emma. FOCUS! 

Still, there was a part of her that felt a little thrill when the Amazon goddess’s gaze lingered on her.

“So,” Emma countered. The woman perked up in feigned interest. “What’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”

The Amazon’s smile deepened, her eyes never leaving Emma’s. She leaned in just a fraction closer, the space between them charged with an electric tension. Emma could smell her perfume—sharp, enticing… almost intoxicating.

"I guess you could say, I was looking for someone exactly like you."

The insinuation hung heavily between them, and Emma’s heart quickened, a mix of fear and undeniable anticipation.

The blonde leaned in even closer, her presence overwhelming. Her perfume clung to the air, filling Emma’s senses as she felt the subtle heat from her skin. Her voice dropped, becoming a near purr as she introduced herself, her words wrapped in silk. “I’m Lydia.”

She leaned back slightly, letting a knowing smile play at the corners of her lips. “Emma,” she replied smoothly, keeping her voice even, cool. “Nice to meet you, Lydia.”

The name hit Emma like a small bolt of recognition.

Dean’s ex Lydia? Herself? Walking into my trap? Talk about encounters with the past! 

Her lips pressed together for a moment before Emma picked up her drink again, swirling it in her glass slowly as her mind worked.

Lydia took her in, eyes flicking over Emma’s form with a slow, deliberate scan before making a full circuit of the room—no doubt, deciding whether this would be worth her time. She was sizing Emma up, and Emma couldn’t help but appreciate the obvious play, the way the Amazon let the tension simmer between them. Finally, Lydia smiled again, her voice dropping into a lower, more seductive register. “Well, Emma,” she purred, “you’re definitely a lot more interesting than anyone else in this room.”

Emma stared into Lydia’s hazel eyes, letting her breath be caught into her throat for a moment. “I could say the same about you,” she replied, her voice soft.

Emma set her empty glass down with a soft clink, her fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary on the smooth surface of the table.

Lydia’s eyes darkened slightly, a playful glint still in them. She leaned in, her breath warm against Emma’s ear, lips brushing lightly against her skin as she whispered, “Well then,” her voice low and tempting, “maybe it’s time two interesting people got to know each other a little more… closely.”

Before Emma could respond, she felt soft fingers brush against the back of her neck. A shiver ran down her spine as Lydia’s arm slipped around her, pulling her in closer with a quiet, practiced ease. Emma didn’t even realize when Lydia had wrapped her arms around her, the space between them now nonexistent. The heat from Lydia’s body radiated against her, engulfing her as if to devour.

The entire bar seemed to fall away in that moment, the dim lights and muffled conversations fading into the background. It was just the two of them, locked in a dance of words and subtle touches. 

Lydia pulled a milimeter away, locking eyes with Emma again with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

They stumbled through the motel door in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, heels and handbags dropped like breadcrumbs leading to the bed. The door clicked shut behind them, muffled beneath the sound of hurried kisses and quiet sighs.

Lydia’s lips moved against Emma’s with ease, warm and urgent, as her fingers tangled in Emma’s hair and tugged just enough to tilt her head back. She left a trail of soft kisses down her neck while Emma worked at the sleeves of Lydia’s dress, pushing them down her shoulders, hands gliding over the bare skin of her back to finally settle on her waist. That earned her another kiss—rougher this time, more insistent.

Emma kept reminding herself to not get carried away, to remain focused. But it was proving to be a difficult task when Lydia was so fucking good at it. 

The backs of Emma’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and Lydia eased her down, never breaking the rhythm. Her mouth traced a path up Emma’s legs, over her waist, and finally settled between her breasts. Emma’s breath hitched. She closed her eyes, trying so hard to keep her head straight. 

Lydia rose, the moonlight catching the curve of her shoulder as she slipped free of the last of her clothes—and then helped Emma out of hers. For a brief second, everything was quiet. Just the slow inhale and exhale of breath between them, the distant hum of traffic outside the motel window, and the heat simmering in the air.

When Lydia leaned back in, her fingers moved with a kind of reverence—lightly tracing Emma’s jaw, sliding down the column of her neck, then pausing on her sternum. Her hand stilled there, right over where Emma’s heart would be.

As her fingers brushed over Emma’s skin, she felt something. Not a flutter in her heart or anything sappy like that. It was something… strange.

It started soft, almost pleasant. A warmth, a tingling buzz beneath her skin, like static on the verge of becoming a spark. But slowly… it grew. Focused. Sharp.

Emma’s body tensed. This wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even magic in the usual sense.

She didn’t just feel Lydia’s hand on her skin—she felt something inside her shift, like a thread being pulled taut.

Lydia was drawing something from her. Draining. 

She was siphoning energy from Emma's soul. It finally clicked for Emma. 

So, that's why women.

Lydia’s lips trailed over Emma’s neck, and Emma felt the tingling, electric sensation intensify as the Amazon's hands moved with precision.

Her body went heavy, her limbs sluggish, as if every ounce of energy was being siphoned from her. She tried to focus, to fight, but the more she resisted, the more the pressure increased. She could feel it now, a quiet hum beneath her skin, spreading with every touch.

Lydia’s lips quirked into a smile, an almost predatory gleam in her eyes. “You’re doing so well, baby,” she murmured, her voice dripping with honey and satisfaction. “I can feel it. You’re perfect for this.”

Then, her gaze darkened, as if she just discovered something new. She pulled back slightly, her other hand tracing over Emma’s jawline. “You have more power than I have seen in a long time,” Lydia purred, her voice lower now, a little more dangerous. “Naughty little girl... Have you been playing with angel magic?”

Emma froze. Her breath caught in her throat, and the air between them seemed to thicken. Lydia was no fool—she knew something was different about Emma. Emma’s heart beat faster, but not from arousal this time; it was fear. 

Lydia’s smile deepened, as though she’d just unlocked some secret. Emma’s hands clenched into fists, her body tense, but she couldn’t deny the shiver that ran down her spine.

Before she could process further, a sharp thud echoed through the room as the door burst open.

“GET OFF HER!” Dean’s voice rang out, harsh and commanding. His gun was locked and loaded, ready to be emptied into Lydia’s chest the moment she takes a wrong step. Sam followed suit, his own gun at the ready.

Lydia snapped her head toward the door, before ripping her hands from Emma, her stance shifting, defensive and predatory. She straightened, all traces of her previous charm gone, replaced with raw, deadly intent.

Emma's vision blurred, her strength fading, but she could see the boys faintly, their eyes scanning the room with purpose.

She blinked rapidly, trying to fight the dizziness; she could barely make out what was happening. She knew she was bare to her skin in front of these boys, but right now, composure wasn’t her biggest concern.

“I won’t say it again,” Dean growled, his gun still aimed at Lydia, his finger poised on the trigger.

Lydia’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a cold, dangerous smile. “You really think you can take down an Amazon goddess? I’d sooner incinerate you. And if not… my girls will be looking for me.” she challenged, her voice still dripping with confidence. "You can't fight 5 gods at a time. You of all people should know that, Dean." She smirked at Dean. 

"I must say, it is not a pleasure to see you again, Lydia," Dean growled, gracing her with a fake smile. 

"Oh, and about your little ‘family’?" Dean continued, stepping closer to Lydia, his gun still aimed at her. "We found them. I'm afraid it's just you now." His gaze never wavered, his finger tightening on the trigger just a fraction.

The room was heavy with the weight of his words. Lydia’s stance shifted, the first hint of uncertainty creeping into her features. She looked between the brothers, calculating her next move before she smirked. 

"I must say, I did not expect Winchesters to stoop down to angel magic to try to defeat a tiny ‘monster’ like me."

That caught Emma's attention. With everything she had left, Emma dragged herself up from the bed, her vision swimming, legs shaking beneath her. Her heart pounded as she forced herself to focus.

"Angel magic? What angel magic?" Sam asked, the confusion thick in his voice.

Lydia’s smirk widened. "Don’t be coy Sam. It’s all out in the open now. You think you are so much better than us because we have to use human souls to keep us alive and kicking for longer. But you aren’t any better!” She yelled, her eyes now filling with anger. “Harnessing powers you have no business harnessing. Using an actual ange-" She didn’t get to finish the rest of her sentence. Her voice caught mid-word, eyes going wide with sudden shock.

Behind her, stood Emma – bare and unstable, as she pulled out the stake from Lydia's back. Lydia turned, slow and broken, the movement revealing Emma still gripping the piece of wood she grabbed from her bag. She gave Lydia a tired smile and gently brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

“It’s a shame it had to end this way,” she whispered.

Lydia collapsed forward into her arms, lifeless.

"What took you so long?" Emma yelled as they made their way back to the car. She was barely able to keep pace, but had already refused Sam’s offer to help — and Dean hadn’t even tried.

"We were a little busy killing the rest of them!" Dean shot back. "After you left the bar, we talked to the bartender. Lucky for us, he had a general idea of where she took all her ‘love interests.’" Dean said, shifting his eyes uncomfortably from Emma to Sam.

"So you sent me in as bait and went off on a side quest? That’s always a good plan. I’m so touched you guys care so much for me!" Emma said dramatically, clutching her chest.

"We saw you flirting with her and figured we had some time before you sealed the deal. You kinda seem like you enjoy dragging out the foreplay," Dean smirked and wagged his eyebrows as they climbed into the car.

"We barely had time! She was really eager to get us out of that bar and into a room.” Emma whined, sliding in the backseat before slumping against the headrest. “Now I know why, but seriously, I could’ve been dead if you guys would’ve been even a minute late!"

"Relax, we saved you," Dean said lazily, starting the engine.

"Barely."

"So why women? Did you ever find out?" Sam asked, taking any excuse to interrupt their banter.

"They were siphoning energy from women’s souls. That’s how they live this long. And that’s why their babies grow up so fast. It’s kinda like… supernatural growth hormone."

"Soul energy? Damn. That’s like nuclear power." Sam muttered.

"So they screw men for the kids and drain women to outlive them all? That’s messed up."

"Tell me about it."

"She said something about us using angel magic. What was that about?"

"Hell if I know," Sam said.

They looked at Emma, who shook her head innocently.

"Yeah, you shrug now, but if you had let her finish talking, we could’ve found out more,” Dean said, adjusting the mirror as he met Emma’s eyes in the backseat.

"You guys were taking far too long with your little heart to heart. The longer you stall, the more chances you give your enemies to find a way to outsmart you. That’ basic stuff.” Emma said defensively. Sam looked at Dean and shrugged. “She’s got a point.” Dean shook his head but didn’t say anything 

”And besides… I feel like if I stayed there longer, I’d have passed out. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was get back home and feel safe," Emma added, leaning her head against the window.

Dean looked back at her for a fraction of a second, his eyes filled with worry for a fraction of a second. But before Sam could notice, he turned his head away before stepping on the gas, the Impala cutting through the night with purpose.

Chapter Text

Despite Dean’s protests, the three of them headed back to Emma’s cabin in Montana for a quick pit stop before moving on. While the boys were used to living like "hippies" - in Emma’s words - she insisted on keeping her notion of home alive, even if a little.

Once there, Dean’s first order of business was to find some normal T-shirts. As much as he liked wearing T-shirts that said things like Sorry Girls, I Like Dick , he needed something a little more professional if he wanted anyone to take him seriously.

“This is why it’s important to regroup somewhere instead of bouncing from city to city like a savage,” Emma said, snickering at the Please Don’t Make Me Do Stuff shirt he was currently wearing.

Dean’s jaw tightened in annoyance before he headed out, muttering something about grabbing some beer on the way back.

“Don’t forget the pie!” Emma yelled after him.

Once he was gone, and after Emma and Sam had both showered and returned to some version of humanity, they sat at the only large table in the house: the round dining table. Emma whipped out a whiteboard she kept hidden behind the fridge, and Sam looked genuinely grateful to finally work with someone who had a halfway sensible system for research.

They put up a large map of the United States on a bare wall with duct tape, pinning places where monsters were most likely to reappear. Once that was out of the way, Emma took over scanning local obituaries for those areas, while Sam hunted for suspicious or unusual activity. He seemed unusually good at spotting weird patterns quickly.

“The trick is not to look too closely. A bird’s-eye view makes it easier to connect the dots,” he said when Emma commented on it.

She raised her eyebrows, impressed, but quickly turned her focus back to the task at hand.

A couple of hours passed before Sam’s eyes caught something on his screen. Emma noticed his stillness and immediately paused what she was doing.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I’m not sure... but this definitely looks suspicious. Look here.”

Emma got up from her spot and leaned over Sam’s shoulder to read:

BREAK-INS AT MEDICAL SCHOOLS AND MORGUE BAFFLE AUTHORITIES

In a string of bizarre crimes, several medical schools and a local morgue have been broken into over the past two weeks. Authorities confirm that nothing of obvious value was stolen; however, in each case, the pituitary glands were taken from multiple corpses. Officials have yet to identify a motive behind these targeted thefts.

Sam’s eyes narrowed at the screen.
“I think I’ve seen something like this before... but I can’t remember where,” he muttered.

Emma glanced at him sharply, trying to read his face for clues.
“Are you sure? This seems pretty obscure. Maybe some witch stocking up on ingredients?” she offered.

“No. This is something more specific... If only I could remember.”

A few moments passed as they sat there, frozen, in case any movement might break Sam out of his thoughts. Suddenly, his face tightened, a flicker of memory sparking behind his eyes and he stood abruptly.

“I think I know.”

He grabbed his laptop and started pulling up old case notes, scanning faster now. Emma watched him pack it away in his backpack, a quiet urgency building between them.

"Pack your stuff," he said suddenly, voice low but firm. "We need to move. Now ."

Emma didn’t ask questions. She grabbed her jacket and keys, and they were halfway to the door when it swung open—Dean, stepping inside, arms full of plastic bags.

“Where are you guys going?” Dean asked, a beer six-pack dangling from one hand.

Sam froze. His face tightened, his mind bouncing between whether to tell Dean or not. Lies had gotten them nowhere in the past.

He exhaled through his nose and made a choice.

“We found a lead,” Sam said evenly. “I think it could be one of your old kills.” Emma glanced at Sam, still in the dark.

Dean’s face lit up. “Sweet. What is it?”

Sam shifted his weight between his feet, darted a glance at Emma, then looked straight at Dean, his face flat, unreadable.

“I think it’s Amy, Dean.”

Dean’s smile faltered. For a second, confusion washed over him. Then, realization hit like a punch to the gut.

Just like that, everything else in the room seemed to fade. It was just Sam and Dean, and the past. 

Amy.

Sam’s childhood friend.

The one Dean killed.

And lied to Sam about.

The room went very, very still.

Emma said she had some errands to run in town while they caught up, though everyone knew the truth - she just didn’t want to be stuck in a confined space with them.

Hard pass.

The drive was silent, thick with all the questions Sam wanted to ask and the explanations Dean wasn’t sure how to give. But nobody broke it.

They pulled up in front of a rusted old house, the paint peeling off the walls like the place had been abandoned for years.

Probably because it had been. What with everyone being dead and all.

Dean killed the engine and was the first to get out.
The cold, early winter air hit them like a ton of bricks as they made their way to the front door. Gravel crunched under Dean’s boots as he moved ahead–only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Promise me you’ll listen this time, Dean," Sam said, his eyes locked onto Dean’s, jaw tight.

Dean blinked, thrown off by the request, words failing him.

"Promise me," Sam repeated, quieter but sharper.

When Dean stayed silent, Sam rolled his eyes and stepped in front of him, heading for the door. Dean stared at the ground, shifting from foot to foot.

The porch groaned under their weight as Sam knocked – one, two, three times.

The screen door rattled.
Then Amy’s familiar face appeared.

For a second, she looked stunned. A small, surprised smile tugged at her lips when her gaze landed on Sam.
But when her eyes dropped lower and locked onto Dean’s green ones, the smile vanished, like it had never been there at all.

"What do you guys want?" she asked, voice flat, already looking uncomfortable at the sight of them.

"We just want to talk, Amy. That’s it," Sam said, hands raised slightly, trying to wave the white flag before she could shut the door in their faces.

Amy hesitated. Her eyes flicked back to Dean, guarded and unsure. Dean shifted awkwardly under her stare, but said nothing.

Sam caught the look and stepped forward. "It’s not like that, Amy. I swear. We just have some questions, that we were hoping you could answer." His voice dropping a couple octaves. 

Amy chewed her lip, weighing her options. Finally, she sighed and stepped back, pushing the door open wider.

"Fine. But make it quick."

They stepped inside.

The house was freezing. Dust hung in the air. It looked like someone had tried to clean it up but hadn't gotten very far.
They stood in what used to be a living room - bare floors, cracked walls, a single battered couch pushed up against one side. Amy stayed near the door, arms crossed.

Dean didn’t waste time. "How are you alive, Amy?" he asked, voice low, cautious.

She looked at Dean sharply. "No thanks to you ," she said.

Dean’s jaw tightened. He’d had enough of this now.

“We mean… do you know how you came back to life? What brought you back?” Sam chimed in, his voice much softer than Dean’s.

"I-I don’t know," she stammered, her voice warmer when directed at Sam. "I woke up a couple of weeks ago... here. Exactly where I was killed." She finished, throwing Dean a bitter look again.

"Do you remember dying? I mean moments before it?" Sam asked carefully.

Amy’s mouth tightened. She nodded once. "Yeah. I remember everything. And then... nothing. Next thing I know, I’m back."

Dean exchanged a look with Sam before shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well, it seems like you’re not the only one."

Amy’s brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Sam looked back at Amy, trying to explain as best he could, given how little he knew. "There are others. Monsters—" Sam cleared his throat as he used the word, and Amy had the gall to look embarrassed, "—that we killed. They’re somehow coming back. We’re trying to figure out why. We were hoping you would know something." He didn’t mention the part where they had also died (a few times) and come back.

She met Sam’s eyes and just shook her head. "I don’t know anything about that. I swear. I just woke up. I thought—" She broke off, arms hugging herself tighter. "I thought maybe it was a second chance."

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint rattle of the wind against the broken windows.

On the other side of town, Emma stood on the porch of a house, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. It was the third house she was visiting that day. The first two had been dead ends. She was running out of patience—and options.

How hard is it to find one decent witch in this town?

But just any decent witch would not do. She had to find the perfect one. 

I’m not going to make the same mistake as I did with the last one.

She knocked one time before stepping back, allowing whoever to see her through the peephole before opening. 

Eventually, a scrawny little girl with glasses too big for her face opened the door slightly, the chain on the door still intact. She looked through the gap. 

“May I help you?” 

"Yes, hi!" Emma said, plastering on a grin that was almost too bright. "I’m looking for a woman named Celeste. I called earlier—she said she’d have some time to meet with me." She leaned forward slightly, putting herself at eye level with the girl.

The girl squinted up at her. "What’s your name?"

"Emma."

Without warning, the door slammed shut. Emma blinked, her eyebrows knitting together. What the hell?

She stood there for a moment, confused, before hearing the unmistakable sound of locks- yes, plural- being undone. The door opened again, this time fully.

"Please come in," the girl said, meekly.

Emma stepped inside, forcing herself to seem warm and friendly, even though she was already having a bad feeling about this one too.

"Where’s Celeste? Did she step out?" Emma asked, trying to speed things up a bit. 

"I’m Celeste," the girl replied, her voice flat.

Emma stared for a beat, the words not quite registering.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Emma cleared her throat and tried to recover.
"Oh!” Emma finally started, her eyes wide with apprehension. “Hey, Celeste. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’d heard so much about you, but I’ve gotta admit, you’re nothing like I pictured." She ended, giving an uncomfortable smile to hide her disappointment.

Celeste didn’t utter a word, waiting for Emma to get to her point. 

Emma cleared her throat. Tough room. “Right. Um, so. I am not sure how much you’ll be able to help me, but I just really needed an expert's opinion on this.” 

Expert? She looks like she should be doing her science homework, not advising me on fucking blood rituals, Emma thought, keeping her face carefully composed and cheery.

Celeste frowned, her expression unreadable.

"I—I’m actually looking for your opinion on a ritual I read about while I was doing some research on witchcraft. You know, something a little... advanced." Emma said, her voice even, though she felt the weight of Celeste’s stare pressing down on her. "I happen to try some spells here and there, it is interesting to me." She trailed off, trying not to come off as some evil hunter-slash-witch.

Celeste said nothing at first. She moved toward the small desk in the corner and began tidying up - a slow, meticulous ritual of stacking books, aligning quills, closing jars that were already shut. It wasn’t messy, Emma noted. Not really. Celeste maybe just needed something to do with her hands.

“I know what you came for,” she said at last. “And I’m not sure if I can help you with it.”

Emma froze.

“What do you mean? I came for exactly what I told you. There’s this spell. It’s called—”

“-the Thread of Ithariel. I know,” Celeste finished, still facing away from her, fingers tightening slightly around a closed book as she rearranged her shelf.

Emma’s breath caught in her throat, eyes wide with surprise. No one should be able to even guess it. Nobody even knows of it. 

“How did you know?”

Celeste glanced over her shoulder, eyes flicking to Emma's before quickly darting away again.

“I think you must have mentioned it to me on the phone-” Celeste stuttered, as she continued to avert her eyes from Emma’s curious ones. 

Emma decided to let it go. 

“So, uhm… I guess I must have mentioned the spell-” No, I didn’t. “How much do you know about it?” She asked, trying to get to the point now.

No use beating around the bush anymore.  

“Enough.” Celeste said, meeting Emma’s eyes this time, her tone sharp and clear. 

“Enough to know that there could be no possible reason for you to need a spell like that.” Celeste continued, as she averted her eyes once again. 

“But you do know about it, right? In theory, at least?” Emma asked again, growing more and more unsure about this little girl. 

What was Garth thinking, giving me HER name of all people. She’s probably to busy worrying about her LSAT scores right now than witchcraft. 

Emma looked up at her sharply, before turning her attention back to the shelves. 

What’s with the odd looks. Can she-? No, that’s impossible. Maybe her glasses are fogged up and she-.

“My glasses work JUST FINE, thank you very much.” Celeste exclaimed out of the blue, anger lacing her small features. 

Excuse me? 

Emma asked, not an ounce of humour in her voice. 

Celeste stiffened. “How would that even be possible. No, I-” She trailed off, unsure of what to say next. 

“Then how did you know what spell I was talking about? I know for sure I couldn’t possibly have mentioned it on the phone, because I didn’t plan on mentioning it today, at all.” 

Celeste didn’t speak as Emma inched closer to her, her eyes fixed on the trembling girl. 

“How could you have known I was making fun of your glasses in my mind when I didn’t utter a word?” 

Celeste remained silent. 

“I’m gonna ask again, Celeste.” Emma whispered. “Can you read my mind?” She was leaning down eye-to-eye with Celeste now, giving her no room to escape. 

If someone is going to invade the privacy of my mind, I damn sure deserve to know. 

Celeste faltered. “Okay... maybe a little…” she whispered. “But it’s not real mind reading,” she added hastily, her voice rising as she fumbled with a half-closed drawer. “Not really. It only works sometimes. And only if I’m looking someone in the eyes.”

Emma spun on her heels and took two big steps away from the girl, now wanting to be as far from her as possible. Anything to get this witch out of her head. “Celeste, mind reading is a serious piece of magic-” “That’s WHY I know I’m still not good at it. Because so far, it is working as just mind reading. It is meant to be a technique of mind manipulation.”

There was a flicker of defiant pride in her voice. Excitement, even. As if she was offended by the fact that she was imperfect with this advanced piece of magic, and yet proud to even be this good. 

As she should be, Emma thought.

“Manipulation?” Emma’s breath caught.

Dominatio Mentium is a seriously old spell. Pre-Enochian. Buried in black-banned books. No one her age should even know the name. But she’s actually doing it? How? 

In that moment, her entire demeanour changed—her eyes were brighter and it felt like her entire face morphed into someone else’s. Someone more confident. 

“How did you even find the spell?” Emma asked, curious, but now careful to avoid eye contact. 

Celeste hesitated again, fingers twitching along the edge of a book’s spine, as if debating whether to open it just to distract herself.

“I like collecting grimoires,” she finally said. “I think they’re fascinating. The old ones, especially. The ones no one reads anymore. They always hide the good stuff.”

Emma had come here prepared to coax, charm, or even lie—anything to figure out if this girl had the spine to break rules and venture into something darker.

And now?

She didn’t need to dig any deeper.

This is it. She’s the one.

The boys left Amy’s place in a fog, no closer to answers than when they’d walked in. Dean hadn’t even reached for his gun this time.

Not that he didn’t check—he’d swept through every inch of the place, looking for anything suspicious. Brains carved open, signs of feeding, anything to suggest she’d slipped. But the house was clean.

On the way back to the cabin, Sam couldn’t help but glance at Dean from time to time. He wanted to talk about… well, everything. The past. The present. The lingering silence between them about Dean’s betrayal, about Amy’s death, and about what Dean had chosen to do now.

Dean could feel Sam’s piercing blue eyes on him and turned slightly to meet the stare.

“What?” he asked, glancing between Sam and the road in the practiced way he’d done all his life.

Keep an eye on Sammy. Always.

Their dad’s voice echoed in his ears. Dean shook it off.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all. That you didn’t put up a fight about sparing Amy.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Why are you surprised? You don’t think I’m capable of being a little sensible?” He waggled his eyebrows with a smirk.

Sam chuckled at Dean's attempt to lighten the mood.

Classic. 

“No, it’s just… I remember you had some pretty strong feelings about her the last time we saw her. I’m just wondering what changed.”

“Nothing changed,“ Dean said. 

Sam waited for Dean to say more, but silence followed. 

Dean pulled over onto a quiet patch of dirt by the side of the road. The trees opened up to reveal a wide, peaceful valley below. A still lake stretched out in the distance, catching the soft glow of the setting sun. Mountains rose behind it, their peaks brushed with snow, glowing orange and pink in the fading light. A thin mist hung low in the valley, drifting slowly like it had nowhere to be. The air was cool and still, and everything felt calm - like the world had paused for just a moment.

Sam stepped out of the car. He knew Dean well enough to recognize this kind of stop. When Dean brought them somewhere like this, it was never just for the view.

“That time, when I killed Amy… the stakes were different, Sammy,” Dean began, leaning against the hood. “She was killing people. Cutting into their skulls, stealing their pituitary glands. Even if it was for her kid, it didn’t change what she was doing.”

Sam opened his mouth to interject, but Dean pressed on.

“I know you couldn’t see it that way, not then. After all, I’d just killed someone close to you. I get that. But I’m hoping now, with all we’ve seen, you understand why I had to do what I did.”

Dean looked over at Sam, his voice steady. “When something is killing people, we don’t let it walk free, Sammy. That’s never been negotiable for me… for us. And I don’t see that ever changing.”

Sam nodded slowly, the words landing heavy but true. It hurt, but he understood.

Dean went on. “But this time? We checked. Her kid’s not around anymore. And yeah, it breaks my heart for her, but it also means she’s got no reason to kill. I’m not gonna gank something that isn’t hurting anyone.”

He glanced at Sam again, trying to read his face.

I need Sam to understand this. To understand me.

“Yeah,” Sam said softly, still staring down at his hands, unsure how to put everything he was feeling into words.

“My job’s always been to look out for you, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice gentler now. 

“Always. And sometimes, that means doing the things you can’t. The things that would break you. I can take that hit. But what I can’t take is you hating me for it.”

Dean took a breath, then added with a dry chuckle, “Now, if she decides to fall off the wagon, don’t worry. I’ll be the first one through her door. I warned her, too. No double standards here. If it can kill people, it’s gotta die. Either by my hands or someone else’s. I just prefer mine… ‘cause I like killing monsters.”

Sam laughed, the tension loosening in his chest. “Yeah. I know you do.”

“And I do get it, Dean,” he added, his voice hoarse from trying to keep his emotions in check. “I kept telling myself you lied to me back then because you knew it was wrong. But deep down, I knew it was because you didn’t want me to mourn her. You didn’t want to see me suffer. I know that now.”

He looked over at Dean, eyes brimming with forgiveness. “You did what you had to do. And after everything… I get it.” He whispered, more to himself than Dean. “It would’ve been stupid to take that risk.” 

Dean looked back at him, his own eyes shining with something close to relief. He reached out, clapped Sam’s shoulder, then pulled him into a hug - the first real one since they’d come back from the dead.

They held on for a long moment, then broke apart and climbed back into the Impala, heading toward Emma’s cabin.