Chapter Text
From the outside, the house didn't look like it belonged to a psychic: no dreamcatchers or silver bells, no smell of incense in the air. The doorbell was a regular one. The carpet in front of the door was ruined.
Even the woman who answered the door looked normal, and her face broke into a smile the moment she caught sight of Bobby. “Bobby Singer! You finally deigned to show yourself!” she exclaimed, flinging the door open and planting two kisses on his bearded cheeks.
The man returned the greeting. “How are you, Pam?”
“Never been better. Have you come to interrupt my peace?”
“In a way. May we come in?”
The woman ushered the visitors into a living room that resembled a jungle of houseplants hanging from the ceiling and taking up most of the space. Pamela sank into a brightly cushioned armchair. “So, what’s up? I see you’ve adopted a bunch of little hunters,” she commented, smiling at the group.
“My godchildren have a little problem you could solve.”
Dean stiffened, trying to shake off the tenderness he’d sensed in Bobby’s words. The idea of telling his woes to a stranger didn’t thrill him at all.
“We need to find a demon,” he explained, glancing at his brother. “The one who has my soul.”
Something in the psychic’s gaze seemed to brighten. “...Oh. Interesting.” She shot Bobby a surprised look. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
The mechanic grimaced. “It’s better not to know.”
Pamela stood up, tapping her chin, then grabbed a tome from a shelf. “So, this is about tracing the thread that connects you to a supernatural being.” She studied Dean for a moment, her brow furrowed. “You have two.”
The man grimaced. “Long story. I'm only interested in the one connected to the demon. Lilith.”
“One of the first immortals, and none other than the great mother of demons.” The psychic snapped her fingers. “I accept the challenge.”
She strode into the kitchen, grabbing a cookie from a plate and offering some to her guests with a gesture, then opened a couple of cupboards in search of a jar filled with dried herbs and motioned for the hunters to follow her.
She led them into a room where she quickly moved a large circular mahogany table to the center, set down her herbs, and began rummaging through the shelves, slipping between the hunters while quietly repeating what she needed.
Delilah reached for a couple of ancient-looking tomes, but Pamela slapped her hand. “Ah-a. No touchie,” she warned with an amused expression. “That book would blow your brains out.”
The reporter quickly withdrew her hand, while the psychic flicked a curious hand-shaped lighter and lit a series of candles, which became the only illumination in the room as soon as the woman ordered Bobby to close the heavy coral curtains.
Pamela traced an intricate design with fine, dark powder, then set fire to the herbs, releasing a faint scent. She motioned for Dean to sit beside her, then took his hand and closed her eyes, breathing slowly.
Pamela began to murmur something in a faint voice, and the air grew thicker, the scent stronger, and the candle flames brighter. The murmuring grew in intensity, until the psychic jumped, her head tilted skyward, then fell back onto her chest.
When she raised her head, her eyes were fixed on a point in front of her, but her hands grabbed a pen and began writing on a sheet of paper.
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
Police lights flashed in the night at the entrance to the city. A small group of onlookers blocked the road, and Dean leaned out the window, his hand ready for the Impala's horn.
Sam shrugged nervously. They were close to their goal: only another day of travel remained, while the anguish inside him grew. Despite the streetlights, the night was pitch black, hiding a hundred dangers. Inside him, his blood stirred as if waiting for something.
A woman raised an eyebrow at Dean's questions. “It's divine punishment for those shameless women. If they keep disappearing, perhaps this city will be freed from vice.”
Dean followed the woman's disapproving gaze, which was avidly studying the scene of a pair of cops questioning a girl in a skimpy sequined dress, her cheeks streaked with mascara.
Finally, the crowd thinned, and the Impala and the pickup could slowly move forward. As they passed the patrol car, all four could clearly hear, “She disappeared while I was turned... as if the darkness swallowed her.”
Reaching the motel, Morgan collapsed onto her bed, her hands pressed to her face. Nearby, Delilah sat stiffly, her gaze fixed on the door.
The journalist leaped to her feet and reached the bathroom sink, grabbing the ceramic, closing her eyes and trying to banish the slight dizziness that had been lingering for two days.
She couldn't go on like this.
She didn't care about Lilith. She didn't care about the impending end of the world. Right now, she didn't even care about anyone else: everything vanished before the ruins of her certainties, which she continued to try to rebuild, only to see them crumble every time the angel's name came up in conversation.
“I’m going for a walk,” she announced, at least to snap her friend out of her thoughts.
“Deli, it’s dangerous, you can’t—”
The journalist almost slammed the door as she left. As she walked, she pulled out her phone, morbidly checking her call history: no response from her parents or her sister. Since she’d abandoned her old life, her calls to her family had been rarer than usual, but the knowledge that the world was about to become much more dangerous had kept her awake the past few nights.
The phone remained silent, and the woman sighed, running a hand over her face, trying to chase away the tiredness, and that was when she spotted the herbalist shop.
It didn't have a name, but an iron sign in the shape of an owl hung above the door, swaying slightly in the light rain. The window displayed bottles, bouquets of dried flowers and herbs, and even crystals.
Despite it being nearly two in the morning, a warm light came from inside.
Chimes tinkled as Delilah opened the door, and the faint scent of oils and essences surrounded her like a cloud. The woman looked around, spotting everything from trustworthy-looking medicines to bags of unidentifiable powders, salts of all kinds, bottles of scented sprays, and ceramic pestles. She stopped in front of some tea bags, decorated with purple ribbons, whose labels drew a puzzled smile from her: for forgetting, for dreaming, for love, for hate.
“Can I help you?”
Delilah turned to the counter. “I was just looking.”
A woman in her forties smiled at her, studying her intently with her gray eyes. “Ah, herbal teas. What’s wrong? Love?... No, then, work?”
Delilah shrugged. “In a way... Do you have something for stress?”
The owner crossed her arms. “What kind of stress? If I may ask… It's easier to find a solution when you have more information.”
If only she'd known where to start. She tried to smile casually. “Let’s say ‘existential crisis stress about the meaning of life’?”
The other woman tapped her chin. “An intellectual! New problem, old solution.” She bent down and pulled out a bag of tea mix and a small box.
Delilah approached. The woman smelled of leather, mint, and freshly turned earth. “It'll certainly help me relax, but it can't stop me from thinking.”
It might have been a little rude to suggest a remedy wouldn't work, but the woman didn't seem surprised by her skepticism.
“I'm offering you solutions.” She shrugged, her fiery red curls bouncing. “You don't have to accept them. However, this is a great tea for relaxing the mind.” She opened the box, revealing a dozen purple candies. “These, on the other hand, work faster.”
A few minutes later, Delilah was strolling through the city, the new weight of the metal box deforming the pocket of her purse.
The small police squad passed her, and immediately afterward the young prostitute appeared at the end of the street.
She seemed in a hurry, looking around with that haunted, terrified look Delilah had seen too many times by now, and she held her shoes in her hand, one of which was missing a heel.
Delilah pressed her lips together, preparing to avoid her gaze, but stiffened when the girl shrieked instead, then covered her mouth and slumped against the wall.
The reporter approached her cautiously. “Are you okay?”
At her voice, the girl seemed to calm down, though fear still distorted her face. “I'm sorry... I didn't see... I thought…” Her eyes watered. “I thought you were one of them.”
Delilah tilted her head slightly, then reached out a hand and helped her up. “Can I ask... what happened?”
The girl gave her a look full of caution and fear.
“I’m not with the police. I'll let you go… wherever you need to go, but I just want to know what you saw.”
The girl fell silent, tightening the silver straps of her shoes.
“You saw something strange, didn't you? And no one believed you.” Delilah tried to smile reassuringly. “I just want to prevent more girls from disappearing.”
Something in her tone must have convinced her. “I… it was dark, I'm not sure what I saw. There were two of us, near a streetlight. Then Helena said she heard something… the streetlight went out, and I heard a voice.” The girl hugged her bare shoulders. “My grandmother always told me to run if I heard spirits, because they want to eat you and are always hungry. I ran, but Helena… I heard her say something, and when I turned around, she was gone.”
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
Dean opened his eyes to find Castiel staring at him, and he screamed, startling Sam awake.
“Fuck, man! You scared me!” he exclaimed, while the angel didn’t blink.
Morgan’s agitated knocking rang out on their bedroom door. “Are you okay?”
Delilah poked her head just inside the door. “Are you decent?” she asked, then stiffened as soon as she saw Castiel.
The room’s temperature dropped dramatically, as the angel met Sam’s gaze gravely. “What are you doing? You’re just sitting here wasting time while demons across the country are breaking the seals.”
“It’s called ‘resting,’ something you do after twelve hours of driving.”
Castiel looked perplexed. "Well, get moving, then."
“Something's wrong with this town,” Delilah interjected, the candy melting on her tongue and filling her mouth with sweetness. Her gaze fell on the angel, almost as if challenging herself and the herbalist's remedy, and she realized she felt no tension, as if his presence were merely decorative. She smiled. “We should investigate and help the locals.”
“We also need to make more bullets for the Colt,” Dean added. “Apparently, I'm a much more coveted piñata than we thought.”
“I don’t think they’re trying to tear you apart, though I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Lilith would be pleased,” Castiel clarified.
“The point is rushing us isn’t going to fix things,” Sam concluded. “Unlike you, we have limits.”
The angel looked at him with a displeased expression. “You can’t waste your time with some mystery.”
Dean waved vaguely. “Deli, did you find anything interesting?”
The reporter continued to stare at Castiel with an almost amused expression, as if trying to figure out how long she could keep staring at the sun without being blinded by it. “One or more prostitutes disappeared, her partner said she heard voices, and then the other one was swallowed up by the darkness.”
Dean clapped his hands together, standing up. “Great, just what I needed,” he exclaimed. “I’m going to investigate.”
Castiel frowned. “You shouldn’t put yourself in danger.”
“I’ll come with you, then,” Morgan said, raising her voice just enough to catch her friend’s attention. “…to cover your back.”
A series of emotions flashed across Dean’s face, then he nodded.
“I can’t have you wandering around,” Castiel repeated. “I’ll come with you.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Great. I’ll brush my teeth and we’ll be off.”
“I’ll take care of the Colt!” Delilah exclaimed, smiling brightly. “I found a place that sells the oils we need.”
Sam stretched. “Then I’m coming with you—”
“Oh, no, there’s no need,” the reporter interrupted quickly, already out the door. “I can handle this myself, see you later!”
The others stared at her wide-eyed, confused by her enthusiasm.
Sam frowned. “So I’m coming with you guys?”
“Do you know what happens when four people step into a brothel, Sammy?” Dean replied. “But for real, you should just rest. You need to conserve your energy…”
“To kill Lilith,” Castiel concluded.
Morgan took pity on her friend. “You can... go see where the girl disappeared.”
And Sam was left alone in the room. A painting next to him—a horrible still life—vibrated violently and fell to the floor, startling him.
Great. They avoided him like the plague, as if it were his fault they were in that shitty situation.
And that angel, who kept looking at him as if she saw only Azazel's puppet and the blood he certainly hadn't chosen to have... But in the end, what else was he if not that?
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
Delilah happily walked back to the herbalist's shop. A man was finishing his payment at the counter, then he hurried away, bumping into the woman on his way to the door. He quickly crossed himself with a strange expression, hiding his packet in his jacket.
"The intellectual's back." The shop owner watched her with a satisfied smile.
The journalist felt lighthearted, welcomed. “The candies work. Thank you so much, really,” she sighed. “They've definitely made my day.”
“I'm glad they did.”
“I need this stuff,” she explained, handing over her list of ingredients for the Colt bullets.
The woman scanned it quickly, giving her a curious look. “Interesting. Are you a witch?”
The reporter blinked, confused. “I—No. They don’t exist.”
The other woman walked over to a shelf. “I’m surprised such an intelligent woman as yourself actually believes that.”
Delilah stiffened slightly, studying her. “Are you?”
She gestured toward her shop. “Take a guess.”
Oh. Delilah's mind tried to recall some notion, the legends she'd read, frowning. If witches existed, they would have met them, right? None of her friends had ever mentioned such encounters.
The woman observed her expression with a smile, returning to the counter. “But like you said, witches don't exist, right? Just fairy tales invented by men afraid of certain knowledge.”
Delilah frowned. Despite everything, a part of her mind still refused to accept certain ideas. “The candies... are they magical?”
Her gray eyes twinkled slightly, amused. “It's more complicated than that, but yes.”
An alarm went off lazily in the back of her mind, but she was so calm, so intrigued... Why not? Angels and God existed; witches might as well exist.
“And how does that work?”
The woman seemed genuinely cheered by the question. “Are you interested? You'd be the first person in this town not to laugh at me.”
Delilah shrugged. “Why not? I’ll learn something new.”
The other woman studied her with interest. “Really? For a skeptic, you seem way too curious.”
“A flaw I’m working on.” Delilah smiled enthusiastically as she floated in the warm light of the herbalist’s shop. “Oh, sorry, I’ve never introduced myself. Delilah.”
The woman held out her hand, her nails like foxglove petals. “Lorelei.” Then she clapped her hands. “Where to begin…”
The chimes made them turn, and an elegant-looking woman entered the shop.
Lorelei smiled at her. “I’ll be with you in a second.” She turned to Delilah. “Forgive me, but I really have to leave you. Mrs. Evans is in a bit of a hurry.” She disappeared into the back room and emerged with a gray leather book, which she handed to her with an apologetic smile.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have the ingredients you asked for yet. I’ll order them, and you can come back this evening.”
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
Castiel stopped in front of the entrance, his impassive expression broken by a hint of discomfort. “I'll wait for you outside.”
Dean rolled his eyes, irritated. “What a bodyguard... he's afraid of a pair of bare legs.”
“This place reeks of sin.”
“Then hold your nose,” he replied. “The whole world smells like that.”
Morgan glanced at the angel. “You've been to hell, and a brothel is a problem?”
The two hunters entered, with the angel behind them, glaring around with a smug grimace. He caught the gaze of a trio of men sitting in a sort of waiting room, and they quickly looked away, filled with sudden shame, but didn't move from their seats.
Dean approached an elderly woman leafing through a large notebook. She looked up and gave a polite smile.
“Good morning. How can I help you? I should warn you that there are shifts to follow, and a small line ahead of you.”
“What about a girl named Helena?”
The elderly woman immediately narrowed her gaze. “Unfortunately, Helena was in an accident and is no longer available.” She studied the trio suspiciously, focusing in particular on Castiel’s elegant, well-groomed suit. “If you’re with law enforcement, I assure you—”
Dean quickly shook his head. “Oh, no, of course not… Too bad, no one was like her. Would it be possible to meet one of the girls who worked with her?”
The old woman raised an eyebrow. “The girls who work nights are resting.”
Fighting back his disgust, Dean pulled out as many bills as he could. “Come on... it's not that hard a request to fulfill.”
The woman counted the bills. “No, not at all,” he agreed, then glanced at Morgan. “If you're looking for boys, we have—”
“No, we... we'd also be interested in the same... category.” Morgan had to force herself not to shiver, trying to ignore the anguish the place caused her.
The old woman ushered them into the waiting room, sitting away from the rest of the customers.
Dean ran a hand over his face. He didn't want Morgan to think he was that kind of man. He wanted to tell her, assure her that he had always refused to take advantage of anyone like that...
Not that Morgan cared at the moment. She was too busy ignoring the feeling of being watched, the kind of stare she felt when she walked at night; even though she was armed and perfectly capable of defending herself, there was always a part of her mind that reminded her that she was always in danger, that her body was by nature honeycomb for every kind of insect and worm, for eyes that saw her as soft skin ready to be touched and possessed.
And the idea that there, above her, separated only by a few layers of mortar, were dozens of bodies like hers, being drained more and more every day…
The old woman approached them to lead them to their rooms.
Dean found himself facing a tired-looking woman with a cascade of blonde hair like those of princesses he'd seen painted in flowery meadows. She was wearing lace and satin summer pajamas and seemed genuinely annoyed at the interruption of her rest, but she was trying her best to hide it.
“I'm not here to do anything,” Dean quickly explained, taking out more money. “I'll leave in an hour, and I'll make sure no one bothers you again.”
“How generous of you,” she muttered, sitting on his bed, giving him a suspicious look. “Are you a cop? Or one of those idiots looking for his Pretty Woman?”
“I hear one of the girls is missing.”
The other woman wrinkled her nose. “So you are a cop. You have three seconds before I have you thrown out.”
Dean stepped forward, raising his hands in surrender. “Hey, no, I just want to know what creature took her.”
“Creature?”
Two rooms away, Morgan sat next to a young woman with pastel green hair, who was studying her curiously. “So, you’re a ghostbuster?”
“In a way.” Morgan tried to ignore the marks on the girl’s exposed skin. “I don’t want other disappearances.”
“I don’t think it was a real monster. You mean something like Mothman? Because another girl was just found in a ditch…”
Morgan grimaced. “I hunt the weird ones, the non-human ones… Although we do occasionally come across some horrible humans.”
“And you kill them?” The girl brightened. “Can you kill my uncle? He definitely counts as a monster.”
The huntress paled. How could that girl not have lost her mind? How could she have a steady voice, not tremble every second she was conscious? That vitality frightened her; it couldn't be natural.
In the room where he'd been thrust, Castiel looked around with confusion. Where was the hedonistic frenzy, the fierce enjoyment in breaking sacred rules? Where was the enthusiasm for transgression, the perverse happiness felt by the worst sinners?
In that place there was only anguish, alternating with flashes of physical pleasure and moments of shame and regret, which were immediately replaced by a latent rage and a feeling of helplessness. He… felt those sensations, they lingered, as if all the souls gathered in those rooms were clinging to him.
He gazed at the young woman, who was staring at him with vague interest, her body barely covered by what she was wearing—it was a strange sight, all he could see was a mass of muscle and blood, something so different from how he and his brothers looked.
The woman met his gaze, and slowly, her eyes watered as she hugged her shoulders. “What have I done... God, why did I leave…” she sobbed, and Castiel felt the urge to move closer, to kneel beside her.
He stiffened, disturbed by the thought; that gesture, which should have been reserved for his Father, could not be associated with those rebel creatures.
The door behind him burst open, and three girls glared at him as they ran to embrace their friend.
“What did you do to her?!” one screamed, her long, colorful nails ready to scratch his face. “Go away! Get out!”
The weeping woman raised her head. “No! No, Leila, please! Let him stay,.” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes. The others continued to surround her protectively, glaring at the stranger. “…Are you an angel?”
Castiel tilted his head, curious. “How do you know?”
“I never believed it… But now…”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Leila snapped. “Mimi, whatever he said to you, don’t listen to it.”
“I assure you, Miranda is not mistaken,” the angel murmured, startling her. Were humans much more sensitive to her presence than she thought? Could it be that such a sinner had been able to see it immediately? Granted, his presence instilled fear and demanded truth, but he hadn't imagined that…
“I need some information that will help Heaven win the final battle.”
In a way, it was the truth. Once they’d resolved that distraction, the hunters would finally go on to complete their mission.
The women exchanged skeptical glances. “I don’t talk to bigots.”
The angel hesitated. “I don’t know what these bigots are like, but I assure you, Shelly, I’m not like them.”
“What do you want to know?” Miranda asked, with a gentle smile.
“Some of your companions disappeared recently. Apparently, ‘the darkness took them’.”
“Are you talking about Helena and Joanna? And before that, there was that girl, the one with the braids…” Leila and the others seemed focused on their memories.
The youngest, Shelly, shrugged. “I’ve heard a voice in the night a couple of times. Whispers, and noises like an owl and branches moving. But I always left before they got too close.”
Castiel watched them, waiting for further testimony. “I'm grateful for your availability.”
Miranda leaned toward him, and the angel almost stepped back. Then she timidly reached out and took his hand. “You're real…” she murmured, still moved. “Please, come back to us.”
“I don't—”
The woman tightened her grip on his hand. Her fingers had that strange human warmth. “It would be really great if you came back. Every now and then. Or even just once.”
Castiel pursed his lips. Why did those two simple eyes, devoid of any spark, save the faint one of her human life and soul, trouble him so much?
“I… I can't promise that.”
The woman bowed her head, letting him go. “It's okay. Thank you for coming.”
The others seemed as mortified as she was. In those final moments, something had changed in the air, something other than the suffering that plagued that place had crept in, something akin to the thin pink clouds at the dawn of a new day.
Castiel left the room. He could have blessed them... His siblings would not have approved of such an action. No, perhaps it was better this way, better to leave them in the sin they had chosen and pursued, turning their backs to the Light.
And that woman, who for a moment had seen in his eyes the memory of a little girl hastily abandoned at the city hospital... She was remorseful, he’d felt it, but why didn't she leave that horrible place? Why didn't she abandon that path of pain and error?
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
Sam stared out into the woods, the EMF detector silent. The angel was right, that case was a waste of time, every minute took them further away from saving Dean.
That piercing, inhuman gaze that followed them seemed to disapprove of his entire existence, but at the same time it seemed firmly convinced of his ability to eliminate such an ancient and powerful demon. Something in his words had felt like a prophecy, and Sam hated that a path already laid out for him reassured him in any way.
If the angels trusted him, then surely he would make it.
And then? Would they free him from that blood as a reward for saving the world? Or would they cast him into hell, without even deigning to look at him, while instead they welcomed his brother with open arms, because Dean had been saved, while he had nurtured the devil within himself…
A snap made him look down. His shoes had shattered a series of small, pale, decidedly human-looking knuckles. A little further on, he found more bones, and even a few meters further, a macabre trail of white crumbs.
With those bones in his hand, he reached a large walnut tree, whose branches blocked the sky, and at his feet were traces of ash scattered in the grass.
Sam took one last look at the tree. A complete waste of time, but it was actually much better than having to deal with the angel and what lay ahead.
He stuffed the bones into his backpack, and as he did so, he thought he heard a whisper, a barely audible but clearly hostile sound. He hurried away, retracing his steps toward town, passing the unlit streetlights. The lamps seemed to be working, flickering on and off as the sun set.
As the heat of the summer day dulled, Sam began to feel a strange chill, which followed him all the way to the motel and didn't leave him even when he lay down in bed.
Beside him, Dean dreamed of hell, memories his mind regurgitated from his subconscious in disjointed, vague images, searing pain, and an anguish that made him toss and turn in his sleep.
He woke up gasping, his heart in his throat and a horror of something he couldn't remember, just in time to see a shadow stretch beyond the bedroom window, along the ceiling. He stared at it, the fragments of the dream immobilizing him in place, while the shadow—were those eyes? Those two tiny lights, two reflections of the moon in the room?—enveloped Sam like a blanket.
Then his brother screamed, as the sheets tore under dark claws, revealing long, bloody cuts, and the shadow grabbed him, trying to drag him out.
Dean shook himself, stumbling over his sheets to grab his gun, and emptied most of the weapon’s magazine into the shadow, which made a sound like nails on a chalkboard as it retreated rapidly. Sam leaped to his feet, staggering, and lunged for his backpack, which the shadow's long fingers were trying to carry away.
The shadow finally surrendered when Dean shot it again, and it vanished into the night.
“Are you okay?”
Sam glared at him from the floor, his hands sticky with blood and the air conditioning burning his cuts. “What do you think?”
The anxious knocking of her friends interrupted them, and the two rushed into the room. “What happened?”
“The bogeyman wanted to steal my bones.”
“Excuse me?”
Sam grimaced as he followed Delilah’s directions and lay down on the bed, while she helped him shed his bloody clothes.
“I found some bones in the woods and picked them up, which must have offended that shadow thing.”
“God, this is the tenth time, Sam!” Morgan exclaimed, running a hand over his face. “It’s the only thing you’re not supposed to do while walking in the woods!”
The man’s pout was quite laughable. “You can’t stop me.”
“Next time, we’ll tie you up.”
Delilah began to apply a cold ointment to the cuts, which soon felt like he was on fire.
“What the hell is that?”
“It should heal you in a few minutes,” she replied, putting the bottle back in the bag. The label had a picture of a moon wrapped in vines. “I got it when I went to buy the Colt stuff.”
“So I’m a guinea pig?”
“We could have called Castiel; he’s supposed to be a walking panacea,” Dean commented.
“Wow, you learned a new word.”
Delilah frowned. “Oh, sure, let’s call the angel for everything, now he’s the solution to all our problems,” she muttered, annoyed.
Morgan gave her a confused look. “Well, actually, that’s true.”
The other woman didn’t seem to appreciate her intervention. “Look, it’s better to have concrete certainty, and this stuff works,” she exclaimed, pointing to Sam’s skin, which was already starting to heal. “We can’t rely on an angel. What if he doesn’t respond because he doesn’t think it’s important to intervene?”
“Come on, Deli, he was literally assigned to our case. He's supposed to protect us.”
“He's supposed to protect him,” Delilah pointed out, gesturing towards Dean. “In fact, I don't think he even approves of us traveling with you, except for the fact that he needs Sam to accomplish what his own kind can't.”
Dean crossed his arms. “I don't like having a guard dog following me around either, but you have to admit, so far he's never given us any reason to doubt his intentions.”
“He has no intentions, he's just following orders from creatures known to be inscrutable and unpredictable.”
Sam placed a hand on the woman's arm. “Deli, I understand how you feel, but Castiel doesn't mean us any harm. I'm sure he only wants to help us.”
The reporter pursed her lips, unconvinced.
“In fact, he was the one who gathered the information about the missing girls,” Morgan pointed out. “They all talked about voices in the dark and noises in the night. Add to that the shadow you saw and the bones issue.”
“I'll do some research tomorrow,” Sam intervened. “We should have enough clues to get useful results.”
“You should get some rest,” Delilah protested.
“That stuff you used is miraculous. I feel reborn.”
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
“Are you sure you don't want to come?”
Delilah barely looked up from the book Lorelei had given her. “Sure.”
Sam looked puzzled. “Did aliens kidnap you and leave your evil twin behind?”
“I found something better to do.”
“Better than helping people?”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “I'm looking for another way to help them. Besides, you've practically solved the case, now you don't need me anymore. It's time for the action heroes.”
Her friend looked her over again, then left the room, leaving the Colt in his brother's hand.
Their footsteps faded into the hallway. Delilah glanced at the clock, then at the page in John's diary she'd opened on her bed. The hunter had encountered witches, and described them as ordinary but extremely vengeful human beings who worked their magic through hex bags that attracted either misfortune or good luck.
Delilah had glimpsed those bags in the herbalist's shop, mainly related to luck and protection from spirits.
But John didn't mention the power described in the other book: actual energy emanating from the fingers of people who had dedicated their lives to studying magic.
Upon reaching the herbalist's shop, the customer at the counter stopped talking to Lorelei, grabbed her purchases, and left, not before making a superstitious gesture.
“How did your spell go, dear?” Lorelei asked, smiling.
“It was just a simple ritual.”
The woman inclined her head. “What's the difference? It's still a little magic. Are you afraid to admit that it's that?”
The reporter shrugged. “...My colleagues wouldn't use that term.”
The woman sighed, rolling her eyes. “Denial is so easy, but we remain ignorant so as not to strain our minds.”
Delilah thought back to the diary and imagined how someone like John might react to that idea. “Let's just say the word magic conjures up some... strange ideas.”
Lorelei looked intrigued. “May I ask what kind of spell it was? If I may. Blessed oil is often used to make various objects sacred… A piece of jewelry? A doorknob?”
“… A weapon.”
A flicker of interest lit up the woman’s gray eyes. “Are you a hunter, dear?”
The reporter shook her head. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t call myself that.”
“But you hang out with hunters. A consultant for them, aren't you?” Lorelei smiled. “I understand your reserve around magic, but I think those people have the wrong idea of who we are.”
Delilah nodded. I mean, could she really trust the notes of someone like John Winchester? After all, it had been a coincidence; the man had met some evil people who practiced magic, but there were definitely good witches out there!
“So, if you're back, I guess it means you've read the book I gave you.”
“I have a lot of questions.” Delilah began leafing through the book, where she'd inserted sheets of paper from her notebook with her notes. “Do you use hex bags? Does your power manifest externally? How much have you studied? Do you have to have a genetic predisposition? Is there a specific initiation rite? Do you come from a family of witches?”
Lorelei's laughter interrupted Delilah's raging conversation, her red curls swaying like playful snakes. Lorelei looked genuinely happy and clapped her hands cheerfully.
“I haven't seen such an enthusiastic spirit in years," she exclaimed, her eyes laughing. "All it took was a little spark, and look at you, you're already a little fire." Her fingers moved as if she could touch that image, then she met Delilah's anxious gaze.
“That little spell you cast... what did you feel in that moment?”
Delilah fell silent, confused. Months ago, she'd watched Bobby and Morgan develop it, offering advice and consulting books with them. Her days had been dedicated to caring for Sam, while Morgan had always taken care of Colt anyway.
And then, when she'd tried, in the dim light of their room, nothing special had happened, no smoke, no sparks, no whispers of spirits, just Delilah, her fingers smelling of oil and aromatic herbs, her heart dancing with joy like it hadn't in months, something inside her stirring impatiently.
“...It seemed so easy, so I wondered… what else could I learn to do?” Perhaps she shouldn't have been so honest with the woman, who seemed to absorb her words with particular satisfaction.
“There's no limit to what you can do, if you have enough willpower,” the woman murmured, her eyes shining in the sunlight. “And you seem to have it, at least to try.”
“Really?”
Lorelei smiled, stepping closer. “An interest in magic is common, but the desire to pursue it is a line many don't dare cross.” She placed a hand on her shoulder. “You, Delilah, are already on the other side.”
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
Dean risked a furtive glance at Morgan, who was busy sifting through the books Sam had left her.
Maybe he'd gone too far; he should apologize. The silence between them was uncomfortable, even though he'd created it.
He ran a hand over his left shoulder again, the phantom pain from his scar slowly fading since Castiel had vanished. To be precise, he'd simply started walking, leaving him and Morgan behind, deaf to any call—not that either of them had called him.
The angel made him nervous, making him feel like a glass object that needed to be wrapped in ever-new layers of cotton wool, slowly suffocating him. He couldn't stand his gaze; his presence forced him to remember what he'd experienced.
“Found something,” Sam exclaimed, interrupting his thoughts and reawakening Morgan's attention, who avoided Dean's gaze. The two joined him at the library computer. “At least I think so. The description here is so vague... There's a creature called a 'malandante' or a 'male witch.'” The drawing depicted a small man standing on a tree branch under the moon, with overlong limbs and two white holes for eyes. “They move in groups of three or four, and they look for people who wander around alone at night.”
“If they ask you who the night is for, answer them ‘for yourself, for me, for all those who walk in the night’; only then will they let you pass, only then will you become one of them,” Morgan read, frowning. “Do you mean you turn into one or get eaten?”
“Either way, it ends badly,” Dean commented. “And this business of the bones?”
“Apparently there are legends of nocturnal sabbaths where the fires are made with bones instead of embers. If someone steals a bone, they'll come and take it back.” Sam quickly scanned the site. “There's a whole strange protection ritual involving a female key and a mammon cat - I have no idea what those are -, but there’s also a more simple way to stop them: you can trap them forever in the tree where they hide by planting an iron object in the trunk.”
“And I bet that can be done only at night.”
“Obviously.”
The three of them left the library late in the afternoon. Sam checked his phone for any sign of Delilah, but the woman seemed to have vanished.
A group of men outside a barbershop were gathered around a newspaper, loudly commenting on the news.
“Oh, not Patricia's son! Poor boy, what a terrible death!”
“All that blood... No one can sleep soundly anymore!”
“Slaughtered like that, right in the city center! Gangster stuff, I tell you.”
“Like old Tony, that sly bastard... I wouldn't be surprised if it was his wife who’d done it.”
One man frantically pointed to a corner of the page. “There he is, my neighbor: Woman poisoned in her home, husband questioned. He told me…”
Morgan grimaced as they walked away. “What the hell is going on in this city? I've never heard of so many deaths in such a short time.”
“The world sucks even without supernatural creatures,” Dean declared. “People are good at getting killed.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “How morbid.”
“I’m just telling the truth. Monsters are just a fanciful addition to a world of serial killers and frustrated husbands.”
“Kudos to God for the worldbuilding,” Morgan muttered as the three reached their motel. Figures were milling around the parking lot, buzzing around the Impala like wasps waiting for something to sting.
They turned toward the three hunters with wide, defiant smiles, a small group of four slap-worthy faces with pitch-black eyes. “Welcome back!” exclaimed one of them, the one next to their open trunk. He was passing a grenade from hand to hand. “We've been waiting for you—”
He was interrupted by a Colt bullet that pierced his eye and skull, destabilizing him and making him stagger. The demon raised a hand to his face, cursing under his breath, and one of his companions grabbed a machete from the trunk and lunged at Dean, who simply pointed the Colt at him and shot him in the weapon's arm.
The demon was left with a punctured arm, then stepped forward, dropping the machete in his free hand. “Oh, well, thank Satan I'm ambidextrous.”
Morgan pushed him away and the machete narrowly missed Dean's face. He was too surprised to react normally, his gaze fixed on the smoking Colt.
The one-eyed demon and the other two lunged at the hunters, while Morgan pulled out his flask of holy water and threw it in the face of one of them. He recoiled, screaming, and she kicked him to the ground.
Sam pulled out his knife and plunged it into the first demon's other eye, hoping the blessed blade would be enough to kill him.
Dean avoided the machete again, then reached the trunk, grabbed a bat, and beat the demon until it collapsed to the ground.
Morgan grimaced, glancing at the motel windows. “Hopefully we don't have any witnesses.”
“Why didn't it work?” Dean pulled the bullets from the Colt's cylinder, studying them. “Didn't Delilah take care of it?”
“Something must have gone wrong.”
“It was her first time; I usually take care of it,” Morgan explained, holding out a hand. “You make these three disappear.” The hunter almost bumped into Castiel.
The angel studied the scene, the spatters of blood and the cut on Dean's cheek. “You didn't call me.”
Dean's mouth dropped open, exasperated. “You disappeared! You left us in danger!”
“That's not true.”
“You keep talking about duty and protection, and then you do nothing!” the man snapped. “What purpose do you have, then? Why are you here?”
“Dean…” Morgan tried to interject.
Castiel frowned, then with a gesture, made the three bodies and the traces of the fight disappear. “The Colt didn't work,” he observed. “That's strange.”
“Go away.”
The angel raised an eyebrow, a gesture that suggested careful words. But Dean couldn't feel anything except the dull throbbing of his scar.
“We don't need you, do you understand? None of your siblings really care if I live or die, or if anything happens to one of us. That’s the truth.”
Castiel stared at him, impassive and silent. Then he vanished with a crackle.
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
The setting sun was soon obscured by the trees, leaving only flashes of orange and blue in the sky that peeped through the leaves.
Morgan checked once again for extra batteries to recharge her flashlight, several lighters, and every type of iron weapon she had in the pickup.
As much as she tried to understand Dean, she couldn't help but think that without the angel they were even more defenseless. The demons had only taken a few days to find the hunters, following them to every town. Those four they'd killed were just the latest in a long list of ambushes along the way.
They were so close to their goal… Dean would finally be free.
The faint hooting of a pair of owls slowed them, assuming they were indeed normal animals. Sam shone his flashlight on a branch, where a dark figure quickly leaped away, making him shiver.
They continued on, finding more bones abandoned in the bramble bushes. Dean picked up a couple, waving them in the darkness with a confident expression. “Come on, follow us! We’re just lousy thieves!”
The provocation seemed to have some effect, so much so that Morgan could have sworn he saw a pair of white eyes glowing in the dim light. The noises followed them, slowly increasing in volume as Sam led them toward the tree.
Sam glared at his brother. “Why do you have to feel this constant need to annoy someone?” Dean replied with a shrug.
Whispers began to dance around them. “Who does the night belong to? Who does the night belong to?”
“Don't say a word,” Sam hissed, but the words seemed to slow his pace, sinking into his ears until it became a deafening, obsessive chorus, accompanied by the gnashing of invisible teeth.
Sam staggered, covering his ears as his grip on his weapon loosened. He tried to take a step, but his movements were uncertain and shaky, and soon he was left still, kneeling in the grass.
Dean tried to get his brother’s attention, while out of the corner of his eye he saw the shadows of hundreds of those small, clear, glowing eyes come to life like fireflies. There was a way to make those creatures stop, he knew, but the chaos prevented him from thinking clearly.
Morgan was in the same situation, trying to crawl forward to reach Sam, but a shadow grabbed her ankle, squeezing and digging its claws into her flesh, eliciting a groan. She turned and planted the knife between the creature's eyes, and it melted silently.
Suddenly, sharp pains shook her ears, her head spinning and she couldn't protect herself. Then only a muffled buzz remained, and the hunter felt nauseated as she felt rivulets of blood trickling down her neck.
Dean was staring at her, his mouth moving soundlessly, but she ignored him, struggling to her feet and slowly trudging toward the clearing.
Another shadow fell upon her, scraping her back, and Morgan let out a cry of pain, then gritted her teeth and stabbed the creature. Her vision was beginning to blur, but the tree was getting closer, she just had to reach it...
The shadows seized her legs when she was just a few meters from the trunk, and the hunter had to claw at the ground to drag herself forward, her body burning with pain. Then her hands tightened around a tree root and she dug the knife into the bark.
The shadows rose like a wave ready to overwhelm her, their cries shaking her even in the silence, then they were sucked into the tree.
Morgan rested her head against the tree trunk, looking down at her bloody clothes as her head pounded and her energy drained away.
Dean tried to run toward her, but his body wouldn't respond, and he had to stagger to the tree, nearly hitting his head when he tried to sit next to her. He grabbed her shoulders, panic churning inside him at the sight of the blood. “Hey, stay awake,” he croaked, his throat dry and his voice weak, his ears still ringing. “Morgan, can you hear me? Morgan!”
The woman moved her head slowly, frowning, trying to understand what she was doing.
Sam gently lifted her head, paling. “Her eardrums… They ruptured her eardrums.”
Dean squeezed the woman's hand. “Morgan, keep your eyes open,” he insisted forcefully, enunciating his words slowly.
“We have to get her out of here quickly, she’s losing too much blood.”
Dean leaped to his feet, and another wave of dizziness forced him to lean against the tree, then he tried to pick up Morgan. “Help me.”
Sam shoved his phone into his backpack with a sudden movement. “No signal,” he muttered, trying to lift the woman. She struggled, muttering something, but soon all three of them fell back to the ground.
Dean gritted his teeth, trying to get up again. “We have to go. Help me with Morgan.”
“You can’t even stand.”
“Help me,” he repeated angrily, the ringing in his ears fading slightly. “She can’t die like this,” he muttered, putting Morgan’s arm around his shoulders, but again his legs betrayed him.
Dean looked up at the sky, reluctantly. He didn’t want to pray, he never had, he hated the feeling of helplessness it gave him, as if he were speaking to an abyss that refused to answer. “... Help me. Please.”
The darkness of the forest faded to a beige and blue hue, and Castiel gazed impassively at him. There seemed to be a hint of reproach and annoyance in it, something so human that didn't seem to belong in those eyes.
Dean held his gaze, and the angel extended a hand to Morgan, who stared at him with a relieved expression. The pain became a memory, and her ears filled with the two men's breathing and the chirping of cicadas.
Morgan gave a faint smile, her gaze fixed on the angel. “Thank you,” she murmured softly.
─── ⊱ ♰ ⊰ ───
It was barely dawn, and there was a sense of unrest in the city, particularly in the area near the brothel. Dean pushed through the crowd that had gathered outside the building just in time to see a couple of construction workers removing the neon sign that gave the brothel its name.
Morgan hurried over to Diana, the green-haired girl she'd met, who seemed to be buzzing with excitement. “Hey, ghostbuster! What do you think? We have a new job!”
The hunter was shocked. “Really?”
“The old woman was struck by an idea and decided to change businesses,” the girl exclaimed. “From now on, we're a B&B. Some girls left because they said it was too much work, but honestly I wouldn't mind being a waitress.”
The woman wasn't sure how to react, confused as she was by his words. A brothel being converted into another business by its owner? Sure, if the old woman was only interested in money, it could still work, but that didn’t explain such a radical change in a matter of hours.
She searched Sam's eyes, who seemed as confused as she was, but their surprise increased when a small group of women approached Castiel, who had remained standing aside.
Skeptical Shelly studied him suspiciously. “The old woman spoke of ‘divine inspiration’ that came to her in a dream. How much did you pay her?”
“I didn't do anything.”
“Sure, one day the old hag simply wakes up with bright, cheerful eyes, and we have to change jobs,” Leila continued, pointing a finger at him. “Admit it was you.”
Miranda took his hands, giving him that strange sensation again that seemed to anchor him to the ground, her eyes moist. “Thank you,” she murmured in a broken voice, her gaze fixed on the ground, “Thank you so much. We don't deserve all this…”
The woman gasped when the angel's fingers touched her face, her heart swelled with a new emotion as the rough thumb delicately traced a cross on her forehead.
He stepped away from the women, while the others held Miranda close and scolded him for making her cry again. “Blessed be you, children of God,” he found himself whispering, ignoring the cold sensation of his siblings’ stern, disapproving gazes.