Trueholding

n. act of trying to keep an amazing discovery to yourself, fighting the urge to shout about it from the rooftops because you're afraid that it'll end up being diluted and distorted, and will no longer have been created just for you.

"Dear, I fear we're facing a problem. You love me no longer, I know and maybe there is nothing that I can do... to make you do..."

Gwyn held her cloth tightly against her face as she shook the black spray paint can with a couple of satisfying clinks. She pressed down on the nozzle and zeroed in on the task at hand: marking up the underside of a circular rug.

The showroom brand rug that wasn't worth the three grand she'd paid for it now had a new use in her apartment- protection.

"Mama tells me I shouldn't bother... That I ought just stick to another man... A man that surely deserves me... But I think you do."

Protection from what? One might ask...

"So I cry and I pray and I beg-"

April 17th- Demons.

Wow. Twisted souls coughed up from Hell after they've been tortured for so long, they're souls are quite literally black and smoky, charred to a crisp. Salt and iron is- once again- your best buddy. HOLY WATER- will invest in more. Possessing people in the form of black smoke, teleportation, virtually indestructible, telekinetic, have special powers depending on how they were when they died? Flinch at the word Christo- LATIN. Latin is our friend. Haha, take that Eric, my minor in Latin did come in handy. Possession, so also Exorcism-

As Gwyn finished up painting the rather detailed Celtic magic pentagram she'd found in a book on Catholicism and old-school exorcisms the Church used to carry out in the good 'ole days of burning women at the stake and tying unruly children down on bedposts as they screamed Latin at them.

She'd taken the time to decipher and translate the exorcism most commonly used throughout varying lore books, but there was one in particular Bobby Singer had marked down that caught Gwyn's attention.

"Exorcizamus te... omnis immundus spiritus... omnis satanica potestas... omnis incursio infernatis-" Gwyn cleared her throat, catching herself on the one wrong word. One mispronunciation and who knew what would happen? Demonic possession. Or worse, just getting ripped apart and dragged down to Hell by a demon. "Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii... omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica... Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare... Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis..."

Gwyn let out a heavy exhale. It was quite the mouthful, she wasn't quite sure how she'd be able to memorize something so wordy and lengthy. Well, with an eidetic memory it would probably only take her a couple days of practice, but Gwyn was all about working smarter and then harder.

So, that led her to her next task after spray painting the undersides of practically every rug near an entrance or exit in her apartment. To cover all bases, of course.

The young doctor and federal agent was able to procure a voice recorder from the IT guys down on the tech floor at Quantico. All she had to do was bat her eyes and drone on about some special project the big wigs had her working on. The tech guys scrambled to get her the best recorder they had in stock, with a pretty hefty piece of tech for voice recording.

It only took her a quick incantation and the press of a few buttons and she had it made... Exorcism on tap.

Gwyn pressed the play button on the tape she'd made on her device and listened as the audio of her voice echoed across her room.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare... Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis... Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine... quem inferi tremunt... Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."

Gwyn had translated it to English within the first day of getting the text in her hands. Latin really did come in handy when you had a doctorates in Social Anthropology, and apparently when you were trying to remain protected from Demonic Forces of the Underworld.

We exorcise you, every impure spirit, every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary, every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect. Therefore, diabolical legions, we adjure you ... Cease to deceive human creatures, and to give to them the poison of eternal damnation; ... Be gone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation ... Be humble under the mighty hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and Terrible Name at which those down below tremble ... from the snares of the devil, deliver us, O Lord . That Thy Church may serve Thee in peace and liberty to serve, we ask Thee, hear us.

... it's so Biblical. Have to wonder, if there's a Hell- is there a Heaven?

"Love me, love me, say that you love me... Fool me, fool me, go on and fool me!" The radio still buzzed and hummed from the nearby counter as it played the dulcet tunes of The Cardigans' '96 hit.

Gwyn juggled her journal on her lap that she'd read her exorcism off of and the recorder she still had playing both versions of the incantation. Carefully, she placed both items on the kitchen bar. As she made her way away from the various sprawled out, drying rugs turned upside down, Charles Darwin followed on her trail.

The past few weeks of home improvement was definitely perceptible by the fat cat who'd begun to cling to his owner a little bit more. Almost as if he was picking up that something was wrong with her.

As Gwyn threw some rice into her rice cooker and gently placed two pieces of already marinated, seasoned salmon into a grilling pan, she pulled her laptop out and began the Google search. For the first time, her laptop wasn't being used for Supernatural related reason. Today it was being used for, well...

Can cats detect cancer in humans?

"I hit a dog."

Dean Winchester spun around from where he sat on the floor of him and his brother's motel room. His brother, seated on the bed a few feet away adjacent to the one he was propping his back against, glanced up at him with a look of remorse. The past day, he'd torn into Sam for leaving him in Purgatory and retiring from the Family Business for a girl and... and a dog.

The eldest Winchester jabbed an accusatory finger at his sibling. "I knew I smelled dog." He'd just gotten his Baby back after a year in Purgatory and the first chance he got to settle in, and he smelt dog in his backseat.

"And I knew you'd throw a bitch fit," Sam retorted.

God, it'd take a month of deep cleaning before the smell would be fully scrubbed away. And Dean would be damned if he didn't force Sam to vacuum the left over hair his pooch might've left.

"Hey, the rules are simple, Sam," Dean raised his voice in frustration. The type of frustration Sam knew he was using to blow things out of proportion, as usual. "You don't take a joint from a guy named Don, and there's no dogs in the car!"

Should've seen that coming, Sam figured as he shook his head in silent acknowledgement. There was no arguing with Dean when he got this way. But Sam always found that if he was deflecting this much, there was something he wasn't telling him about why he was really upset with the dog and his apparent retirement.

"Alright, what about you?"

"What about me?" Dean shot back.

"Look at you," Sam shot right back at him. "You've still... got that look. You're shaky. You're on edge..." Slowly, he watched his older brother deflate as he recognized all the telltale signs of scared Dean. He'd seen Dean in his darkest, most petrified moments. What he looked like now, sitting in front of him and trying to convince him everything was okay and that his year in Purgatory wasn't affecting him now that he was back... reminded Sam an awful lot of Dean back when he'd gotten out of Hell. "What was it like?" Sam couldn't help but ask.

And of course, Dean's immediate response was to scoff and spin so his back was facing him again. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," was all he replied.

Sam could've strangled his brother sometimes. But after years of dealing with his shit, he'd grown to embrace the more patient side of dealing with his brother during these frustrating moments where he still tried to shoulder all the pain he faced, so not to expose Sam to any of it. Still playing protective older brother even when he'd convinced himself Sam was at fault for not looking for him while he was gone.

"Try me."

There was a beat of silence.

"It was bloody. Messy," Dean began tentatively. "31 flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties. Hell, most days felt like 360-degree combat... but there was something about being there. Felt pure."

Sam frowned. He figured maybe it was a little harder to gauge what Purgatory must've been like for Dean. From what it sounded like, it was like a war zone. Never ending fight for survival in an underworld designed to keep monsters both alive, and simultaneously dead. Unable to escape the infinite cycle of kill or be killed that got them there in the first place.

Dean was right, he realized. It was hard to believe that a place like that could somehow be pure. It sounded like a personal circle of Hell.

April 21st- Are there celebrities possessed by demons? I'd believe Ronald Reagan was possessed, maybe even Hitler... Oprah Winfrey has got to be a crossroads demon.

Gwyn jotted down her odd thoughts about Hell crawlers as reality reshaped itself with every word she read and found to be true. The normal world fell apart before her eyes as she walked among people and humans, wondering if they too knew the truth. About the things that walked among them and around them... underneath them.

She couldn't have been the only normal person out there that knew. She'd read the Supernatural books from cover to cover, trying to find the names and people in each story still left behind after the Winchester brothers left town. She ran names through ViCAP, searched the internet, went through phone books for any clue or hint of people that knew what she did so she wouldn't feel so... alone.

Isolated, despite the fact that the outside world was just within grasp. The only thing separating her from the people around her- at the coffee shop, or the co-workers that piled around her in the elevator, or the people she called friends that felt more like a cover with every passing day- was this thin sheet of pane glass that distorted everyone and everything around her.

So, this was her way of coping. Reading Supernatural books, pouring over lore nonstop, and doodling sigils in her journal alongside her entries.

- Madonna has got to be an angel... Is Freddie Mercury a God?

So many theories rolling around in her head. Frankly, she was driving herself insane after so long of overthinking it that she needed a break from all the conspiracy. Alas, she had gone back to doing what she did best: reading lore.

The next book she'd pulled off the shelf was hefty. It was carved with weird lines of symbols along the spine, cover, and back. It was heavy- certainly weighted by the metal keeping the book latched.

"Bit excessive..." Gwyn muttered as she dropped the gaudy chain-covered text onto her desk with a clang and thud.

Charles Darwin jumped up from his place on her bed.

"Sorry," the young woman winced in apology.

The cat looked as though he glared at her for a moment before settling back into his laying position once more, his head burrowed into his bushy tail and his ears flapped down as he drifted back to sleep.

Everyday that cat got more and more comfortable in her apartment. And everyday, Gwyn was less inclined to reiterate that it was her home first and his second... He stayed there more. Slept there more. Sometimes she felt like a researcher disturbing his place of residence with her loud books and odd construction projects he was probably tiring of.

Setting aside her feline's feigned frustration- try saying that five times fast- Gwyn gently tugged open the book. A cloud of dust and soot went up into the air and she quickly swatted her hand to fan the particles away from her face. There was still a small layer left over on the first page, but with a swift swipe of her palm across the surface, she was able to unearth the title.

"Liber de Spiritibus et Animabus." Or, as Gwyn had roughly translated it, "The Book of Spirits and Souls."

Most of it seemed to be spells of binding and control of powerful beings. But for every mention of these "Beings," Gwyn knew that whomever it was referring couldn't have been good. These Beings known to trade and make pacts with the living in exchange for their souls were described as creatures from Hell, a type of demon. A demon that offered someone their wildest dreams and desires, almost like a succubi. Only it didn't just trick someone, it made them a soul-binding demon. Their soul in exchange for everything and anything they could ever want.

However, there was catch...

April 22nd- Soul deals, like the one Dean Winchester made. Has the power to bring back the dead, win you all the money in the world, give you luck, turn back time... boundless and limitless possibilities. All-powerful, not as powerful as few top-tier demons. Apparently souls are powerful. You sell your soul to a demon, ten years later Hellhounds drag you away unless under special circumstances. Ten years of whatever you want in exchange for your soul and an eternity of damnation. It's unfair, but then again... what are you to expect from demons? Power... Who would sell their soul for power that only lasts ten years?

Tentatively, Gwyn turned to the next page. Her finger lightly traced the title of the next part of the book, her mind idly translating it on instinct.

- In the 15th Century, writers like Johannes Nider coined a term for those that performed acts of harmful sorcery and wicked acts of magic. There were many other names these writers had for these types of people... Malifecum, Venefica, Cantatrix, Divina, Magum, Auguratricis, Pythonissam. But there was one term in particular that was used to describe some of the most wicked, and the most powerful of these magic-wielders.

"Maga Malefica," the word fell from Gwyn's lips like a forbidden spell being whispered beneath her breath.

Ironic, considering the chapter she'd now reached.

Witches.

Mrs. Tran was quite the spitfire. And stubborn as Hell.

For such a tiny woman, Dean didn't expect her to be so... scary. He'd faced Hellhounds, demons, angels, Satan, ghosts, Hell, Heaven, Purgatory- the worst of the worst. And a scalding hot glare from Mrs. Tran as she demanded to go with them and her son to retrieve the Demon Tablet was enough to make him quiver and cave in.

Even Sam tried his best to reason with the woman.

"Mrs. Tran, all due respect, Dean's right. Crowley- he's not just a killer. He trades in torment. And if he can find a way to separate your soul from you, he'll take that soul to Hell and... and roast it till there's nothing left but black smoke," the younger Winchester explained. He saw the way Mrs. Tran's eyes briefly drifted over to where moments ago she'd watched the brothers kill her friend, Eunis. Or, whatever was inside of Eunis at the time. "Look, it's best if you let us handle this."

"I understand," Mrs. Tran replied carefully as she stood up. "But it's not my soul I'm worried about. It's my son's." She crossed her arms and raised her chin defiantly, almost daring the brothers to argue with her anymore.

Dean struggled to come up with much more of an excuse of why she couldn't come along. All of the lives that were sacrificed in the long run for the greater good, and the people they'd lost along the way. It was hard to put into words just the amount of danger they were in, but it seemed that no matter how much Dean tried to formulate a response, he couldn't put it into words.

"Kevin, you want to back us up here?" the eldest Hunter turned towards their Prophet. "Came all the way down here to pull her out of the fire, and now she wants to jump right back in."

Kevin merely stared back at him. "Like I can tell her what to do?"

Dean turned back to Mrs. Tran. She smiled back in response and all Dean could really do was chuckle and shrug. He tried... Like the next words on Mrs. Tran or Kevin's headstone- Dean Winchester Tried to Warn Them. Tried to save them...

He couldn't believe the next words out of his mouth.

"Alright. Coming with us has conditions," he began. "Uh, hex bags to stay off the bad guys' radar and, uh, you're gonna have to get inked up."

Kevin's eyes widened. "Do what, now?"

"Yeah, uh..." Sam pulled down his flannel and shirt just above his collarbone to reveal the anti-possession tattoo beneath. "You, too, Shortstop. Keeps the demons out."

Step one on keeping people close to them safe is ensuring they wouldn't be compromised in the worst way possible. One demon, ghost, or angel that got in could be lethal. And the last thing either Dean or Sam wanted to do was have to shove the demon blade into Kevin or his mom's gut because some black-eyed bastard managed to weasel their way in.

And a Prophet possessed by a demon? Who knew where that could lead... nothing but bad roads.

"Fine."

Dean turned to face Mrs. Tran, eyes widening slightly. "Really?" Her skin looked so frail, he wondered if she could even go under the needle.

"What, like it's my first tattoo?" she retorted with a sly smirk and a mischievous glint in her eyes. She turned to leave and start packing.

Dean's eyes followed after the soccer mom, impressed to say the least. It was a good thing she was strong, durable. Kevin would need that kind of support. But even now, standing in the Tran's living room, he could tell that this wasn't going to end well. For any of them.

If anyone knew better, it was Dean. He replayed Bobby's words to him over and over like a mantra- "Family don't end with blood." But it seemed like all family ever did was end in blood for them. Bobby. Their Mom. Dad. Samuel. The Campbells... Cas.

Dean screwed his eyes shut. He couldn't think about the future. Not when it wasn't written in stone. Mrs. Tran was still there, alive. Kevin was still there, alive... mostly. He looked like Hell, but the past year had taken a toll on everyone.

Last time Dean had seen Kevin, he'd been having a panic attack over having to translate an ancient text in a cabin basement while they ran from angels and Leviathan. Now the kid was talking about how he found a way to seal the Gates of Hell and made a bomb to wipe out a group of demons on his own... Kevin Tran was a survivor. And after meeting Mrs. Tran, Dean knew where he got that trait from now.

He hoped it would be enough to keep them safe.

May 1st- Witches.

They're very versatile creatures. Few things can kill them depending on the skills, asset, and power of the witch. Some witches are natural, others sell their souls, and then very few are able to learn the practice. It takes centuries to perfect certain magic, more than just simple step-by-step spells. It requires certain patience and skill. Not all witches are evil either, and many have gone centuries without being detected or perhaps even gone out of their way helping others with their abilities. Natural and learned witches alike... They just need a source for their power and skills and abilities.

And so now, Gwyn found herself standing outside a voodoo store in Chinatown. Who would've known that random pop-up shops that sold scented candles, chamomile tea, and custom urns would also be her place of solace for simple witchcraft?

Well, Bobby Singer, actually. She'd gotten the address from a book of his. Thankfully, it also came with a name to ask for at the desk.

The bell jingled upon her entrance into the shop. It smelt... strong. So many scents in one space, so many shelves and cases full of ingredients and components. Some magical, some not. Wall to wall, Gwyn could barely pinpoint where one section began and the other ended. It was like an overrun thrift store, only with ritualistic stands of worship, thick books to clear one's chakra, and flowers Gwyn had never seen before in her life.

It was all so... clustered.

"May I help you?"

Gwyn turned to her right to find a young man standing idly behind a glass counter. He didn't look like... a witch. Or mage. Or any kind of supernatural being at first glance. He looked rather normal. Wore a Skrillex graphic tee under a lime green drawstring hoodie. He wore baggy jeans and had an untrimmed blonde beard. He was wearing a beanie for fuck's sake.

He wasn't a danger.

"Um, yes," Gwyn replied upon regaining her wit's as the initial shock of this man' sudden appearance wore off. She pulled out her journal with the name she'd pulled from Bobby Singer's makeshift address book. "I'm looking for Toula. Toula Mandra... uh, Mandrapilias." Despite being semi-proficient in Latin, Greek names did still catch her off guard sometime. She just hoped she wasn't butchering the name.

"Toula Matthews," the young man replied.

When Gwyn naturally furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, he nodded.

"Uh, Toula Mandrapilias was my Mom. She changed her name when she immigrated, started the shop," he explained. "I'm Isaiah Matthews. Her son."

"Oh," was all Gwyn could muster up. "Um, sorry. I didn't know she'd passed."

"It's been a few years now. Were you an old friend? Colleague?"

Gwyn shrugged, not exactly sure how to explain that she got her name from a book kept by an old guy who hunted monsters for a living that she tracked down through not so fictional books about two guys who also hunted monsters. "Uh... sort of. She was referred to me by, someone I guess was a satisfied customer."

"They have a name?"

At that small, but subtle, hint of suspicion in Isaiah's demeanor, Gwyn tilted her head. "Does he need one in order for me to get access to the back room products?"

There was a beat of silence that passed between them. Isaiah looked at Gwyn, studying her; possibly calculating the risk he'd be taking by allowing her into his side of the Supernatural threshold between the regular world front, and the actual business in the back.

Finally, it seemed as though he'd decided when he slowly shook his head. "No, I don't need to know the name. But I could help with whatever it is you're looking for... in the back."

Gwyn's face lit up. "Really- I mean," she cleared her throat. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She began to fumble with her bag until she was able to produce her journal. She unbound it and flipped it open to her latest entry/grocery list. "I need, er, a moonstone charged beneath a new moon, raw amethyst, a bloodstone, a clear quartz- actually, make it several of those, aloe, black garlic, and dill."

When the young doctor glanced back up at the store clerk, he looked almost... amused.

"What? Was it something I said-"

"No, no-" Isaiah quickly tried to explain. "It's just... that's all?"

That's all? It was a pretty hefty list, or at least that's what she'd thought. "Is there... something I'm missing or something?"

"No, I'm sorry. I guess I just assumed you were one of those witches here to sell me out of house and home looking for harpy venom, essence of djinn, and griffin feathers," Isaiah laughed good-heartedly, making his way down the glass case towards the door leading to the back. "Kids and their attempts at immortality, am I right?"

Gwyn stared back, dumbfoundedly. This was... odd? There really was no way to describe this feeling of relief, almost. Relief in that suddenly, for just a quick second of time, Gwyn didn't feel like she was a freak, or that she was being Punk'd. All of this supernatural world was real. And hearing someone speak to her about it as if they were old pals only solidified her sense of belonging in all things magic and mystical.

"It's refreshing to see Hunters using witchcraft to battle evil. It's what it's supposed to be used for. To bring balance, you know?" Isaiah nodded and beamed at her.

Gwyn smiled and nodded back as if she had a clue what he was talking about. "Uh huh. Yeah, well, I'm not a Hunter," she explained with a shrug.

Isaiah had just popped into the back before he did a full 180 to pop back out. "You're not?"

She shook her head.

"Huh," was all he said before turning back around.

Huh, Gwyn thought to herself after that off-putting interaction. Guess not every customer who comes in wanting witchcraft supplies is a witch, but every customer is apart of the Supernatural world, or hunting it. And here I am... just a regular woman coming in for spell ingredients. A civilian. An outlier.

After a few minutes, the young salesman came back out with a large, thick brown sack. He placed it atop the glass counter and immediately began to ring up her total. "Here we are," he sighed.

Gwyn took a tentative step forward. "Is that everything?" she prompted, eyeing the bulky looking sack.

"Yep," Isaiah answered without missing a beat. "Packed you some variety, too. Three moonstones charged beneath a new moon, three charged beneath a blood moon, one large amethyst geode that will probably last you a year or two, five bloodstones, ten clear quartz-" Gwyn gave him a look of sincere gratitude. She'd be needing a lot of that. "-I plucked you and wrapped three fresh aloe vera leaves, one large clove of black garlic-" Gwyn opened her mouth to protest, but he beat her to it with a quick explanation. "-it's difficult to grow and high in demand. You get one... but to even it out, I included six bundles of dill and an extra Grimoire my Mom had lying around back there."

Gwyn frowned, "Enticing."

"Hey, I'm cutting you a deal here," Isaiah stated, clicking in the last of his calculations. "I'm giving you all of this for the low, low price of $275."

"Two hundred-" Gwyn immediately began to protest when the salesman gave her a look of disdain.

"Is that the Serpenti handbag just released in the Bulgari 2014 Spring Collection?" he deadpanned, pointing to the purse she'd had on her shoulder.

She glanced down at her bag that had- ironically enough- been a gift from a former student she'd taught during PhD school. Then she glanced back up at Isaiah. Caught red-handed.

Gwyn reached into her purse and pulled out three $100 bills from her wallet, which happened to be a Michael Kors clutch she had bought two Fall Collections ago. She slid her payment across the counter wordlessly and took the sack in return.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Miss..."

"Doctor," Gwyn corrected out of habit.

Isaiah looked confused. "Miss Doctor?"

"Doctor-" Gwyn stopped herself. Should she be telling this man her real name and title? She knew he probably wouldn't go to the police and tell them she'd bought spell ingredients from his Black Market, but still... It felt wrong to use her real name in this secret Supernatural world hiding in plain sight in places like Isaiah's shop.

"Doctor...?"

"Just Doctor," she settled on. Who was he to demand a name? He'd already sold her the product. Besides, he seemed like an understanding guy. Understanding enough to know why she wouldn't want to disclose her name.

Gwyn hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, too anxious from anticipation of buying spell ingredients. And despite the fact that she was only running on that anxiety and a fuck ton of espresso shots, after bidding the store farewell and making the trek back to her apartment, she still didn't have it in her to sleep just yet. Not when all the ingredients to make a spell she'd been studying to a T for the past week and a half were sitting on her desk just waiting to be used.

When Gwyn juggled her priorities, trying to calculate the risk between staying up for over 52 hours and counting versus trying to use magic for the first time on half battery life.

In the end, the more logical part of her brain won.

The second her head hit the pillow she was out and didn't wake up until nearly 17 hours later. Unknown to her, Charles Darwin had spent 10 of those hours cuddled up beside her legs.

"Charlie."

"Charlie Bradbury is dead. She died a year ago. You killed her," the redhead retorted as she crammed her... armor into a large duffel bag and continued to hastily undo the bindings on the rest of her faux medieval gear. "My name is Carrie Heinlein. Oh, and guess what? Now you killed her, too."

The Winchester brothers stood back, neither saying anything as they let the young woman lash out in whatever way she needed to process. In his years doing this job, Dean had grown to understand the different reactions people had to the Supernatural. Panic, forceful ignorance, denial, psychotic, and then... anger.

"Okay, listen," he tried only for her to interrupt him.

"No, I buried myself," she explained, having finally turned around to face them, jabbing an accusatory finger at them. "Then Dick Roman went down, his company belly-up, and I figure, 'hey, it's all good.' And I was fine. I got my life back."

The eldest Winchester glanced around. Yeah, she did pretty much have it made for her. A cushy royal tent as the Queen of Moons here in this hidden world of make-believe for people to escape the outside world. Moondoor was Charlie's escape, her solace. Dean felt a twinge of guilt in recognizing that him and his brother were crashing her paradise. Again.

"Now you're here, and if you guys are here, monsters are here," Charlie deduced. She spun back around to continue packing, but it seemed her rant wasn't over. "Why do I have such bad luck? What am I- some kind of monster magnet?"

There was a pause after her question.

The redhead spun around, fear apparent in her wide eyes. "... Is there such a thing as a 'monster magnet'?"

The brothers shifted, trying to formulate an explanation. Before they could form a coherent sentence, Charlie held her hands up.

"You know what? Don't answer that."

Happily, Dean nearly replied. Frankly, if there was such thing as a monster magnet, he'd feel qualified enough to be the prime example of one.

"I don't care," the redhead declared, turning back to packing. "What I do care about is not getting my other arm broken. Or dying," she added almost as if it were an afterthought. "So I'm dropping my sword and walking off stage, bitches."

The brothers watched as Charlie lifted her bag in one hand and her crown in the other. She sauntered over to the pair. Dean frowned when she abruptly placed the crown atop his head, it tilted slightly from the angle.

"Have fun storming the castle!"

Before she could make it to the door, Dean spun around to call after her. "Charlie." When she stopped for a second to hear him out, he continued. "Greyfox and Thargrim? Er, Ed and Lance... They aren't missing. They're dead."

He watched as the color drained from her face. Suddenly, she was transported back to Roman Labs with creepy black-bleeding creatures, possessive ghosts and the two brothers who roped her into the inner Supernatural loop. She tried to pull herself out, but it looked as though it wasn't something she could just forget about after all.

Charlie Bradbury's normal life ended.

And a new one began.

May 7th- Magic. Never thought I'd actually be writing about something so ridiculous.

There's different types of magic and different types of witches, according to these references made in these different spell books all powered by different things. There are Wicca, Lunar, Hellenic, Hearth, Elemental, Faery, Augury, Celtic- all forming from white magic, pure magic, magic that's selfless and not dark in the sense of using nefarious means or for selfish purposes. Then there was gray magic, neutral, not used for good nor evil, non nefarious supplies. And finally, Black Magic. nefarious magic with ill intent and harmful sources. witches powered by demon deals immediately fall under this category since their power is drawn from Hell. Black Magic is the most common and the most dangerous and most powerful type of magic. Blood magic falls beneath the category- not exactly something you can get dragged to Hell for, but apparently it is a rabbit hole most people fall down. Like a drug, the power is addictive...

Gwyn sat, cross-legged, on the mat she'd laid out in the center of her home gym. She only ever came in to blow off steam from time to time and she had needed more open space since she doubted the back of her closet would be an optimal space to perform this spell.

It wasn't anything intricate; just a spell she'd plucked from a book out of Bobby's many.

She had a crazy idea. Almost as if she needed to test if there was any truth to these... instruction manuals, essentially. She felt as though she were reading a cookbook that she'd propped on the outside of her large marble disk bowl.

Gwyn carefully cracked her knuckles on each hand. It was a nervous tick she'd picked up recently. In order to test this particular spell, she'd have to cut herself in order to restore it to its original state.

She took a deep breath in. Let a deep breath out.

- If this doesn't work, I'll bleed out, but... gotta have faith, right?

Gwyn shook her head as she raised her pocket knife up to her held out left arm. "This is for you, George Michael," she whispered beneath her breath.

Tentatively, she pressed the edge of the knife against her skin. She hadn't realized how much pressure it'd take to puncture her skin, but apparently it wasn't much. It was like giving herself a large paper cut, dragging the edge of her knife along her inner elbow until she had a good flow going.

"Okay... next step," the brunette tutted, trying to not let her blood drip everywhere on her workspace.

She reached up into her hair with her free hand, plucking a piece of herself to activate the spell. One thing that the instructions repeated in every spell book was that magic wouldn't work unless the object of which you were directing it at had a tether, a connection to your core. She threw her long hair into the bowl of already pre-prepared ingredients: plucked dill, crushed amethyst, bloodstone, and a new moon moonstone for balance; small pebbles of clear quartz to maintain focus; then aloe and black garlic for direct healing qualities.

Well, you have all the ingredients... you have an open wound. Gwyn frowned as she glanced down at her bowl. She felt like an idiot staring down at her... modge podge of random knick-knacks thrown into a rock bowl. It felt as though she was back to being three, pretending to make potions with her Mom's various hair products, shampoos and gels.

Maybe it's not supposed to feel right. After all, she had one step left.

Gwyn plucked a match from out of the box beside her injured arm. Trying not to let any of her blood drip onto her apartment floor, Gwyn carefully lit the match and held it above the bowl.

"Restituo," she spoke clearly just before tossing the match into the bowl.

She held her breath, expecting some type of reaction. But all she got was an idle flame burning steadily over her ingredients, almost as if she'd done most of the spell, but was only missing just one last component.

"What the Hell..."

The young doctor tried to retrace her steps. She frantically reached over the bowl to grab the spell book. In an instant, the motion jostled whatever hold she had on her wounded arm, allowing just a few drops of blood trickle from off her elbow, into the fire.

It was as if the missing piece of the puzzle had finally fallen into place.

A light ruptured from the bowl, startling Gwyn. She jumped in surprise, quickly yanking her arm back to press it against her chest. But it was too late, the damage had been done... or, rather the damage had been reversed.

There was a slight stinging sensation pulsating from a warm spot in the center of her inner elbow. Perplexed, the young woman pulled her arm up to examine her work. She watched as her open wound slowly and carefully closed itself, her flesh pulling itself back together as the blood remained on an injury that was no longer there.

A strangled gasp escaped from her parted mouth. The gravity of what she'd just done hit like a freight train and the next thing she knew, she was on her feet crawling away from the spell book, the ingredients.

Oh my God, it's fucking Blood Magic.

Panicked, Gwyn slammed the two double doors of her home gym as though it would make what she'd one disappear. But she knew she couldn't hide from what she'd done. The evidence was on her arm... where her cut had healed itself within a matter of moments.

Back in Normal, Illinois, Dean stood back with a grim look on his face as he watched his little brother hammer in the last bit of wood into the ground. The plot of dirt where they'd just buried their grandfather's body now had a makeshift headstone cross with his name abbreviated at the top. H. Winchester.

Yet another body added to the list of family members they'd lost.

After hammering the cross in, Sam stood back and stared at the grave for a second. Taking it all in just as much as Dean.

"I get it now," he spoke up after a while.

"Hm?" his brother hummed in acknowledgement.

"What Cupid said about Heaven busting ass to get Mom and Dad together," Sam elaborated. "The Winchesters and the Campbells- the brains and the brawn."

Dean held back a cynical laugh. Now wasn't the time to let out his anger or frustrations. This wasn't about him anymore, it was solely about protecting his brother once more now that Henry's death reminded him about what really matter: family. With the Trials, Crowley, Heaven, Hell, everything in between and now these Men of Letters... Dean had to ensure that through it all, he would keep Sam safe.

But still... Dean could at least recognize the danger they posed to not only themselves, but everyone around them, that got close to them. "Well, I'm glad you see it. All I see in our family tree is a whole lot of dead," he replied.

The eldest Winchester could barely make out the way Sam deflated from out of the corner of his eye.

Hell, he figured he might try at least appeal to his brother's bleeding heart. He always did see the good in things; the light at the end of the tunnel. Frankly, Dean just didn't have it in him anymore. It all ended the same- bloody. Friends, family... even some of the people they've tried to save over the years. It was all such a predictable, endless cycle.

Dean was just tired now.

"Hey, I, uh... found this in Henry's wallet," the eldest Winchester said, carefully taking out the small printed picture. It was of Henry and John, years and years ago. It was off-putting, seeing his hard-set father so young, so innocent and bright-eyed. Without even realizing yet, the Supernatural world had always been apart of his life, long before he even set eyes on their Mom.

Sam took it from his brother and examined it with a bittersweet look of regret and remorse. "Dad looks happy," he said simply, handing it back.

"Kind of makes you wish he knew the truth, huh?" Dean juggled the concept, imagining the kind of life they might've lived had Henry made it back to his time, back to John. He'd raise him right, warn him and train him in the life of the Men of Letters, maybe even learn what a real father was along the way. "I mean, all those years thinking his old man ditched when the poor son of a bitch really came here and saved our bacon. Fuckin' time travel, man."

Dean had had about enough of time travel at this point in his life. Sure, he'd gotten to meet his grandfather- twice, from both sides of the family- he even got to say goodbye to his Mom and Dad after a failed attempt at warning them about their future. And of course, how could Dean forget the horrid images that often times kept him up at night of the future they'd barely avoided of what would've happened had Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer all those years ago, releasing the Croatoan virus and reeking a new Apocalypse with no one to stop it.

"You think it would have made a difference?" Sam prompted, breaking him out of his train of thought.

"What?"

"Dad. If he had his own father around."

Sometimes it felt like the kid was reading his mind.

"What, in how he raised us? Sammy, he did the best he could," the eldest Winchester tried to defend his deceased Dad. He may not have had the best childhood, but he was still... his Dad. His hero. He was rough around the edges, even hurtful at some points. It was hard to forgive him sometimes, but Dean knew that at the end of the day, his Dad loved them... in his weird, rigid way.

"I know that, I- I do," Sam corrected. He turned back to glance at the fresh grave of their grandfather. "They all did."

A series of names could've been thrown around. Plenty lost, trying to save who they could, keep their family safe. John. Mary. Henry. Bobby. The Campbells. Sam and Dean had even died a few times themselves.

"Family don't end in blood." Dean recalled Bobby's declaration.

It did.

And the dead legacy of the Winchesters had just gained a new member, buried six feet under just a few yards away.

a/n: hiiiiiiii. gonna keep writing what my writer's block lets me focus on, one at a time. eventually, i'll refocus on MCU/CM stories, but rn it's just Supernatural lmao. enjoy it while it lasts :/

also the quotes I use at the beginning of these chapters are either excerpts from online dictionaries and from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig. check it out. I've cried like three times while reading a few excerpts.