This chapter briefly talks about "Stuck in the Middle (With You)" at the beginning. It then focuses heavily on "Family Feud" --hence the title. And I also included the very beginning of "The Raid" to round out the story. Hope you enjoy!
--
The library feels unusually quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that lets your thoughts echo louder than you'd like. You sit alone at the long table, the spell book you and the boys took from the coven of witches resting ominously in front of you. Its dark leather cover gleams faintly under the dim glow of the overhead lamp, the etched symbols almost seeming to shift when you glance at them from the corner of your eye. you bight your thumb, tearing at the skin around its edge, a nervous habit you can't quite kick, as Rowena's words replay in your mind: Power isn't all that matters, but it sure does help when you're in a bind.
The weight of her implication sits heavy with you. For a long moment, you just stare at the book, thinking about what it represents. Possibilities. Dangers. A thousand futures, none of which you can predict. You think of Alicia and Max, good witches who've proven not all magic has to be dark. But even as the thought provides a glimmer of justification, your stomach twists. Magic always comes with a price, doesn't it?
Your hand drifts toward the book, hesitating just above the cover when the front door creaks open. The sound snaps you from your thoughts, and you quickly withdraw your hand, sitting straighter as Dean strides inside, Dio trotting happily beside him. Dean moves quickly to shut the door behind him, rubbing his hands together to chase off the chill.
"Freezing out there," he mutters, shaking off the cold as he makes his way down the iron steps. Dio's collar jingles as the dog happily follows, settling near your chair.
"Thanks for taking him out," you say through a yawn, slouching slightly in your seat. The spell book feels heavier now, even untouched.
"No problem," Dean replies with a wink, his usual charm breaking through the weariness in his voice. But his eyes quickly land on the book in the center of the table, and his expression shifts. He exhales heavily, clearly displeased. "I thought Sammy put that away."
You glance at the book, feigning indifference. "Hm? Oh, I guess not."
Dean doesn't buy it, but he doesn't press you. Instead, he grabs the book and strides to the bookshelf, shoving it unceremoniously into place. "You know, if I had it my way, I'd kill every witch on this planet," he says with a chuckle, though there's no real humor in his tone.
"What about Alicia and Max?" you counter, raising a suspicious brow.
Dean hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I mean, they're fine, I guess," he relents, his tone begrudging. "But the rest? They've gotta go. Along with all their voodoo bullshit."
You scoff, crossing your arms. "Rowena literally just saved your life," you remind him, your voice sharper than intended.
Dean rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, because another set of witches hexed me," he shoots back. "If there was no magic, none of that would've happened. We wouldn't need Rowena to save our asses in the first place."
His logic has a point, but it doesn't sit right with you. A strange knot forms in your throat, and you shift uncomfortably. "I guess," you murmur, glancing at the bookshelf where the spell book now sits. "But where would we be without some magic? With all the big dogs we're facing nowadays, it seems like having some kind of power is better than nothing."
Dean studies you for a moment, his sharp eyes softening slightly as he leans forward. "You still thinking about the last case?" he asks, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.
Your stomach tightens. The last hunt still lingers in your mind, heavy as a storm cloud. Ramiel, a prince of Hell, had been a near disaster. You'd won, sure, but barely. Castiel had almost died. And then there was Mary, stealing something from the demon—something she refused to explain. Dean had brushed it off, trusting his mother blindly, but you couldn't shake the unease. Mary's secrecy, her coldness toward you... it gnawed at you, day and night.
"No," you lie, shaking your head. You know better than to bring up Mary with Dean. "I'm just tired."
Dean watches you, his gaze lingering as though he knows you're holding something back. But he lets it slide, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "Why don't you get some rest?" he suggests, his hand briefly finding yours, grounding you in a way only Dean can. "We'll wake you if there's anything big."
You nod, offering him a small, tired smile. "Alright," you say softly. As you leave the library, your eyes can't help but drift back to the bookshelf. The spell book sits quietly among the others, its dark spine standing out like a shadow in the light.
If you'd known some of the spells in that book, maybe the fight with Ramiel would've gone differently. Maybe Castiel wouldn't have been hurt. Maybe you'd even know what Mary was hiding. The thought lingers like a whisper in the back of your mind as you walk away, its pull as enticing as it is dangerous.
--
The War Room is dimly lit, the soft hum of Sam's typing filling the otherwise quiet space. Dean's voice, low and slightly gruff, cuts through as you step into the room. He's leaning back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, one leg bouncing in a familiar rhythm of impatience.
"Okay, well, stay on it," Dean says, his tone clipped but not unkind. "You get any leads, you let us know, and we'll keep working it from our end. Thanks, Cass."
As he hangs up, his gaze shifts to you, his expression softening. He gestures to the chair beside him with a small smile. "So, Kelly Kline is in the wind," he announces as you drop into the chair with a groan. "No trace."
"Great," you mutter, your sarcasm barely veiled as you stifle a yawn.
"No idea when Lucifer's kid is gonna pop," Dean continues, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "If it hasn't already."
"So basically, we got nothin'," Sam chimes in, not even looking up from his computer as he lets out a frustrated huff.
"Basically," Dean sighs, leaning back and rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well," Sam says, breaking the short silence as he swivels his laptop toward the two of you. "We do have this other thing. Check it out. Museum in Des Moines, Iowa. A guy's body was found in the parking lot. A teacher. His tongue had been ripped out."
Dean leans forward, his eyebrows shooting up as he peers at the screen. "Well, that didn't kill him," he says dryly, his tone laced with morbid curiosity.
"No, but having his internal organs crushed did," Sam replies, a note of bewilderment creeping into his voice. "Uh, no obvious damage to the torso, no point of entry."
"You thinkin' witch?" Dean asks, glancing between you and Sam with a raised brow.
"Maybe," Sam says with a sigh, turning the laptop back toward himself. "He was seen alive just a couple hours earlier, leading a student tour of the museum."
Dean hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the table. "Haven't seen Mom in a while. Maybe she'll wanna work this one with us."
You don't bother hiding the subtle roll of your eyes at the mention of Mary, though you keep your thoughts to yourself. Dean pulls out his phone, already dialing her number. As it rings, your gaze shifts to the bookshelf where the spell book sits tucked away. The thought creeps in before you can stop it: with the right spell, you could do something like that—crush a man's insides without a trace. The realization sends a shiver down your spine, solidifying your unease with magic and witches alike.
"Hey, Dean," Mary answers, her voice filtered through the speaker. There's something off in her tone, something too casual, too rehearsed.
Dean doesn't notice. "Hey, what are you up to?" he asks.
"Nothin', just, uh... I'm at a motel outside Newark," Mary replies. Her words sound light, but there's an edge you can't quite ignore.
"You have any plans?" Dean presses.
"No, no special plans," Mary chuckles, though the sound feels forced. "You know, pay-per-view, magic fingers, the uze."
You snort quietly at her choice of words, shaking your head in disapproval.
"Well, we found a case," Sam interjects, his voice steady. "Thought you'd like to join in."
"Oh, it's so sweet of you to think of me," Mary says, her tone lilting in a way that makes your skin prickle. It's too much, too insincere.
"Yeah, tongue ripped out," Dean adds with a grim chuckle. "Insides turned to mush."
"I... Tongue ripped out. Wow," Mary says, stumbling slightly over her words. "I'm actually still sort of resting up after that whole Ramiel thing. But if you need me..."
Dean's jaw tightens, but he brushes it off with a sigh. "Oh, right. You know what? Don't worry about it. Y/N, Sam, and I got this one."
"You sure?" Mary asks, but before Dean can confirm, she continues, "Okay, rain check. Hey, I love you."
"Love you too," Dean and Sam reply in unison, their voices automatic, before Dean ends the call.
"Guess it's just us," you say, your tone a little too enthusiastic. Relief floods through you, and you can't stop the grin that spreads across your face. Mary's absence feels like a weight lifting, leaving you free to focus on the hunt without her shadow looming over the group. Dean shoots you a curious look but says nothing, and you turn your attention back to Sam's screen, ready to dig into the next mystery.
--
The night stretches long as the Impala cuts through the darkness, the headlights illuminating patches of the desolate road ahead. After dropping Dio off at Jody's—who greeted him with the kind of affection only she could muster—you settle into the familiar rhythm of a road trip. Dean's hands grip the wheel with practiced ease, the deep rumble of Metallica filling the car as the three of you make your way toward the latest scene of carnage.
Sam, perched in the back seat, has his nose buried in his tablet. Occasionally, the soft glow of the screen flickers across his face as he scrolls through what you assume is his latest research. Up front, you and Dean belt out the lyrics to "For Whom the Bell Tolls," your voices blending in an off-key harmony that makes you laugh mid-chorus.
"Get this!" Sam suddenly exclaims, straightening up. His tone instantly shifts the mood. Dean's hand automatically reaches for the volume knob, turning the music down as you glance back at Sam.
"What's up?" Dean asks, his voice sharp with curiosity.
Sam adjusts his grip on the tablet. "Looks like there was another murder. Same MO as the one we're heading to."
"In Iowa?" you ask, wondering if it's another case of clustered killings.
Sam shakes his head. "No, Andover, Massachusetts. Six months ago. Victim was a woman. Body found in the same condition—internal organs crushed, no external injuries. She was a teacher, too."
Dean frowns, the crease between his brows deepening as he keeps his eyes on the road. "Great. So we're dealing with a pattern?"
"Looks like it," Sam replies with a sigh, leaning back in his seat.
Dean exhales sharply, the fingers of his right hand tapping against the steering wheel in thought. After a moment, Sam breaks the silence with an observation. "Too bad Mom couldn't make it," he says, his voice laced with something you can't quite place—regret, maybe? "She said she was too tired?"
"Yeah," You scoff before you can stop yourself, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. The reaction slips out, exposing more than you meant to.
"What?" Sam asks, startled by your tone. His eyes narrow slightly, studying you from the back seat.
You quickly adjust your posture, softening your expression as you search for the right words. "I don't know," you begin, keeping your tone measured. "I just... I feel like something's going on with her."
To your surprise, Dean nods in agreement, his voice low but firm. "Yeah. And she ain't talkin' about it."
Sam immediately goes on the defensive, his voice tinged with frustration. "Mom's hunting again," he insists, sitting forward. "That's a grind. You know that. She just needs a little time, guys. That's all."
You exchange a glance with Dean, both of you silently acknowledging the elephant in the room but choosing to leave it unspoken. "Yeah," you finally reply, nodding along as you force yourself to let the topic drop—for now.
Dean lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, sure. Time."
The tension settles into the silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rhythmic thrum of the tires against the asphalt. You lean your head against the window, watching the shadows of trees blur past, your mind still stuck on Mary. Whatever she's hiding, it feels bigger than just exhaustion. But tonight, there's another hunt, another case, and another nightmare waiting at the end of the road. For now, that has to take priority.
--
Inside the museum, the air feels heavy with the echoes of the past, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the exhibits. You, Sam, and Dean walk briskly behind Dr. Ochoa, your FBI suits lending an air of authority as she leads you through the labyrinth of artifacts. The smell of polished wood and aged textiles hangs in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of cold metal from the lab equipment.
"Thank you again for meeting with us, Dr. Ochoa," Sam says politely, his voice steady and professional.
"Of course, Agent," Dr. Ochoa replies, her tone tight with stress. "We've had two murders in two days. The police are at a loss, and—"
"Well, that's why we're here," Dean interrupts with a reassuring nod.
"Now, you mentioned victim number two brought some Timber Troopers through here?" you ask, glancing at an imposing suit of armor displayed in a nearby case.
"Sixteen hours ago," Dr. Ochoa confirms, gesturing to the exact spot you're standing. "They were right here."
Dean scans the room with a furrowed brow. "Anything new to the museum recently?"
Dr. Ochoa leads you toward the lab area, where several large wooden crates sit unopened. "We've had three traveling exhibits uncrated. One is already on display. The other two are still being prepped."
Before she can elaborate, a museum staff member approaches her urgently. "Dr. Ochoa, I need you for a moment."
"Excuse me," she says with an apologetic nod before hurrying off.
Sam waits until she's out of earshot before speaking. "Okay, so including the Massachusetts victim, that's two teachers and one scout leader," he says, his brow furrowed in thought.
"People who supervise kids," you add, a note of unease creeping into your voice as you glance at the towering crates.
Dean pulls out his EMF meter and switches it on. It immediately lights up, emitting a high-pitched whine. "Whoa," he mutters, switching it off quickly. "There's a lot of action in here. I'm officially switching my vote from witch to ghost."
Sam crosses his arms, unconvinced. "EMF spikes in a museum aren't exactly shocking. These places are always packed with restless spirits and their tethers."
"Okay, but if the killer is a ghost, how are we supposed to figure out which one it is?" you ask, gesturing to the overwhelming number of crates and artifacts. "This looks like it could take weeks."
Dean, undeterred, picks up a curved knife from a nearby table. He examines it with interest. "Aztecs were pretty serious about their sacrifices," he muses. "Aztec ghost? Yeah, I could get behind that." He moves to place the knife back, only to miss the stand, causing the blade to clatter noisily to the floor.
You stifle a laugh as Dean shoots you a sheepish look and joins you near a figurehead. "What've you got?" he asks.
You point to the intricately carved wooden figurehead of a ship. "It's from a brigantine called The Star. Sunk in a storm off the New England coast. Currently on loan from the Maritime Museum in—wait for it—Andover, Massachusetts."
Dean raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Really?"
"Yeah. Sunk in 1723," you add, flipping through the accompanying documentation.
Dean snaps his fingers as a memory surfaces. "I know something about this ship. Wait... Gavin MacLeod. This was his ship."
Sam looks up from the other side of the room. "Crowley's kid?"
You blink, stunned. "Crowley has a kid?"
"Yep," Dean scoffs. Without missing a beat, he pulls out his phone and dials Crowley, putting it on speaker.
"What do you want?" Crowley's voice drips with disdain as he answers.
"Need a favor," Dean replies, his tone curt.
Crowley snorts derisively. "You need a favor? You two morons let Lucifer's love child live, and now you come crawling to me?"
"How do you even know about that?" you ask, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief, but silently feeling a moment of pride that Crowley didn't include you in his name-calling.
Crowley ignores you. "I don't owe you an explanation."
Sam interjects cautiously, "So... I'm guessing now isn't the best time to ask you to get in touch with Gavin so we can talk to him?"
"You are out of your minds," Crowley hisses.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, Crowley. When you set Gavin free to live in our time and potentially screw up history, we didn't come after him, did we? You owe us."
Crowley's tone grows colder. "Fix the Lucifer problem first. Then, maybe, we'll talk about my son. Oh, and tell your wife she's a moron too!"
The call disconnects abruptly, leaving a moment of heavy silence in its wake. Dean scowls at the phone before shoving it back into his pocket.
"Well," you say with a sigh, looking around the room at the mountain of artifacts, "guess it's back to the motel to prep for the night shift."
Dean nods, his jaw tight with frustration as he leads the way out. The museum's mysteries would have to wait until darkness fell, and the hunt resumed.
--
At the motel, you pace back and forth, the weight of the murders pressing heavily on your mind. The details—the ripped tongues, the crushed insides—play over and over, as if on a loop. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force the images away, but they persist. Every scenario you imagine leads to the same unsettling possibility: magic.
You pause, gripping the edge of the motel table, staring down at the scattered case files. Your reflection in the glossy surface of the wood stares back at you, and for a moment, you barely recognize yourself. The idea of turning to witchcraft feels like a betrayal—not just to Dean and Sam but to everything you've stood for. Yet, the thought refuses to leave, whispering in the back of your mind. It's just a tool. Tools can be used for good. Right?
A shiver crawls up your spine as you think about the spells you've skimmed in Bobby's old books. They'd felt forbidden, dangerous, but also... empowering. A way to gain control when the world was spiraling. You clench your fists, angered by your own temptation. You've seen what witchcraft does—how it corrupts. But what if it could help? Just this once.
You turn sharply and face Dean and Sam. "We could try calling Rowena," you say abruptly, the words tasting bitter even as they leave your mouth.
Dean's head jerks up, his expression incredulous. "Really? Did we not just talk about how all witches—"
"Yeah, yeah, all witches need to burn at the stake," you cut him off, your tone sharper than you intend. The annoyance in your voice is less about him and more about your own internal conflict. You meet his gaze but quickly look away, focusing on a crack in the motel wall instead. "But if this is a witch thing... she's sort of on our side."
Dean scoffs, sitting up straighter. "And if it's a ghost thing?"
"Then she can help us with Crowley's son," you counter, crossing your arms over your chest. "I mean, she is his grandmother."
The room goes quiet as Dean and Sam exchange a look, their silent conversation speaking volumes. You feel the tension, their distrust weighing on you like a lead blanket. But they don't argue. Not outright, anyway.
As the hours creep toward nightfall, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at your phone. You know Rowena's number by heart now, which feels wrong in itself. Your thumb hovers over the call button. Part of you wants to hit it, to bring her in and let her handle things. Another part wants to throw the phone across the room, to prove you don't need her—or what she represents.
But the murders keep gnawing at you, the unanswered questions a relentless tide eroding your resolve. Finally, with a deep breath and a pang of guilt, you press the button.
--
When Rowena arrives at the museum that night, she looks as composed and confident as ever, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. You explain the case to her, laying out the grisly details of the murders. She listens with mild interest, her lips curling into an amused smile when your voice falters.
"Your little story's fascinating," she says, her tone dripping with condescension. "But you said there was something in this for me?"
You hesitate, her sharp gaze slicing through you. Does she know why you really called her? The thought makes your stomach churn. "If the killer is a ghost, it might be tethered to something on the ship," you say, keeping your voice steady. "We need intel on the vessel."
Rowena raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And you think I'm your librarian?"
"Rowena, come on," Sam interjects.
She waves a dismissive hand. "You three still owe me for Arkansas."
As she stands to leave, a jolt of panic runs through you. "Wait," you blurt, stepping forward. The desperation in your voice is obvious, and you hate yourself for it. "We know someone who can give us firsthand knowledge of the ship."
Rowena pauses, intrigued. "Oh?"
"His name is Gavin MacLeod," Dean says, leaning casually against a crate. "Your grandson."
For a moment, her confident façade slips, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. But then her smirk returns, and she tilts her head. "Well, isn't that interesting?"
As the conversation continues, you feel her eyes on you, sharp and knowing. Does she see the crack in your armor? The part of you that's tempted, that wonders what it would be like to have her power?
You clench your fists, trying to shove the thought away, but it lingers, persistent and alluring. The internal struggle gnaws at you, the line between necessity and curiosity blurring with every passing moment. Are you walking a fine line for the case, or are you already teetering too close to the edge?
--
The Impala idles quietly outside the bus station, its familiar rumble a steady backdrop to the tense silence inside. You sit in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly, stealing glances at Rowena as she gazes out the window at Sam and Dean outside. Her calm, self-assured demeanor grates on you—not because she's composed, but because she's right.
"Did you really call me just because you needed an in with the boy?" she asks, her voice lilting with playful accusation.
"Of course," you reply with a practiced eye roll, but your tone lacks conviction. "Sam and Dean said Gavin wouldn't agree to meet without a good reason."
Rowena turns to you, her lips quirking in a knowing smile. "And yet, you got him here without much trouble. That little fabrication about Fergus being on his deathbed? Brilliant, really." She gestures toward Gavin, who's stepping off the bus.
"Right, but he's going to figure out Crowley isn't sick eventually," you sigh. "That's where you come in."
Rowena chuckles softly, her gaze returning to the scene outside. Sam and Dean are already speaking with Gavin, easing him into the situation with their usual blend of charm and awkwardness.
"I think you called me for another reason entirely," Rowena says, her voice light but probing. "I think you've caught the bug."
"The bug?" You scoff, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. "Yeah, right."
"I saw the way your eyes lit up when I prepped that spell at the motel all those weeks ago," she continues, her tone teasing but sharp. "It's not just about the case, is it? You're curious. Tempted, even."
You open your mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out. Her words strike a nerve, stirring the thoughts you've tried so hard to suppress. Magic isn't a solution; it's a slippery slope. But there's a part of you—a small, treacherous part—that wonders what it would feel like to wield that kind of power. To solve problems without always being three steps behind.
Before you can respond, Sam waves toward the car. Grateful for the excuse, you open the door and step out, the cool air cutting through your spiraling thoughts. Rowena follows, her smirk lingering as though she's already won whatever silent argument is playing out in your mind.
Gavin stares at Rowena with wide, disbelieving eyes, his Scottish brogue thick with astonishment. "My grandmother? She cannae be alive."
"Well, technically," Dean says with a dry scoff, "neither can you."
--
The museum looms quiet and cold as you and the group step back inside, the faint hum of fluorescent lights blending with the echoes of distant footsteps. Gavin's gaze darts around, wide-eyed, like he's stepped into a dream. He hasn't taken his eyes off Rowena since you arrived, his expression equal parts awe and disbelief. She, of course, wears her usual air of smug satisfaction, clearly enjoying the attention.
When you reach the exhibit housing the replica of The Star, Gavin's face lights up as though he's rediscovering a lost piece of himself. He steps closer, almost reverently, his voice soft with wonder. "Amazin'," he breathes. "Father told me she'd gone down in the storm and that was the end of her."
"The end of you, too, if you'd been aboard," Rowena quips with a small chuckle, her words laced with a hint of motherly concern masked by her usual dry wit.
You clear your throat, trying to steer the conversation back to the task at hand. "Gavin, what can you tell us about the other passengers who were supposed to make the crossing?"
He nods thoughtfully, his gaze still fixed on the replica. "Ordinary folk. Storekeepers, farmers, a doctor... a teacher."
Sam perks up at that. "A teacher?"
"Aye," Gavin says, glancing back at you all. "Mistress Allaway. She taught most of us in the village. This everything they found aboard?"
"Yes," Dean says, gesturing toward the catalog sitting on a nearby table. "Let us know if you recognize anything."
Gavin flips through the pages, his brow furrowing as he scans each image. "Nope. Nope." Then he stops, his finger hovering over one picture. "Ooh, there's Mr. MacCallum's hook. Had no hand, you see."
He flips to another page and freezes, his expression shifting from curiosity to shock. "No. No. Oh, sweet Lord. It's the locket."
"The locket?" you ask, stepping closer as he passes you the binder.
"I bought it myself," Gavin says, his voice trembling with emotion. "It was a gift for my Fiona."
Rowena's sharp eyes soften slightly as she reaches for her grandson. "Darlin', you had a wee girlfriend?"
"Look at this," Dean calls, cutting into the moment as he points to a note in the binder. "Added to the exhibit six months ago."
"Fiona Duncan," Gavin murmurs, his voice heavy with sorrow. "The love of my life. When she found out I was going to America, nothing would do but I take her with me. I told her it was too dangerous."
Sam frowns. "How did it get here? If you didn't board the ship, she wouldn't have either, right?"
Gavin shakes his head, his gaze distant as he recalls the memory. "That terrible night... I was packing, ready to leave. Fiona said she was coming to see me, beg me one more time to take her along. But I never made it to the ship. If Fiona came that night and I was gone... she would've thought I'd left without her. Dear God, she must've smuggled herself aboard."
Dean exhales sharply, his voice grim. "And she would've died. Pissed as hell and heartbroken."
"Yeah," you say, connecting the dots. "Unfinished business. We've got a ghost, probably tethered to the locket."
Gavin's face pales as he stares at you. "A ghost? My Fiona's a ghost?"
"All right, where is this thing?" Dean asks, flipping back to the catalog. "Item 121."
The room buzzes with frantic energy as everyone scatters, searching through boxes and cases. The air feels heavier with each passing moment. Finally, Dean's voice rings out. "Guys!" You rush over to see him holding an empty case labeled Item 121. "It's gone," he says grimly.
You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to stay calm. "Let's see if Dr. Ochoa's seen it."
Dr. Ochoa looks up from her desk, startled as you all burst into her office. "Sorry to interrupt," you say quickly, "but we're looking through the shipwreck exhibit in connection with the murders."
"There seems to be an item missing," Dean adds, holding up the binder. "Yeah. Uh... It's right here. 121. A locket."
Her face scrunches in confusion. "That's not possible. It's in a sealed case."
"We know, ma'am," Sam says, his voice tight with worry. "But we've looked everywhere. It's definitely gone."
Dean's tone sharpens. "Have any student tours been through here in the last couple of days? The ones led by teachers?"
"Yes," Dr. Ochoa replies, flipping through a schedule. "There was one yesterday."
"And where were they from?" Dean presses.
"The Pembroke Day School for Girls," she says, her expression growing more concerned.
You exchange tense glances with the others. Without wasting another moment, you head back to the Impala, the urgency of the situation sinking in. The clock is ticking, and you can only hope you're not too late.
--
The drive to Pembroke Day School for Girls feels heavy with an unsettling weight, the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine barely masking the tension swirling in the air. Each mile closer to the school feels like a step further into the unknown, and the silence inside the car amplifies the unease gnawing at your stomach. By the time you reach the school, dusk has already begun to fall, casting the sprawling grounds in an eerie orange glow. The last rays of sunlight stretch across the landscape, painting the cobbled pathways and ivy-clad stone buildings with a haunting, almost otherworldly hue.
Inside the school, the atmosphere is no less foreboding. The air is thick with the scent of old wood and dust, the kind of place where secrets seem to linger in the corners. You meet Elizabeth, a teacher who had led the tour through the museum the evening before. She's pleasant enough, with a polite smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, as if she's still unsure about your sudden, unannounced visit. You can sense her wariness, the unease she's trying to hide, but before you can get too far into your questions, an unnatural chill sweeps through the corridor, freezing the air in place.
A faint echo of footsteps sounds behind her, light yet deliberate. Your instincts flare, sharpening the hairs on the back of your neck, and without a second thought, you issue a low, urgent warning. "Elizabeth, stay still."
Her eyes widen in confusion, but before she can question you, a gust of cold air whips down the hall. Fiona's ghost materializes behind her, her form twisting in a horrifying blend of decay and remnants of humanity. Her once-beautiful face is now a grotesque mockery of what it once was—hollow, eyes dark and empty, skin hanging loosely from her bones. Her shrill scream cuts through the tension like a knife, and her skeletal hand shoots toward Elizabeth's throat with terrifying speed.
Dean is quick to act. With no hesitation, he raises the shotgun, his finger pulling the trigger with practiced precision. The blast of rock salt rips through the air, scattering Fiona's form into a misty vapor. She lets out one final, enraged scream before vanishing completely, leaving only the faint smell of sulfur in the air. Elizabeth stumbles back, her hand at her throat, trembling in shock.
Dean is immediately at her side, steadying her with a firm but gentle grip. "You okay?"
Elizabeth blinks up at him, her voice shaky. "What—what was that?"
You step closer, offering a calm but firm explanation. "A ghost. The rock salt slowed her down, but don't worry—we'll take care of her for good."
Elizabeth nods, still dazed but beginning to regain some composure. Sam offers a reassuring smile, and with a glance between the three of you, the decision is made. You move quickly, your steps heavy with the knowledge that whatever comes next won't be easy, and head toward the library.
The library is a vast, cavernous space, the towering shelves casting long, shifting shadows in the dim light of the flickering fireplace. The air smells of aged paper and old books, a faint trace of incense lingering from the previous rituals. Rowena wastes no time, her movements graceful as she sets up her ritual space. The sharp, earthy scent of herbs fills the air, mixing with the acrid tang of candles being lit in a precise pattern. Red candles flicker, their flames dancing erratically as she arranges them in a circle, her every movement confident and deliberate.
You lean against one of the nearby bookshelves, your arms crossed, watching her with a mixture of fascination and growing unease. The tension in the room is palpable, thick with anticipation.
Rowena's cool, smooth voice breaks through your thoughts. "Would you like to help?"
You scoff, shaking your head. "I'm good."
Rowena's lips curl into a knowing smirk, her tone teasing. "Suit yourself." She lights the central bowl of herbs, the flames crackling as she hands a piece of paper to Gavin, who looks like he's fighting a battle inside his own head.
He hesitates, staring at the paper in his hand, then with a deep breath, reads aloud, his voice trembling just slightly. "O restless spirit, make thy presence known to me. Fiona? It is I, Gavin. Your Gavin. I must speak with you."
At first, there's only silence. Then, as if in response, a gust of wind rushes through the room, rattling the paper in Gavin's hands. Fiona's ghost materializes once more, this time stepping into the firelight, her form shifting between the grotesque and the living, a horrifying combination of death and the lingering remnants of what once was. Her hood falls back, revealing a face twisted with rage, her eyes full of accusation and anguish.
"Gavin," she hisses, her voice thick with disdain. "You abandoned me. Where were you? I came to your room. I—"
"It wisnae my fault," Gavin interrupts, his voice shaking with desperation. "I was sent somewhere else."
Fiona's face contorts in fury, her voice breaking with emotion. "I hid myself aboard The Star, and you weren't there to protect me. The crew—they scorned me, mocked me, and worse... used me in ways no woman should endure."
Gavin's face crumbles, his heart visibly breaking. "The other passengers... Did no one help you?"
"None. Mistress Allaway, our teacher? She said I deserved it for throwin' myself at you," Fiona spits, her voice trembling with fury. "Teachers—they claim to love children, and then they betray them. I couldn't punish her, but others will pay her debt."
Fiona's form flickers, her presence unraveling as she lets out a final, bone-chilling wail before vanishing into thin air, leaving nothing but the deathly silence in her wake.
Gavin slumps into a nearby chair, his face buried in his hands. "Her life aboard that ship was so unbearable, she felt death would be a relief," he murmurs bitterly. "The sweet maid I knew is now a spirit bent on revenge."
The room falls silent, the weight of Fiona's pain and betrayal hanging heavily in the air. Sam's voice finally breaks the quiet, cautious and deliberate. "So, we agree Fiona has to be stopped."
Dean's jaw tightens, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Fiona had stood. "We can't burn her bones. They're at the bottom of the Atlantic."
"Maybe we destroy the locket," Sam suggests quietly, but his voice trails off, uncertainty hanging in the air. "But if she's tied to something else on the ship..."
Gavin's bitter mutter cuts through the conversation. "Nothing can bring back the people she's killed."
You glance around the room, an idea slowly taking shape in your mind. "Actually... there might be a way to fix everything. To stop her from becoming a ghost in the first place."
Dean and Sam exchange a look, their curiosity piqued. They nod for you to continue.
"We get Gavin aboard The Star. He travels with Fiona, keeps her safe," you suggest, your voice steady despite the gnawing uncertainty in your gut. "If he stays with her, if he protects her..."
Rowena's gaze sharpens, her tone cutting through the room like a knife. "You don't intend to tamper with the flow of time, do you?"
"That's up to Gavin," You shrug. Rowena sends you a testing look, causing you to quickly explain your thought process. "Look, we're lookin' for a fix here, okay? This is it. We get him aboard that ship, he travels with Fiona, keeps her safe."
"And go to his death," Rowena scorns. "That's your solution?"
Dean steps in quickly, his voice protective. "She didn't say it was fun, okay? Just that it's the only way. And it keeps history intact."
Gavin's expression softens, his resolve firming as he looks up. "I was thinking the same thing. I loved her. She loved me. If I can spare her this nightmare, it's worth it."
Before anyone can respond, a familiar voice interrupts, thick with derision. "Never gonna happen."
Crowley appears with a flourish, his presence dominating the room. His tone drips with disdain as he regards the group, his posture arrogant. "Just because Dim, Dimmer, and Dimmette can't keep their own family together doesn't mean they can mess with mine!"
"Father," Gavin says, his voice steady as he stands tall. "I want to do this."
"What you want is a gym membership, happy hour at Hooters, and Cubs tickets." Crowley quickly lists off with a small roll of his eyes. "– none of which are available anywhere else but here."
"I've made up my mind," Gavin nods and folds his arms defiantly.
Crowley glares at him, his eyes narrowing. "Then why did you call me?"
"You called him?" Dean asks with bewilderment.
"To say goodbye," Gavin replies softly, his resolve unshakable.
Rowena steps forward, her voice gentle but firm. "Fergus, let him go. He believes in things—things we never did. Let him do what's right."
"Butt out," Crowley groans as he walks away from his mother.
"Fergus, he's not like us," Rowena argues. "He believes in things. Let him do what he believes is right."
Crowley scoffs, his patience wearing thin, but before he can move, Rowena casts a binding spell, freezing him in place. "Damn you," Crowley growls, powerless to stop Gavin as he walks out the door, determined to change Fiona's fate, regardless of the consequences.
--
Dean's hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his eyes focused on the road as the dense fog clings to the headlights. The night is suffocating, the only sound besides the steady hum of the Impala's engine being the occasional gust of wind rattling the trees. His jaw is clenched, the tension of the situation making every mile feel longer than it really is.
Rowena's voice breaks the silence from the back seat, the tone both casual and knowing. "You know, you don't really even need me to cast the spell."
Sam shifts uncomfortably beside Gavin, his long frame crammed in the backseat between the two. His elbows press into the sides, his knees awkwardly bent. He glances over at Gavin, offering an apologetic smile. "What do you mean?"
Rowena's voice comes again, smooth as silk. "I mean... you have the spellbook I gave you."
There's a beat of silence before Dean responds, the annoyance in his voice clear. "You didn't give it to us, Rowena. You stole it from those witches, and we took it back from you."
Rowena chuckles lightly, unfazed by Dean's snark. "Who gave or took is not the point, Dean," she replies with a sigh, her voice carrying the weight of someone who's heard this argument one too many times. "The point is, any one of you could cast the spell."
You stiffen, your hand gripping the edge of the seat as Rowena's words sink in. You turn your head sharply, glaring at her over the seat. "You're just trying to get out of here," you accuse, your voice tight with suspicion.
Rowena tilts her head slightly, giving a slow, almost dismissive smile. "It's simple magic, really," she continues, completely ignoring the sharp edge in your voice. "Just toss some things in a bowl, say a couple of words, and poof." She mimics the motion with her hands in the air, her fingers dancing through the air like she's waving away the importance of the entire situation.
Dean, never one to let things slide, shoots her a quick, skeptical look through the rearview mirror. "Then why don't you do it?"
Rowena stretches dramatically, arching her back as if exhausted. She lets out a yawn, her expression theatrically exaggerated. "An old woman like me can't keep up with you young lads and lassies," she says, her voice dripping with feigned fatigue. "I'm too tired. I'd probably mess it up."
Dean's eyes flash with frustration, the pressure of the whole situation pushing him to the brink. With a swift movement, he swerves the Impala to the side of the road, tires screeching as he slams on the brakes. Everyone is thrown forward, the sudden stop catching you off guard.
"You don't want to help us?" Dean growls, spinning around in his seat to meet Rowena's gaze, his face a mixture of anger and disbelief. "Then get out."
Rowena doesn't flinch, her smile widening ever so slightly. She lifts an eyebrow, acknowledging your presence in the front seat before speaking directly to you. "Just follow the instructions, dear," she says sweetly, her voice laced with an almost mocking tenderness. "You can't mess it up."
With that, Rowena gracefully opens the car door and steps out, her movements deliberate and almost theatrical. The car door slams shut with a soft thud, and Dean doesn't waste a second before speeding off, leaving the witch in a cloud of dust.
The silence that fills the car is thick and uncomfortable, and you can't help but feel the tension between you and the rest of the group. Your stomach churns with uncertainty, the weight of Rowena's departure hanging over you like a cloud. You twist uncomfortably in your seat, your hands clammy against the fabric as the road stretches on.
You can feel Dean's eyes on you, the occasional glance in the rearview mirror making you aware of the scrutiny he's placing on your every move. His gaze is searching, trying to figure out what's going on beneath your calm exterior, what you're really thinking. The suspicion in his eyes only deepens the knot in your stomach.
Unable to bear the weight of it any longer, you reach for the radio, turning the dial without thinking. The crackling static fills the car, providing some noise to mask the tension. You slump back in your seat, trying to look unaffected, but your mind races, thoughts darting from Rowena's insistence on having you do the spell to the strange feeling you can't shake—the feeling that you're supposed to do this.
Dean's eyes flicker to you again, and you force yourself to stare ahead, pretending the music has drowned out the questions swirling in your mind. But you know that no matter how loud the radio gets, you won't be able to shake this feeling.
--
The bunker, always a sanctuary, feels strangely foreign tonight. The warmth of the walls seems to mock the discomfort swirling within you. It's familiar—this place you've fought so hard to make home—but tonight, something about it feels off. You walk through the dimly lit corridors, your footsteps echoing, and into the library, the familiar scent of books and old wood filling the air. Your hands are shaking slightly as you walk to the bookshelf, pulling the heavy spellbook from its place, its worn cover a reminder of the weight you've been carrying.
You place it on the table in front of you, the sound of the pages crackling as you open it. The warmth of the room contrasts sharply with the chill that creeps down your spine. A surge of excitement rises within you, unexpected and unsettling. As you turn the pages, your heart races, the sensation of something deeply familiar yet utterly terrifying coursing through you. It's almost like you can feel your own heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the magic before you. A part of you is alive in a way you haven't felt in years, but it's that very feeling that sends fear crawling through your veins. How long have you been fighting against this part of you? And yet, here you are, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
You flick through the pages, your mind clouded with both fear and longing, until your fingers stop on a particular page. It feels right, like an instinct you didn't even realize you had. Your eyes scan the text, landing on the introduction. A time travel spell. Your breath hitches, the words coming alive in front of you, beckoning you to understand them. You can almost hear the hum of magic in the air, a temptation you've been trying to resist, but now it feels like it's slipping through your fingers.
You keep reading, the words flowing over you as your mind processes the complex instructions. The ingredients listed are foreign, but they ignite something in you—something that makes your stomach twist with the knowledge that, deep down, you knew you were meant to learn this. You didn't want to be this person, this part of yourself, but the truth is becoming undeniable.
"Do we have all of this here?" you ask, voice shaky as you turn the book toward Sam, desperate to keep your focus away from the uncomfortable truth rising inside you.
Sam leans in, his brow furrowing as he scans the list. He nods after a moment, his voice steady as always. "I'll go get it."
The room falls into a tense quiet as Sam steps away, the soft rustle of his footsteps fading into the distance. You can feel Dean's gaze on you, heavy and full of questions. You try to ignore him, your fingers skimming over the spell's instructions again, hoping the distraction will keep you from confronting the nagging doubt in your chest.
"I don't know why Rowena couldn't just do this," Dean grumbles from the other side of the room, his voice tight with irritation. "This is the kind of crap she loves."
You don't respond immediately, your focus still fixed on the words in front of you. Finally, you exhale, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "She's trying to get me to want to be interested in this crap."
Dean's laugh is sharp, disbelieving. "What?" He leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "She wants you to... to what? Become a witch?"
You hesitate, finally lifting your gaze from the pages. You can see Dean's eyes narrowing as he processes your admission. You shrug, trying to mask your growing unease. "I mean... she's been hinting at it every time we see her, hasn't she?" you say, your voice quieter now. "Saying I have potential. Saying power is great to have..."
Dean's disbelief deepens, his expression turning incredulous. "Yeah, but she can't seriously think you'd take her up on that," he mutters, his voice dripping with skepticism. When you don't answer right away, his posture stiffens, and he stands up, his eyes narrowing as he steps closer to you. "You're not taking her up on that, right?"
You meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. "Is it so wrong to want some protection?" you counter, a challenge in your voice as you stand your ground.
Dean's hands are clenched into fists as he steps forward, his tone rising with frustration. "You don't need this kind of protection," he says, his voice fierce and protective. "You've got me. You've got Sam, and Cass, and my mom."
The mention of Mary stings, and you can feel the anger flare up in your chest. "Yeah, Mary's been a real help lately," you retort, bitterness lacing your words as you look back down at the book, trying to avoid Dean's burning gaze.
Dean's face hardens, his voice rising again, demanding an answer. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps interrupts. Sam returns, a large bowl of ingredients in his hands. "Got it," he announces, unaware of the tension in the room. He places the bowl down gently on the table, his expression still calm and unassuming as he turns to face both of you.
You exhale slowly, the weight of what you're about to do sinking in. With a sigh, you push aside the worries that gnaw at the back of your mind and refocus. This isn't about you, it's about Gavin and giving him the chance to make things right, to get back to where he belongs. You grab the bowl, feeling its cold weight in your hands, and set it down on the table. The ingredients are all laid out before you—strange herbs, liquids, and powders that would have looked like a simple mess to anyone else. But to you, it's all part of the ritual. Every ingredient, every step, each one pulling you deeper into the magic that's always intrigued you.
You work methodically, cutting the herbs with steady hands, watching as the sharp knife slices through the bundles. One by one, the ingredients are placed into the bowl, their vibrant colors mingling in the dim light. As you add the last bit of liquid—a strange, silvery substance that seems to shimmer in the light—your heart beats faster, your nerves tightening. You give Gavin a quick glance, your lips curling into a sad, almost apologetic smile. It's a gesture of reassurance, but it's also for yourself, a way to hide the uncertainty you feel.
"You ready?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.
Gavin meets your gaze, his expression resolute but tinged with the same underlying fear. He nods, his jaw set in determination. "Do it," he says, his voice quiet but firm.
Without another word, you grab the knife. You take his hand in yours, the warmth of his skin contrasting sharply with the coolness of the steel. The cut is quick, the blood trickling out in dark, slow beads. You drip his blood into the bowl, watching as it mixes with the other ingredients, the liquid swirling in a strange pattern. Dean's hands are quick, handing Gavin a bandanna to press to the wound, his eyes narrowing as he watches you. You can feel his gaze on you, sharp and judgmental, but you force yourself to ignore it. This isn't about him.
Once the blood is in, you step away, the tension in the air thickening with every second. The sigil from the book calls to you, a complex pattern that feels like it's been etched into your memory. You move with purpose, walking to the wall, the bowl of ingredients in your hands and the book tucked under your arm. The walls of the bunker seem to close in around you as you kneel down and begin drawing. The mixture flows easily from the bowl, leaving behind a trail of dark ink-like liquid as you trace the sigil with precision. The lines come together quickly, the shape of the symbol taking form as if it's been waiting for you all along. It's familiar, but unsettlingly so, like something you've always known but never wanted to remember.
"Ready to do this, Gav?" Dean's voice cuts through the heavy silence, his tone laced with a mixture of determination and concern.
Gavin looks at you, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of doubt passing through them. "You're positive this will work?"
You shrug, trying to keep your composure. "Never done it before," you admit, the truth slipping out before you can stop it. "But Rowena says it's easy enough, so..."
Dean's expression hardens, but he doesn't comment further. Instead, he nods, his jaw clenched as he watches you finish the sigil.
Sam steps up beside Gavin, giving him a soft pat on the shoulder. "You're a good guy, Gavin. Thank you." His voice is gentle, offering some small comfort amidst the chaos.
"Hopefully... this is all for the best," Gavin murmurs, his voice thick with emotion as he presses a kiss to the locket that belonged to Fiona. It's a moment of peace before everything changes, a small, bittersweet goodbye to the woman he once loved.
Dean doesn't waste any time. He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable, but there's a brief flicker of something in his eyes before he speaks. "Beam him up, Scotty," he mutters, a dry, almost sardonic chuckle escaping him despite the tension in the room.
You inhale sharply, the spell's words feeling like they've been lodged in your throat for an eternity. You begin the chant, your voice steady, although your insides twist with a mixture of fear and anticipation. "Kah-nee-lah, poo-goh, kah-nee-lah." The words flow from your mouth as if they were always there, the magic responding to the rhythm of your voice. The sigil on the wall begins to glow, faint at first, then growing brighter with each passing second. The air around you thickens, the space pulsing with energy, and then—just like that—Fiona appears.
Her ghostly figure materializes beside Gavin, her ethereal form flickering for a brief moment before solidifying into the beautiful woman she once was. She stands beside him, the two of them connected in a way that's so intense, so deeply rooted in their shared past, that the air around them seems to hum with the weight of it. They reach for each other, their hands entwining as a golden light envelops them both. You feel a wave of relief wash over you as they vanish, their silhouettes disappearing into the light, leaving the room silent.
Sam chuckles, his hand resting on your shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. "Good work," he says, his voice warm as he takes the spell book from your hand. His touch lingers for a moment before he steps away, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
Dean doesn't say anything. He simply nods, his jaw still clenched, and walks out of the room. You watch him go, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. As you stand there, the knot in your stomach tightens, guilt creeping into your chest. A part of you feels relieved that the spell worked, that Gavin is finally going to be with Fiona, but there's a much deeper part of you that feels uneasy. You're not sure if it's the magic itself or the realization that, despite everything you've told yourself, you're not as far from the darkness as you'd hoped.
--
The next morning, you step into the library, the air thick with the tension from the previous night. Sam and Dean are seated at the table, their focus divided between their laptops and steaming cups of coffee. You glide into a seat at the far end, deliberately keeping your distance from Dean, who doesn't even glance your way. The unspoken rift hangs in the room like a storm cloud. Sam looks up briefly, his brow furrowing as he notices the cold silence between you and Dean, but he decides not to address it—at least not yet.
Dean finally breaks the quiet, shutting his laptop with a decisive click. "So, the teachers at the girls' school are back to work," he says, leaning back in his chair. "It's like nothing ever happened. That wraps up all the victims in Ohio."
Sam nods, a small chuckle escaping him as he glances at his screen. "Yeah, and no mention of the Massachusetts murder either. No Fiona, no angry ghost." He looks up with a satisfied smile. "Looks like history is back on track. Thank you, Gavin."
The heavy creak of the bunker's doors cuts through the conversation, drawing everyone's attention. A familiar figure strides in, her boots echoing against the cold floor. "Mom!" Sam exclaims, his face lighting up as Mary Winchester steps inside.
Her smile widens, and she gives a low whistle as she descends the stairs. Following her is Dio, tail wagging furiously as he bounds into the room. His paws click against the floor as he beelines toward you and Dean, his joy palpable. You can't help but smile as the dog reaches you, his warm presence briefly soothing the bitterness in your chest. But that peace is short-lived when you remember who brought him here.
"Hope you don't mind," Mary says, her voice tinged with humor as she ruffles Dio's fur. "Jody's was on the way, so I thought I'd pick him up."
Dean steps forward to embrace his mother, his grin wide and teasing. "It's been a while. A long, long... long, long, long, long while."
Sam rolls his eyes, already exasperated. "Yeah, all right. He's dramatic, as you know. What he meant to say was, we missed you. Glad you're back."
You don't speak. Instead, you crouch down to pet Dio, your fingers running through his soft fur as you use him to shield yourself from the simmering emotions bubbling beneath the surface. The tension in your chest tightens further when Mary's eyes briefly meet yours, her expression warm but unreadable.
Mary places a large paper bag on the War Room table, the scent of grilled meat and fried onions wafting through the room. "Burgers. Beer," she announces, her voice carrying a casual cheer that only amplifies the knot in your stomach.
"Yum," Sam says, eagerly reaching for the bag.
Dean, already rummaging through the contents, smirks. "Mmm. Forgiven," he mutters, pulling out a burger. "Whatcha been up to?"
Mary's answer is casual, but there's something in her tone—too light, too practiced—that makes you pause. "Oh, jogging, tai chi, meditation," she begins, listing them off as if she's reciting from memory. Then, with a sly grin, she adds, "Melting rugaru brains."
Sam freezes mid-bite, his eyes widening as he processes her words. "Uh, m-m-melting rugaru brains?" he stammers, swallowing his food hard.
Mary's sigh is long and measured, the kind of breath that comes before saying something she knows won't go over well. She sits down beside Dean, her movements deliberate, as though steadying herself for impact. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna say it," she begins, her tone flat. "I've sort of... been working with the British Men of Letters."
The room goes silent, the air thick with disbelief.
Dean blinks, his face a study in restrained fury. "M– You— you, uh... you what?"
"Mom... we, um... we have a—a history with them," Sam says, his voice tight as he glances toward Dean. There's a flicker of betrayal in his eyes, the wound of past encounters with the British Men of Letters fresh despite the time that's passed.
Mary exhales heavily, running a hand through her hair. "I know, Sam. And it wasn't an easy decision. But they're doing good work. I've seen it. I've helped them save people—a lot of people. We could learn from them."
Dean lets out a scoff that's almost a laugh, his disbelief palpable. He glances at you, his expression a mixture of incredulity and vindication, silently saying, Can you believe this? You return his look with a tight-lipped smile, the kind that screams I told you so without uttering a word.
"Do not give me the face," Mary says, her tone a blend of exasperation and defensiveness as she points a finger at Dean.
"What face?" Dean shoots back, his voice laced with sarcasm, though the anger simmering beneath the surface is unmistakable.
"You know the face," Mary retorts, a faint, forced laugh breaking through her frustration.
"There's no face," Dean insists, his wide eyes and exaggerated innocence doing nothing to hide the storm brewing behind them.
You step in before the argument can escalate. "Mary," you say, your tone calm but firm, drawing her attention. "We have our own toolkit, and it works just fine. And for obvious reasons... we don't trust the Brits."
Mary's gaze sharpens as she looks at you, her calm demeanor cracking to reveal a spark of irritation. Her eyes burn with a quiet defiance that doesn't go unnoticed by Dean. "Maybe you shouldn't judge a book by its cover," she says, her words pointed, as though testing your patience.
Dean's head swivels between the two of you, picking up on the unspoken tension that's been simmering for weeks. "So where does that leave us?" he asks, his voice steady but edged with frustration.
Mary softens her expression, plastering on a smile that feels more like a mask. "Same as always," she says, her tone light but hollow. "Family."
The word cuts through you like a knife, especially when her eyes land squarely on Sam and Dean, deliberately avoiding you. It's subtle, but deliberate enough to make your breath hitch. Dean catches the omission, his posture stiffening as he glares at her, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"What's going on here?" Dean asks sharply, his tone more accusatory than curious. His green eyes narrow as he searches Mary's face, waiting for an explanation that won't come.
Mary sighs, clearly missing the subtext of Dean's question. "Just hear me out. Please," she says, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "Dean, the British Men of Letters are doing what we've always done, but it's a better way. I'm not blind to who they are or what they've done, but—"
"I'm not talking about them," Dean interrupts, his voice cutting through hers like a blade. "I'm talking about how ever since you all showed up to pull us out of Colorado, you've been ignoring Y/N."
The room feels like it freezes, Mary's eyes widening slightly at the accusation. She glances at you, then quickly away, her discomfort evident. "That's not true," she says weakly, but there's no conviction in her voice.
The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. Your voice breaks through it, firm and unyielding. "It's been like this long before we rescued you two," you say, your tone carrying a weight that immediately catches Sam and Dean's attention.
Mary's head snaps toward you, her eyes blazing. "It hasn't!" she snaps, her voice rising as her frustration boils over. Her hands clench into fists at her sides, the denial on her face as sharp as a blade.
Sam frowns, his gaze shifting back and forth between you and Mary. "What do you mean, before you rescued us?" he asks, his voice tinged with confusion and a growing sense of dread.
"I don't know what she's talking about," Mary says quickly, her tone defensive as she throws her hands in the air. Her dismissal feels rehearsed, like a shield she's used one too many times.
"Really?" you scoff, the word dripping with disbelief. Your narrowed eyes bore into her, the dam of your patience threatening to break. "The second Cass and I told you what happened, you acted like it was all my fault."
Mary hesitates for just a moment, but it's long enough to betray her. "Initially, yes," she admits, her tone softer now, as if trying to downplay her earlier actions. "But I apologized for that."
You shake your head, your voice steady but cold. "No, you apologized to Cass. You never once said that to me. Never once said you were sorry for blaming me. Instead, you ignored me or threw barbs like Dean isn't here because of me."
Mary rolls her eyes, scoffing. "I never said that."
"No?" you challenge, leaning forward slightly. "Are you forgetting how you purposefully went against my plan when we helped Alicia and Max on their werewolf case?"
Mary's jaw tightens, her frustration bubbling over. "Well, your plan was stupid," she says defiantly, her voice laced with venom.
The room goes deathly quiet as you roll up your sleeve, revealing the scarred claw marks left by one of the wolves. The sight of them feels like a physical blow to everyone in the room. "This wouldn't have happened if you'd just trusted me," you say, your voice quivering with suppressed anger.
Mary's face hardens, her voice sharp and cutting. "Trust you like Dean trusted you?"
"Whoa!" Dean's voice cuts through the tension like a gunshot. His eyes widen in shock at the accusation, his gaze locking on his mother. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
You ignore the outburst, your focus entirely on Mary. "There were easily twenty wolves in that pack," you continue, your voice rising. "Everyone agreed that sticking together was the safest plan. But you chose to split us up just because I suggested staying together."
Dean raises his hands, his expression a mix of fury and disbelief. "Wait, wait, wait," he says, his voice tight. His glare burns into Mary. "You chose to split up with a pack that size? You left my wife vulnerable just so you could... what? Play leader?"
Mary scoffs, rolling her eyes again. "She was more than capable of handling herself," she says dismissively. "I just thought it would be easier to cover more ground. She's making it sound worse than it is."
"Worse than it is?" you echo, sitting upright, your anger flaring. "Half the pack got away, each of us ended up with scars to prove it, and—"
"Guys!" Sam shouts, his voice cutting through the escalating argument. "This has derailed enough." His expression is one of exasperation as he looks at Mary. "Mom, when did you start working with the British Men of Letters?"
Mary exhales, her posture stiffening as she avoids your gaze, fixing her eyes on Sam. "Since before the lake house," she confesses, her voice subdued but resolute.
Sam and Dean both let out incredulous scoffs, leaning back in their chairs, the weight of betrayal settling heavily on them.
"It wasn't Wally," Mary continues, her voice quieter now. "They brought me the case about the Prince of Hell."
Dean's jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists. "So you were running an errand for the Brits," he says coldly, his voice dripping with disdain. "And you kept it from us. Cass almost died."
Sam leans forward, his voice heavy with anger. "A hunter got killed," he says pointedly, the accusation hanging in the air like a storm cloud.
Mary's composure cracks as she throws her hands up, her voice breaking. "You think I don't know? I'm the one who burned his body. I'm the one who told his wife. I watch him die every night."
"Good," Dean says, his tone so icy and resolute it sends a chill through the room. The finality of his words leaves everyone silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on all of you like a crushing wave.
Mary sits in the heavy silence, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as if anchoring her to the moment. She takes a long, deliberate breath, her shoulders rising and falling as she gathers her thoughts. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer, tinged with a vulnerability she rarely shows. "I'm doing this for you," she says, her tone pleading now. "I'm playing three decades of catch-up here."
Dean's scoff cuts through her words like a blade. "And we're not?" he says, his voice rising with barely restrained anger. His eyes are locked on hers, unflinching, as the storm inside him begins to spill over. "How do you think this has been for us? We're your sons, Mom. And you've been gone. Our whole lives, you've been gone."
He leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if to steady himself. "You said you needed time. No—space. And we gave it to you. Hell, we gave you more than you deserved. But it wasn't just space you needed, was it? You needed space from us."
Mary visibly flinches at his words, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find a response. She clears her throat, her gaze dropping to her hands. "That's not true," she begins, her voice wavering. "Dean, I'm trying—"
"How 'bout for once, you just try to be a mom?" Dean snaps, cutting her off again. His tone is sharp, his eyes blazing with a mix of pain and fury.
Mary's head jerks up, her composure cracking under the weight of his accusation. "I am your mother," she says, her voice rising, laced with an edge of defiance. "But I am not just a mom. And you are not a child."
Dean lets out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and cutting. "I never was," he spits, the bitterness in his voice making Mary recoil. He straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares at her. "So between us and them—"
"It's not like that," Mary interjects, her tone desperate now. Her hands reach out slightly as if trying to bridge the chasm between them.
"Yeah, Mary, it is," Dean counters flatly, his voice cold and unyielding. He nods toward the door, his jaw tight. "And you made your choice. So there's the door."
Mary's breath catches in her throat, her lips parting as if to protest, but the words die on her tongue. She turns to Sam, her last hope, her expression pleading. Her brows lift, silently begging for understanding. "Sam?" she asks, her voice cracking.
Sam sits still for a moment, his eyes fixed on the half-eaten meal in front of him. His shoulders are hunched, and his hands rest limply on the table, the betrayal etched deeply into his features. Finally, he looks up, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of pain and resignation. "You should go," he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion.
Mary stares at him, stunned. Her lips tremble as she takes a step back, her gaze darting between her sons. But neither Dean nor Sam says another word. The silence stretches on, suffocating and final. With a shaky breath, Mary turns and walks toward the door, her footsteps heavy, her head bowed. The sound of the door closing behind her echoes through the room, leaving behind a silence that feels heavier than any words could.