The fire still burned outside, but inside, the house was suffocatingly quiet.

Dean, Sam, and Bobby stepped inside, exhaustion hanging over them like a storm cloud. The weight of what they had just done sat heavy in their bones, but none of it compared to what waited for them inside.

Ali was still there, still sitting in Bobby's old chair. Her eyes were glossed over, like she wasn't really in there anymore.

Slowly, she stood, her limbs stiff, her movements sluggish, like she had to force her body to function.

She didn't look at them. She didn't say a word. Just walked straight to the kitchen, heading for the half-stocked liquor cabinet.

Dean watched her grab another bottle, fingers working the cap loose with ease. His chest tightened.

"Ali," he said carefully, following her into the kitchen. "I think you've had enough."

She froze.

For a long second, she didn't move.

Then, slowly, she turned to face him. Fury roared in her bloodshot eyes. Her grip on the bottle tightened.

"You think?" she hissed.

Dean held up a hand, keeping his voice even. "I get it, alright? But getting hammered isn't gonna—"

"You don't get it!" she shouted, voice cracking like a whip.

The air in the room shifted instantly, thickening with something sharp and unbearable. Bobby and Sam stiffened. Ali's breathing was ragged, her hands shaking as she clutched the bottle like it was the only thing holding her together.

Dean clenched his jaw. "Ali—"

"I killed him, Dean," she spat, voice trembling. "With my own hands. I stabbed him in the chest and watched the life drain out of his eyes. And you're standing here telling me I've had enough?" She let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking her head. "That's real nice, Dean. Real helpful."

Sam stepped forward cautiously. "Ali—."

She whirled on him.

"What?!" she snapped, voice raw. "You got something to say too? Gonna tell me it wasn't my fault? That I did what I had to do?" She let out a harsh, humourless laugh. "Save it, Sam. I know what I did."

Bobby exhaled slowly. "Kid—"

"Don't," she cut in sharply, pointing a shaking finger at him. "Don't do that, Bobby. Don't look at me like that."

Her breath was coming faster now, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. She turned back to Dean, her face twisting, rage mixing with grief. She was still covered in blood. His blood.

Her whole body was shaking now, her breathing sharp and uneven.

"I tried, Dean," she said, her voice breaking. "I tried to save him."

Dean's stomach twisted. "Ali—"

"I tried to make a deal." Her voice was raw now, the pain in it like a wound ripped open. "I was going to give up my soul for him."

The room went silent.

Sam inhaled sharply. Bobby's jaw tightened. Dean's face darkened.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he growled.

Ali let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "What the hell do you think I was thinking?!" She threw her hands up, eyes blazing. "I would've done anything to save him. Anything."

Her breath hitched.

"But I couldn't."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"I couldn't make the deal," she said, voice shaking with anger, with something deeper—self-loathing, agony. "Because my soul is broken."

Dean felt a cold weight settle in his gut. Ali let out a choked laugh, shaking her head. "They wouldn't take it. Aamon—he wouldn't take my damn soul because it's not whole."

She met Dean's eyes, and the rage that burned there was almost unbearable.

"And you know why it's broken, Dean?" Her voice was deathly quiet now, but it cut through the air like a knife.

Dean stiffened. Ali's breathing was ragged.

"It's because of you."

Dean's stomach twisted. "Ali—"

"You ripped her out of me," she snarled, stepping closer. "You tore Electra out of my body, and in the process, you fucked up my soul so badly that it's completely worthless."

Dean didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"You took that from me," she whispered. "You made your own choice to save your brother, and then you took away my choice to save mine."

Silence fell over the room, suffocating, unbearable.

Dean's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn't know what to say.

Ali let out a harsh, shaking breath, wiping angrily at the tears streaking down her face.

"I could've saved him," she said, her voice barely above a whisper now. "I could've saved him, and I couldn't because my soul is broken."

She let out a bitter, choked laugh, her hands trembling. "And you're the reason why."

The words hung between them like a blade. Dean swallowed hard, his chest tightening, but he said nothing. What could he say?

Ali exhaled sharply, looking at each of them. She stared at Dean, eyes burning with fury, grief, and something else—something hollow.

She lifted the bottle of whiskey, her grip tight, and took a long, deliberate swig. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the liquor burning its way down. Then, without breaking eye contact, she took another.

Daring him to stop her.

Dean didn't move. Didn't say a damn thing.

She let out a sharp exhale, wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, then pushed past him.

Her steps were unsteady, her exhaustion and the alcohol making her body sway. Sam instinctively reached out to steady her.

"Ali—"

"Don't touch me," she snapped, jerking away from his grasp like he'd burned her. Sam's jaw clenched, but he backed off, watching as she trudged toward the stairs. They stood in silence as she ascended, her footsteps uneven, the wood creaking beneath her weight.

A door slammed shut.

The house was quiet again.

For a long time, no one spoke. Bobby sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "Well… that went about as well as I expected."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly before stopping, his gaze landing on his brother. "Dean," he said carefully.

Dean didn't respond. He was still standing in the kitchen, his arms stiff at his sides, his jaw tight. His eyes were locked on the floor, his expression unreadable, but Sam knew better. He knew his brother. Dean was swallowing it all—anger, guilt, frustration—shoving it down deep.

Sam exhaled. "She didn't mean it."

Dean let out a humourless scoff. "Yeah, she did."

Sam hesitated. "Dean—"

"She's right," Dean cut in, his voice quiet but firm. "I did do that to her." His mind raced back to that day, where he'd burned the sigil on her skin with a hot poker, releasing Electra from her body. Sam had warned her there would be consequences, but he hadn't listened.

Bobby huffed. "You saved her life, boy."

Dean finally lifted his head, turning toward Bobby. His eyes were dark, heavy with something neither of them liked seeing in him.

"And it cost her soul."

Bobby and Sam exchanged a look.

Dean let out a sharp breath and shook his head. "Damn it, Bobby. I didn't even think about what pulling Electra out of her would do. I just—I saw her dying, and I acted. I didn't stop to ask what the hell it would mean for her."

Sam's expression softened. "Dean, you made a call. A hard one. You saved her. That has to count for something."

Dean gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah? Well, try telling her that."

Bobby sighed. "She's hurting. She ain't thinkin' straight."

Dean clenched his jaw. "Doesn't mean she's wrong."

Another silence stretched between them.

Bobby exhaled. "You gonna talk to her?"

Dean scoffed. "What the hell am I supposed to say? 'Sorry for breaking your soul'?" He shook his head, frustration flickering over his face. "It's done. I can't take it back."

Bobby folded his arms. "Well, either way, she ain't gonna listen to reason right now. Best to let her cool off before one of you does something real stupid."

Dean didn't argue. He just let out a breath, shaking his head as he turned toward the window, watching the dying embers of Tyler's funeral pyre smoulder in the distance.

Bobby's shoulders sagged, and he gave a low grunt, rubbing at the back of his neck. His voice was rough when he spoke again.

"I need a drink." His words hung heavy in the air, thick with a grief that matched the one hanging over the house.

Sam nodded without hesitation. He knew Bobby well enough to recognize the signs—the way his hands clenched, the way his jaw tensed, the way his eyes lost focus as if looking at something far beyond this room. Grief. It was eating him up, just like it had eaten them all up in different ways.

Dean didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. He just moved toward the old wooden cabinet behind the kitchen counter. He was already reaching for the bottle before he'd even fully processed it—he didn't want to think anymore, didn't want to feel the weight of it all. Just numb it out.

Bobby grabbed a chair and sat down at the kitchen table with a heavy thud, dropping his elbows to his knees. He stared blankly at the floor, the silence between them settling in like a thick fog.

Dean poured whiskey into three glasses, not bothering to measure or be precise. He handed one to Bobby and one to Sam, then sank into a chair with his own. The clink of ice against glass was the only sound for a long moment.

Bobby took the glass, his hand shaking slightly. He raised it, the amber liquid catching the low light from the flickering overhead bulbs. Then, with a quiet sigh, he downed it in one go, the burn of the alcohol barely registering against the fire inside him. He set the glass down with a soft clink.

Dean looked at him from across the table, studying his face. He saw the exhaustion, the bitterness, the same haunted look in Bobby's eyes that had been in Ali's earlier.

"Damn it, Bobby…" Dean muttered under his breath, half to himself.

Bobby raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He knew what Dean was thinking—he could see it in his face, the guilt gnawing at him.

Sam took a sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair. "We don't have all the answers right now. But we can try. We will try."

Dean just shook his head, the whiskey burning in his throat. His voice was tight when he spoke. "What the hell do we even do? There's no coming back from that. Ali's soul—she's broken. And I…" He swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.

Sam was quiet for a moment before speaking, his voice soft but steady. "You saved her life, Dean. You saved her from dying. You did what you thought was right. Yeah, it wasn't perfect, but you did what you had to do. We've all made choices we regret, and this one… I don't know how to fix it. But we're in this together. That's all we can offer."

Bobby's low voice cut through the room, bitter and ragged. "And what about Tyler?" His words hit hard, raw and jagged, like a knife to the chest. "I should've been there. I should've been able to stop it." His voice faltered. "I should've been the one to do it."

Dean's hands tightened around his glass, a flash of anger mixing with the grief. "You did everything you could, Bobby. Hell, you've done more than anyone. Don't blame yourself."

Bobby didn't look at him. He just stared at the empty glass in his hand. "It doesn't matter now. Tyler's gone. And she's broken. We all are."

The air hung heavy, thick with the weight of their collective loss. The words they couldn't say sat between them like a wall, one they didn't know how to break down.

Sam stood up, taking his glass with him. "I'm going to check on Ali." He left the room without another word, the creak of the door behind him cutting through the silence.

Dean didn't follow. He couldn't. Not yet.

The fire outside burned low, crackling in the distance, a steady reminder of what they'd lost.

Bobby stared at the empty space across the table, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know… I knew him, Dean. I knew Tyler when he was just a kid. He was a real pain in my ass sometimes, but he was good." He paused a moment. "He didn't deserve this."

Dean clenched his fists, but he didn't speak. What could he say? The truth was, none of them deserved this.

Bobby stood up suddenly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm going out. I need some air."

Dean didn't stop him. He just sat there, nursing his drink, staring at the flickering light of the fire outside.

They all were drowning in this damn world, each one of them struggling in their own way, and there was nothing they could do to pull each other out of it.

Not this time.

Dean downed his drink, letting the burn wash through him. He didn't care about the pain anymore. He was used to it.

And somewhere, deep inside, he knew the worst part was still coming.

Sam knocked lightly on the door to Ali's room.

No answer.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find inside, or even if he would be welcome, but he had to try. With a quiet sigh, he pushed the door open.

The room was a disaster. Clothes were strewn everywhere, drawers yanked open, their contents spilling onto the floor. Books had been knocked off shelves, pages torn and scattered. A broken glass lay in shards near the nightstand. The air was heavy, thick with the lingering scent of whiskey and something more bitter—grief.

And then there was Ali.

She was curled up on the bed, her back to him, her small frame unmoving.

Sam stepped inside carefully, his boots crunching against something on the floor. His eyes scanned the wreckage, his gaze falling on a crumpled piece of paper, tossed aside like it meant nothing.

He bent down and picked it up, smoothing out the wrinkles.

It was a photograph. One he recognised.

A much younger Ali and Tyler stared back at him, sitting on the rusted truck at the salvage yard. Tyler had his arm slung around his sister, both of them grinning—carefree, unburdened by the horrors that would come.

Sam's throat tightened. Slowly, he placed the photo on her bedside table.

Ali shifted slightly, but she still didn't look at him. He hesitated before sitting down on the edge of the bed. His weight made the mattress dip, but she didn't react.

"Ali," he said softly.

"Go away," she muttered, her voice hoarse and flat.

Sam sighed. "I just—"

"Go away, Sam."

He didn't move. Ali's body went rigid, and before he could say another word, she exploded. She shot up so fast it startled him. Her face was red, her eyes bloodshot and wild, her breath ragged.

"I said go away!" she screamed, pointing at the door.

Sam didn't flinch. He just met her gaze steadily, his expression calm, patient. That only made her angrier.

Her hands balled into fists, her entire body trembling. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" she snarled, shoving him hard in the chest.

Sam barely moved.

"Get out!" she shouted, hitting him again.

Still, he didn't budge.

Ali let out a guttural, broken noise, and then she was hitting him harder—punching, shoving, trying to physically force him away. Her hands slammed against his chest, his shoulders, his arms.

"Get out, Sam!" She pushed him again, her strength fuelled by fury and anguish. "Go! Get the hell out!"

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she kept swinging, kept fighting, her grief pouring out of her in every desperate shove, every choked scream.

And Sam just took it. He let her hit him, let her claw at him, shove him—because he knew this wasn't about him. It wasn't even about Dean.

This was about Tyler.

This was about the unbearable weight on her chest, the grief that was tearing her apart from the inside. And he wasn't going to let her drown in it.

She tried to shove him again, but this time, he caught her wrists.

She fought against his grip, jerking, thrashing. "Let me go!"

"No," he said simply.

Ali let out a furious, frustrated sob, still struggling against him, but Sam was stronger.

And then, in one smooth motion, he pulled her against his chest.

Ali thrashed, trying to rip herself away, her fists pushing at his shoulders, but Sam didn't let go.

"Ali," he murmured, his voice steady.

She struggled harder.

"Ali," he said again, his grip firm but gentle.

She kept fighting, kept pushing, kept sobbing, but she was weakening.

Her body trembled against him, her breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. Her fingers clenched into his shirt, nails digging into the fabric as if holding on for dear life.

And then, finally, she broke, her body sagging against his as a strangled sob tore from her throat.

Sam held her tighter.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, her whole body trembling violently as she gasped for air between the sobs wracking through her. He felt the dampness of her tears against his shoulder, felt the way her body shook like she was falling apart in his arms.

He didn't say anything.

Didn't tell her it was going to be okay. Didn't try to offer her empty reassurances.

He just held her. Let her cry. Let her break. Let her feel.

The sun filtered weakly through the cracked blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Ali was still in bed, not sleeping but not fully awake either. Her body ached in places she didn't even realize could hurt—her chest heavy, her throat sore from crying, and her muscles stiff from the fight. But it was the numbness that worried her most. It was the kind of emptiness that made her feel like she wasn't even there—like she was barely holding onto the edges of herself.

She hadn't even noticed how much time had passed. Hours? A day? It all felt like a blur, the whiskey and exhaustion still swirling in her head. She wasn't sure how long Sam had stayed with her, but she vaguely recalled him shifting her weight onto the mattress and easing himself away quietly. She didn't know what time it was, didn't care. The world felt far too loud for her right now. She could hear the wind outside, the occasional creak of the house settling, and the faint murmurs of the others moving around below.

And yet, despite everything that had happened, all she could focus on was the silence. The silence was deafening.

Ali turned onto her side, curling into the warmth of the blanket, wrapping herself tighter in it as if it could somehow shield her from everything—her past, her pain, the faces that haunted her thoughts.

Her heart ached for Tyler. For the brother she'd failed. She kept hearing his voice in her head, telling her she had saved him, telling her she'd done everything she could, but the words weren't enough. They never would be.

A sharp knock on the door broke the stillness.

Ali's eyes snapped open, and she sat up, heart pounding in her chest. It was Bobby.

"Go away, Bobby," she whispered hoarsely, not bothering to hide the emptiness in her voice.

She heard his sigh on the other side of the door before it creaked open just a little. "I brought you some breakfast," he said gently. "Figured you could use something."

Ali didn't answer, and the door shut with a soft thud. She remained on the edge of the bed, not quite able to face the world yet. She wasn't sure what to say. She wasn't sure she could say anything.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, she dragged herself out of bed. The house was so quiet, save for the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. She paused for a moment, just standing there, unsure of what to do next.

The stairs creaked as she made her way downstairs, the soft thud of her footsteps echoing louder in the silence.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw them. Sam, Bobby, and Dean, all sitting at the kitchen table, their faces drawn and weary. The fire from last night still crackled outside, its warmth faintly reaching through the walls. There was a heaviness in the air, a tension that she could practically taste.

Dean glanced up first, his eyes meeting hers. His expression was guarded—careful—but there was something else there, something that still lingered between them. Guilt? Regret? Maybe a little of both. He didn't say anything, just nodded once, his jaw tight.

Ali didn't look at him for long. She wasn't ready for that yet. Instead, her gaze shifted to the kitchen counter, where a half-open bottle of whiskey sat, waiting.

Without a word, she walked over to it, her fingers shaking as she grabbed it, uncapping it and bringing it to her lips. The burn of the liquor hit her throat like a familiar, comforting sting, but it didn't drown the pain. Nothing could.

"You should eat something," Bobby said quietly from the table, watching her. "You're gonna need your strength."

Ali didn't reply. She poured another drink, trying to ignore the ache that settled in her chest. She could feel their eyes on her, Sam's quiet concern, Bobby's stern worry, and Dean's unreadable expression. The silence stretched between them like a frayed rope, pulling them further apart.

She took another drink.

Dean exhaled, his gaze not leaving her. "Ali, we need to talk."

The words hung in the air. She hated hearing them. The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk.

"I'm fine," she muttered, her voice thick with the remnants of last night's grief. She took another drink, staring into the amber liquid as if it could fix everything.

"Really?" Dean's voice was tight now, like the words were forced through his clenched teeth. "Because you look anything but fine."

She slammed the bottle down on the counter, the sound sharp and loud in the stillness. "You want me to be fine? I'm not fine, Dean. And you know what? I don't give a damn if you think I should be."

The words came out harsher than she meant, but the anger was there, bubbling up like a tidal wave. It was easier to feel anger than the deep, hollow ache in her chest.

Sam shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking between her and Dean. "Ali—"

"Don't, Sam," she snapped, cutting him off. "I don't need your pity. I don't need any of your damn pity."

She felt the heat of their gazes on her, but it didn't matter. The whiskey was starting to burn her throat again, dulling the ache in her chest. The world felt hazy, like everything was out of focus.

But then, as the anger began to settle, she felt it. The guilt. The weight of it, heavy and suffocating.

She turned away from them, unable to look at them anymore. Unable to look at Dean.

The silence stretched between them again.

Dean took a step forward, his voice quieter now. "Ali—"

"I need a shower," she cut in, still feeling the weight of Tyler's blood caked to her skin. She left the room without another word, making her way to the bathroom upstairs silently.

She stripped off her dirty clothes and stepped underneath the water. Steam billowed around her as scalding water pounded against her skin, but Ali barely felt it.

She stood beneath the stream, her hands pressed flat against the cold tile, her breath shaky and uneven. The water was too hot, bordering on unbearable, but she didn't care. She welcomed the sting, the heat, the way it turned her skin red. Anything to feel something other than this crushing, hollow ache inside her.

Her hands moved numbly, scrubbing at her arms, her shoulders, her hands—scrubbing at the blood that wasn't even there anymore. It had washed away quickly, but she could still feel it, thick and warm on her skin, seeping into the cracks of her fingers. Tyler's blood.

Her stomach twisted violently, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the memories away. The feel of his body in her arms. The way his blood had soaked into her clothes. The way his voice had sounded—so soft, so broken—when he'd thanked her for setting him free.

A sharp sob wrenched its way up her throat before she could stop it.

Her breath hitched, her chest heaving as she scrubbed harder, nails digging into her skin. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

She kept scrubbing.

Her nails scratched against her arms, her shoulders—anywhere, everywhere—but it didn't matter how hard she scrubbed, how raw her skin became. The blood was still there. It would always be there.

A choked sound tore from her throat as she slammed her hands against the wall, pressing her forehead against the cool tile. Her body trembled as the weight of everything she'd been holding back threatened to crush her.

She didn't know how long she stood there, her body shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Eventually, her legs gave out, and she slid down onto the floor of the shower, drawing her knees to her chest. The water poured over her, soaking her hair, washing away everything but the pain lodged deep in her bones.

She let herself break, just for a moment. Let the tears come. Let the grief swallow her whole.

But then, just as quickly, she forced herself to pull it back together.

She couldn't afford to fall apart.

Not now. Not ever.

With shaking hands, she reached up and turned off the water. The silence that followed was deafening.

She inhaled sharply, pushing herself up on unsteady legs.

By the time she stepped out of the shower, she forced her face into something neutral, something calm. Something that wouldn't make Sam or Bobby look at her with pity. Something that wouldn't make Dean try to talk to her.

Ali stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around her as she wrapped a towel around herself. Her skin was raw, red from how hard she had scrubbed, but at least the blood was gone—at least on the outside.

The house was quiet, but she could feel them still downstairs. Waiting. Watching. She knew they'd heard her earlier, the way her voice had cracked, the way she had lashed out. She knew they were worried.

She didn't care.

She walked down the hall, her body heavy with exhaustion. Every step felt like dragging herself through mud, but she kept moving, one foot in front of the other, until she reached her room.

She shut the door behind her and locked it.

The room was still a mess—clothes, books, and broken glass littered the floor from where she had thrown things earlier. The whiskey bottle from last night was still on the nightstand, half-empty, but she ignored it this time.

Instead, she just stood there, staring at the mess, at the wreckage she had left behind.

Her gaze flickered to the bedside table, to the photo Sam had picked up earlier.

Ali swallowed hard.

It was an old picture—one she barely remembered being taken. Tyler was just a kid in it, maybe ten or eleven, grinning wildly at the camera with a gap-toothed smile. She was beside him, her arm slung around his shoulders. They looked happy.

They were happy.

Her throat tightened, and she turned away, unable to look at it any longer.

She climbed into bed without bothering to dress, still wrapped in the towel, her damp hair soaking into the pillow. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but her mind wouldn't shut off. Thoughts circled relentlessly—Tyler's face as he died, his voice, the way his body had gone limp in her arms.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it away.

She needed sleep. Just for a little while.

She buried herself under the blankets, turning onto her side, her back to the door. She pulled the covers up over her head, curling in on herself as if she could disappear completely.

Maybe when she woke up, it wouldn't hurt so much.

Maybe when she woke up, she wouldn't feel like she was suffocating.

But she knew better.

Sleep wouldn't fix this.

Nothing would.

AN: Hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you thought. Poor Ali :(

Next up - Ali tries to push away her grief and decides to join the boys for a hunt...