AN: Here's a new chapter! It's about to get real heavy...
The tires of the Impala screeched as Dean finally pulled the car to a halt in front of the derelict house, the long stretch of road behind them a blur. The low rumble of the engine faded as the trio sat in silence, staring at the house before them.
The building loomed, a faded ghost of its former self, the wind rustling through the overgrown grass and ivy that crawled up its cracked stone walls. The house, a large family home, had once been grand—two stories with intricate woodwork, tall windows that must have once bathed the rooms in sunlight, and a front porch that probably creaked with laughter in years gone by. Now, its façade was a sickly gray, paint peeling like skin from an old wound, windows broken or obscured by years of neglect. The ivy was now a jungle, threading through the cracks in the structure, creeping in from the outside like a silent, suffocating invader.
"Jesus, this place is a dump," Sam muttered, his voice hoarse from the endless drive. The Impala had barely stopped moving since they left the salvage yard, Dean's foot pressing the gas like a man possessed. The adrenaline had kept them going, but now, exhaustion was creeping in, threatening to bring them down.
Dean didn't respond, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the house with a mix of dread and determination. Bobby, perched in the back, grunted in agreement, a tired sigh escaping his lips as he adjusted in his seat.
Without a word, Dean pulled the keys from the ignition, the sound of the engine dying abruptly as the silence of the house filled the air. He climbed out first, slamming the door with a sharp clang. Sam followed closely behind, his body stiff from the hours on the road. Bobby rounded the car slowly, glancing up at the house, the weight of history hanging heavily between them.
"This is it," Dean muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
The front door creaked ominously as Dean gave it a shove, the rusted hinges groaning under the strain. It cracked open, revealing a dark, musty interior. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, and the silence felt heavy, oppressive. Dust danced in the air like ghosts, swirling in the faint light from the cracked windows.
The floorboards groaned underfoot as they entered, the place echoing with the absence of life. The house had been abandoned for more than ten years, and it showed. Everything was still, frozen in time, as if waiting for someone to return. The wallpaper, once bright and cheerful, had long since faded, and large patches had peeled away from the walls. Ivy had pushed its way through the ceiling, its thick tendrils snaking their way into the rooms like nature's silent conqueror.
They moved cautiously, their footsteps muffled by the layers of dust that had accumulated over the years. They entered the kitchen, where a large dark stain marred the otherwise faded tiles—an unmistakable patch of old blood, now faded to a sickly brown.
Sam and Dean shared a look, their stomachs sinking.
Bobby looked around, his face etched with frustration. "Where the hell are they?"
They continued to search the house room by room, but there was no sign of Tyler or Ali, no evidence that they had been there recently. Not a trace, not a whisper of life. The house was as abandoned as it appeared, as if time had swallowed it whole.
Dean, growing increasingly frustrated, punched the wall with a sharp thud, his knuckles making contact with the decaying plaster. "Dammit, this has to be the place. Ali wouldn't have led us anywhere else."
Sam tried to calm him. "Dean, we've been at this for hours. What if—"
"No," Dean interrupted, his voice hard. "She told me, Sam. She said... she said her dad built a treehouse for her. I don't know, she said something about a treehouse, a place she used to go. A place her and Tyler would play when they were little."
Bobby scoffed, shaking his head. "A treehouse? You really think Elliot Venator was the treehouse-building type? Guy didn't seem like the sentimental kind to me."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Bobby's expression shifted, realisation dawning. "Oh hell..." he muttered, his voice trailing off as the pieces started to fall into place.
"Bobby?" Sam asked, glancing between them.
Bobby's face was pale, his eyes dark with the weight of his realization. "There was never a treehouse here. Not anywhere around this house."
Dean frowned, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean? She said there was one, Bobby."
Bobby took a breath, his voice steady but tinged with regret. "I remember now. Tyler and Ali used to play out at the salvage yard. There was this old truck—hell, it had been there for years, probably before any of us even came through. The truck was rusted out, half-sunk into the ground. But there was a tree, right through the bottom of it. They called it their treehouse."
Dean blinked, his frustration deepening. "And that old truck, it's been there for years. A damn tree grew right through the bottom of it, like a goddamn jungle gym," Bobby continued.
Dean's fists clenched again. "Did it have old stickers inside it? A Dr Pepper sticker, maybe?"
Bobby sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Hundred of 'em. Probably more."
Dean's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with fury. "Dammit," he growled, his frustration boiling over. "She played me. Ali... she played me, and I fell for it. She wanted us to think she was here, to follow her all the way out here, but she knew Tyler was gonna be at the yard. She knew all along, she probably never even left."
His breath came in harsh, angry gasps as the realisation hit him like a punch to the gut. "She made us waste all this time. She knew we'd follow her down here."
Bobby's voice was heavy with disbelief. "She's one hell of a manipulator, that girl."
Dean gritted his teeth, fists still clenched. "We've been driving for hours, chasing ghosts. I'm going back to the salvage yard, now."
The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting a warm orange glow over the sprawling, cluttered salvage yard. Rusted car frames, broken glass, and twisted metal stretched as far as the eye could see. Silence hung in the air, thick with the scent of oil, dirt, and the faintest trace of decay. It was the perfect kind of place to disappear—perfect for waiting.
She knew there was no way Tyler – or whoever was wearing his face – would show with Bobby and the Winchesters around. Now it was just a case of waiting to see if he would show at all.
Ali sat perched on top of the old truck, the one Tyler and she used to play in, the tree long since grown up and through its gutted interior. She'd spent hours there, watching the shadows lengthen, the stillness of the yard pressing in on her. Her fingers were steady, the sharp edge of Ruby's knife gleaming in the last of the fading sunlight as she ran the blade across a whetstone, honing it with practiced precision.
The blade had seen its share of blood, but there was a part of Ali that loved the sharp, steady motion of sharpening it. It was a reminder of who she had become. A reminder of what she had to do.
She paused for a moment, the hiss of the stone against the metal stopping as her ears caught the faintest sound—footsteps. A soft crunch of gravel underfoot, too deliberate to be the wind.
Her pulse quickened. It was him.
Tyler.
Ali's breath hitched as she took him in, her fingers still clenched around Ruby's knife. He was taller than she remembered, broader, but he looked wrong. His skin had a sickly, greyish pallor, stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. A wound on his head caught her attention, it appeared to somehow be years old and brand new at the same time. His eyes were hollow, sunken in deep shadows, but they were still his—still that deep, stormy blue that had burned into her memory all those years ago.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"It's you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the stillness of the yard.
Tyler's lips twitched into something that might've been a smile, but it never quite reached his eyes. He took another step forward, and for a second, she hesitated. She wanted to move, to close the space between them, to make sure he was real. But something in her gut screamed at her to stay put.
Then, as if the decision had been taken from her, her body moved before her mind caught up. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him, gripping the back of his jacket like she was afraid he would disappear.
His arms came around her, and for the briefest moment, it felt right. He held her tight, grounding her in the reality of his presence. But then—
Her stomach twisted.
He was cold. Not just cold like he'd been standing outside too long. Cold like death.
Ali jerked back, her hands shaking as she put space between them. "You—" She swallowed hard, searching his face. "You're alive."
Tyler's expression didn't change. "You look different."
Ali exhaled sharply, trying to steady her heartbeat. "It's been a long time."
"Yeah," he murmured, watching her like he was studying something fragile. "A long time."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.
Ali licked her lips, forcing herself to focus. "What happened to you, Tyler?"
Tyler's gaze flickered, something unreadable passing over his face. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's like... I woke up six months ago. Like nothing happened. Like I just—was." His fingers twitched at his sides. "I don't remember anything before that. Just darkness. And then suddenly, I was here."
Ali frowned, trying to make sense of his words. "You don't remember... anything?"
He shook his head, then glanced at the blade in her hand, frowning at it like he was expecting to see something else in her hands.
"My knife."
Ali stiffened.
"The silver one," he continued. "You still have it?"
Ali's grip tightened around the hilt of Ruby's knife, but she nodded. She reached into her boot and pulled out Tyler's old silver blade. She held it out to him, watching his face carefully.
Tyler stepped forward, reaching for it.
And then—
He stopped.
His body jerked back as if he had walked into an invisible wall. His eyes widened in realisation, and then, a slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
Ali stood perfectly still, her expression unreadable.
Tyler's lips curled. "A devil's trap," he mused, voice lower now, rougher. "You got me."
Ali tilted her head slightly, gripping the blade tighter.
The smirk deepened. Tyler's eyes flashed black for a brief second.
Not Tyler.
Ali's stomach twisted painfully, but her face remained carefully blank.
The demon let out a quiet, amused chuckle. "I gotta hand it to you. You caught on quicker than I thought you would."
Ali inhaled sharply through her nose. "I've been thinking about seeing Tyler again every day of my life since he died." Her voice didn't waver, but her fingers were clenched so tightly around the knife that her knuckles turned white. "There was no way I wouldn't be able to tell if it was really him."
The demon, still wearing Tyler's face, clicked his tongue. "That's almost sweet."
Ali's eyes darkened. "Why did you come here?"
The demon's smirk didn't fade. "The real question is: why did you come here? Alone?"
Ali held his gaze. "I want to make a deal."
The demon quirked a brow. "A deal?"
"For Tyler's soul."
The demon's amusement deepened, his eyes flickering over her. "How noble," he said mockingly. "You're really willing to trade your soul for his?"
Ali didn't hesitate. "Yes."
The demon took a slow step forward, testing the barrier again. His grin remained in place.
"No."
Ali blinked. "What?"
The demon chuckled. "No deal."
Her fingers tightened around the knife. "Why the hell not?"
The demon's grin stretched wider. "Because your soul? It's not worth anything."
Ali felt something in her chest clench, but she kept her face carefully neutral.
The demon's eyes gleamed. "You're missing something, sweetheart. That soul of yours is damaged goods."
A chill ran down Ali's spine. The memory hit her like a freight train.
The hex. Electra.
The feeling of being ripped out of her own body.
She had always known something had changed that night. Had felt it in the way her emotions dulled, in the way certain things didn't feel the same anymore. Electra must have taken a piece of her soul.
Ali's blood ran cold.
The demon laughed, low and taunting. "You think a broken soul is worth anything? There's not a demon in Hell that would take that deal."
Ali's breath was shallow, her mind racing. Her plan—her only plan—was useless.
She swallowed down the frustration, forcing herself to focus. "Is Tyler still in there?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "Or have you just been keeping his body on ice until you could use it against me?"
The demon's smirk deepened but he didn't answer.
Ali's grip on the knife tightened. That was answer enough.
The demon only grinned, watching her with something dangerously close to delight. Ali's hands trembled. She wasn't sure if it was with anger or fear.
Her fingers curled tighter around the hilt of her knife, her knuckles aching from the pressure. The demon wearing Tyler's face continued to smirk, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched her unravel.
She swallowed hard, keeping her voice steady. "Who are you?"
The demon tilted his head, feigning consideration. "Huh. You know, I was wondering when you'd ask." His grin widened. "They call me Aamon."
Ali's stomach twisted. She knew that name from stories her father would tell her when she was little. Aamon was old—ancient, even. A high-ranking demon, one of Hell's oldest and cruellest tacticians. If he was involved in what happened to Tyler, then this went deeper than she had ever realised.
Her voice came out quieter, laced with something almost dangerous. "Why?"
Aamon raised an eyebrow. "You'll have to be more specific, sweetheart. Why what?"
Ali stepped forward, the point of her knife gleaming under the weak light of the salvage yard. "Why did you kill him?" she demanded. "Why Tyler? What the hell did you want from him?"
Aamon's expression flickered—just for a moment, just enough for Ali to see that he enjoyed this. That this wasn't just a job for him. It was personal.
"Why?" he echoed, sighing dramatically. "Because he was a Venator, of course. Bloodlines like his—like yours—they're a problem. Too many of you damn hunters running around, ruining all the fun."
Ali felt her heartbeat slam against her ribs.
Aamon leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Your family has been a thorn in Hell's side for generations. Too many of you Venators have killed too many of us." His lips curled. "So, I decided to return the favour."
Ali's jaw clenched, anger sparking deep in her chest. "You killed him just because of his last name?"
Aamon chuckled. "Oh, sweetheart, I'd love to say it was just that simple. But no." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, testing the invisible boundary of the devil's trap. "See, I didn't just kill Tyler because of who he was. I killed him because of what he had."
Ali frowned, her grip on the knife tightening. "What he had?"
Aamon smirked. "Don't tell me you don't know."
Ali shook her head, frustration clawing at her insides. "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking."
Aamon clicked his tongue. "Tsk. And here I thought you were smart." He leaned in, voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "Tyler had something, Ali. Something powerful. Something that shouldn't have belonged to him."
Ali's pulse spiked. "A weapon?" She shook her head. "Tyler never had The Colt."
Aamon exhaled, exasperated. "Ignorant child," he spat at her. "Hell is not concerned about an old pistol." Ali frowned.
"What weapon then?" she demanded, voice harder now.
Aamon just grinned. "Now, now. I'm not just gonna tell you." He waggled a finger mockingly. "Where's the fun in that?"
Ali's breath came quick and sharp. The knife in her hand burned against her skin, every muscle in her body wound tight.
Tyler had been killed because of something the demons thought he had, something she didn't think he even knew existed.
Ali's mind raced, but she forced herself to focus. "You think you're funny," she said coldly.
Aamon grinned. "I know I am."
Ali took another step forward, staring him down. "If you killed him for a weapon, then where the hell is it now?"
Aamon's smirk faltered for the briefest second. It was barely a flicker, but Ali caught it.
He didn't have it.
Ali exhaled, tilting her head. "You don't know, do you?"
Aamon's jaw tightened, and for the first time, Ali saw something other than amusement in his expression. Frustration.
She had him.
Ali smirked, mirroring his earlier expression. "Guess that means you killed him for nothing."
Aamon's black eyes darkened, his amusement thinning. "Careful, Ali," he murmured. "I might start to think you're enjoying this."
Ali's heart pounded, but she held her ground. "I want Tyler back," she said firmly.
Aamon's grin returned, slower this time. "And I already told you, sweetheart—your soul isn't worth the trade."
Ali's chest burned with anger, but she refused to let it show.
Her plan had failed.
She couldn't trade for Tyler.
But that didn't mean she was going to walk away empty-handed.
She forced her voice to stay steady. "Then what is my soul worth?"
Aamon chuckled darkly. "Now that is an interesting question." He stepped forward again, pressing his palm against the barrier of the devil's trap, feeling the edges of his imprisonment. His black eyes gleamed with something almost predatory. "You're missing something, Ali. Something important."
Ali clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay still.
Aamon tilted his head. "And I think you want to know what it is."
Ali's breath came slow and measured.
She did want to know. But she also knew Aamon wasn't going to give her the truth that easily. Not without a price. And right now, she wasn't sure she was willing to pay it.
Aamon suddenly lunged forward, and Ali stumbled back in shock. The second she felt her boot scuff the edge of the devil's trap, she knew she had screwed up.
Aamon's smirk was slow and knowing, his black eyes gleaming with amusement as he lifted his foot and stepped forward—crossing the boundary that should have held him.
Ali barely had time to curse before the demon lunged again.
She threw herself backward, barely dodging the swipe of his hand as she turned and ran.
The salvage yard was a twisted maze of rusted metal and forgotten wreckage, the remains of dead cars stacked high around her. The air was thick with the scent of oil and decay, the sky above her swallowed in the last traces of twilight.
Ali darted between the husks of old vehicles, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her breaths came quick and sharp, her fingers clenched tightly around Ruby's knife.
Behind her, Aamon's voice was a slow, taunting purr.
"You can't run forever, sweetheart."
Ali didn't stop.
She cut left, slipping into the narrow space between two overturned trucks. Her boots crunched against shattered glass as she pressed herself against the cool metal, forcing her breath to steady.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate.
Ali gripped Ruby's knife tighter, every muscle in her body wound tight.
She could hear Aamon moving, the scrape of his boots against gravel, the low hum of his breath. He was hunting her.
A game of cat and mouse.
Ali crouched lower, watching his shadow stretch across the ground as he passed by the car she was hiding behind. She waited, her heart pounding, her fingers twitching. Then she struck.
Ali lunged from the shadows, slashing out with Ruby's knife.
Aamon moved fast.
Before the blade could make contact, he twisted, dodging her strike with inhuman speed. His hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-swing. With a brutal force, he threw her across the yard.
Ali's back slammed against the hood of a rusted-out Chevy, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. Pain exploded through her ribs, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to stand.
The demon was in front of her again, sending a sharp strike across her face with the back of his hand. She went down again, her eyes burning as she tasted blood in her mouth. But she couldn't let him win. She needed to do this. For Tyler.
Aamon tilted his head, watching her with amusement. "Still getting up?"
Ali spat blood onto the ground. "Yeah," she rasped. "Guess you're not hitting hard enough."
The demon chuckled darkly. "Oh, sweetheart. You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
Ali didn't answer. She charged.
She swung the knife again, but Aamon was faster.
This time, he caught her by the wrist and slammed his other hand into the side of her head. Her vision went white for a second. Stars burst behind her eyes as she stumbled, pain flaring across her skull. Before she could recover, his fingers wrapped around her throat.
Ali gasped, her feet leaving the ground as Aamon lifted her effortlessly. Her knife slipped from her fingers, clattering uselessly against the gravel below. She clawed at his hand, struggling for air as his grip tightened.
Aamon's smirk deepened. "You should've stayed down, little girl."
Ali's vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in. Her chest burned as she fought for breath, her fingers scrabbling against his skin.
Then, her hand brushed something cold in her jacket pocket.
Holy water.
Summoning what little strength she had left, Ali wrenched the flask free and threw it against his face.
The reaction was instant. Aamon screamed as the water burned his skin, his grip on her throat snapping open as he staggered backward.
Ali hit the ground hard, gasping for breath as she scrambled away, her throat raw and bruised.
Aamon was still writhing, his hands clutching at the scorched, sizzling flesh of his face. His voice was a low snarl, thick with fury.
"You're really starting to piss me off."
Ali coughed, dragging herself to her feet. Her entire body ached, but she ignored it. Her fingers darted out, searching for the knife.
Aamon took a step toward her.
"You're running out of time, Ali," he taunted. "How far are you willing to go to hurt me if it means hurting him?"
Ali froze for a fraction of a second.
She knew what he meant.
This was still Tyler's body.
Every punch, every wound, every injury—Tyler would feel it too.
Aamon wanted her to hesitate. He was waiting for it. Ali's jaw tightened. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the knife.
She knew what happened all those years ago – she could see the evidence clearly on Tyler's broken body. His bloodied skin, his sunken eyes – he was already gone.
She didn't hesitate.
With one swift, brutal motion, she plunged the blade into his chest. Blood spurted out of the wound, spattering across Ali's face and coating her arm.
Aamon's eyes went wide.
For a split second, he looked surprised—shocked, even.
Then his face twisted in pain as the blade burned through him, white-hot light pouring from the wound.
A scream tore from his throat, his entire body convulsing as the demonic energy inside him burned.
Ali clenched the knife tighter, driving it deeper. "Get the hell out of my brother."
The light surged, blinding, and with one final, guttural shriek—Aamon vanished.
His body went limp, and Ali pulled the knife from his chest.
Tyler collapsed and Ali barely caught him before he hit the ground.
Her breath came fast and shallow, her entire body trembling as she lowered him carefully. His face was pale, his lips slightly parted.
He was breathing.
Ali exhaled sharply, her fingers shaking as she pressed her forehead against his, emotions she couldn't identify crashing over her in waves.
She barely had time to breathe before Tyler's body spasmed in her arms.
His eyes snapped open—wide, dazed, flickering between recognition and pain. His chest heaved as he sucked in a ragged breath, a wet, gurgling sound tearing from his throat.
He coughed.
A sickening, wet cough that sent blood spilling from his lips, dribbling down his chin in thick, dark rivulets.
Ali's heart clenched. "No, no, no—" She shifted him in her lap, cradling his head with trembling hands. His skin was too pale, too cold. "Tyler, hey—hey, stay with me, okay?"
His glassy eyes flickered up to her, unfocused for a second. Then—slowly—clarity settled in.
Recognition.
His lips curled faintly, the ghost of a smile appearing even as blood stained his teeth.
"…Ali?"
Ali choked on a sob, brushing his damp hair away from his face. "Yeah, yeah—it's me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's me."
His gaze traced over her face, like he was memorising it, like he couldn't believe she was really there. Then, his expression shifted, a flicker of amusement in his tired eyes.
"You got… bigger."
Ali let out a breathless, choked laugh through her tears. "Yeah, well—you stayed the same," she teased weakly, running a gentle hand over his bloodstained cheek. "Cheater."
Tyler huffed out a weak chuckle, but it broke into another cough, more blood spilling from his lips. His body trembled violently in her arms, every breath shallow and strained.
Ali swallowed back the rising panic in her throat. "Okay, just—just hang on, alright?" she pleaded, voice cracking. "I'll—I'll fix this, I'll get help—"
Tyler shook his head, barely a movement. His trembling fingers twitched, reaching for hers. Ali caught them instantly, squeezing tight.
"Ali…" His voice was barely more than a breath, raw and broken. "It's okay."
Ali's grip tightened, like she could keep him here just by holding on. "No," she whispered, shaking her head, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. "No, it's not okay. You're—" Her voice broke. "You just got back."
Tyler exhaled, slow and shaky. His fingers curled weakly around hers, his eyes fluttering. "You… you freed me."
Ali bit her lip, her chest aching. "Yeah," she whispered. "Yeah, I did."
A small, almost peaceful smile ghosted over his lips.
"Thank you."
Ali's breath hitched. "Tyler, please—"
His eyelids drooped, his body growing heavier against her.
"No, no, no—Tyler, don't do this, don't leave me again," she begged, her voice breaking. "Please, just—stay. Stay with me." She knew the words were useless, that this was never going to end any other way. His body had only barely survived this long because of the demon wearing his skin. And now, it was dying.
His grip on her hand was barely there. His breaths came slower. Shallower.
Ali pressed her forehead against his, her tears falling onto his bloodied skin.
"Please," she whispered. "You're my brother."
Tyler's lips parted, like he wanted to say something else, but no words came. His chest barely rose, barely fell.
Then, nothing. His body stilled. His hand went limp in hers.
Tyler was gone.
Ali let out a shuddering sob, her whole body shaking as she clutched him tighter. The last of the warmth drained from his body, and Ali broke.
She held him there, rocking slightly, silent tears slipping down her face.
For a moment, there was nothing but the empty silence of the salvage yard.
No fight. No demons.
Just her and Tyler.
Just goodbye.
The Impala rolled to a slow stop in the dirt, the engine cutting off with a low rumble.
Dean, Sam, and Bobby climbed out, exhaustion lining their features. It had been a long, frustrating drive, and they still weren't sure what the hell they were walking into.
Weapons drawn, they moved toward the house. The air was thick with tension, their boots crunching against the gravel as they moved in quiet, practiced formation.
Dean signalled to Sam, jerking his chin toward the back. Sam nodded and moved off, his steps careful, cautious.
He only made it a few feet before he stopped dead. His breath hitched in his throat.
"Guys?" Sam's voice was tight, uncertain. He tilted his head toward something lying in the yard.
Dean and Bobby followed his gaze—toward the lone shape on the ground.
A body.
Wrapped in a sheet.
Dean felt his stomach drop.
Bobby was the first to step forward. He moved slowly, like his body already knew the truth but was resisting it. His hands hovered over the edge of the sheet, hesitating. Then, finally, he pulled it back.
A beat of silence.
Bobby's head dropped, grief tightening his expression. His shoulders hunched slightly, as if the weight of what he saw was too much to bear.
Dean clenched his jaw. The answer was clear in Bobby's face before he even spoke, "It's Tyler."
Dean inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to swallow the lump rising in his throat. He couldn't focus on that now.
Without a word, he turned and headed for the house. He pushed inside, gun still raised—but the moment he saw her, he lowered it.
Allison sat in Bobby's old armchair, a nearly finished bottle of whiskey dangling from her fingers. Ruby's blade lay discarded on the floor, dark blood crusted to the metal.
She was staring blankly ahead, eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Her face was bruised and battered, and she was covered in blood. Dean couldn't tell if it was her own or Tyler's. Maybe a mixture of both.
She didn't even flinch as he approached.
Dean watched her carefully, his own grief pressing against his ribs. He'd seen a lot of things in his life—seen people break, seen them shatter.
But this?
This was different.
This was empty.
He knelt beside the chair, voice soft but steady.
"Ali."
Nothing.
Dean swallowed, lowering his voice even more. "Ali… talk to me."
Still, she didn't react.
She just kept staring, her fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Dean glanced back as Bobby and Sam entered, Bobby's expression lined with sorrow, Sam's face grim.
Bobby exhaled, running a tired hand down his face before stepping closer.
"Kid…" Bobby's voice was rough, hoarse with emotion. "We saw him."
Ali blinked slowly, like it took effort to even process the words.
"I know." Her voice was raw. Barely above a whisper.
Dean felt something in his chest tighten.
"Ali," he said, trying again, "what happened?"
She finally turned her head, meeting his gaze.
And the moment Dean saw the look in her eyes, he knew. Tyler hadn't just died. She had killed him.
Dean sucked in a slow breath, trying to keep his voice even. "Ali…"
Her grip on the bottle tightened.
"He was already gone," she murmured. Her voice didn't waver, but her eyes—those damn, shattered eyes—spoke volumes.
She blinked once, twice, then tipped back the bottle and drained the last of the whiskey.
Silence hung thick in the room, pressing in like a weight neither of them could shake.
Dean sat back on his heels, watching Ali carefully. She had gone completely still again, fingers curled tightly around the empty bottle, like she could crush it in her grip. He swallowed, forcing his voice to stay steady.
"Ali, we need to move his body." Ali's gaze didn't shift. She just blinked slowly, like she was processing the words at half speed.
Then, finally, she exhaled. "I know." She hesitated, rubbing a thumb over the glass bottle, then added, "I was waiting for Bobby." Ali finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Thought you'd want to be here."
Bobby's throat worked, something unspoken flashing across his face. He nodded once, the movement stiff, barely there.
Dean inhaled through his nose and nodded too. "Alright," he said, standing up, looking anywhere but at the empty look in Ali's eyes. He didn't know what the hell to say to her.
The only sound was the creak of the old chair as Ali shifted slightly, her fingers still locked around the bottle, her knuckles white.
Dean finally cleared his throat, jerking his chin toward the door. "Let's get it done."
Ali didn't follow. She didn't even look at them as they left.
They built the pyre in the back of the salvage yard. It wasn't the first time any of them had done this, but it didn't make it easier. Bobby and Sam worked in silence, stacking the wood, making sure the structure was sound. Dean helped move Tyler's body, wrapping the sheet tightly around him one last time before placing him atop the pyre.
The air was thick with the smell of oil, gasoline, and something heavier. Something bitter. Bobby stood at the edge of the pyre, staring at the body, his hands clenched into fists. His jaw twitched, but he didn't say a word.
Dean struck the match.
He hesitated for just a second—just long enough to let the lump in his throat settle—before tossing it onto the pyre. Flames caught instantly, swallowing the wood, licking hungrily at the sheet-wrapped form of Tyler Venator.
Dean stepped back, watching as the fire roared to life. The heat licked at his face, but he didn't move.
Sam stood next to him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw tense.
Bobby didn't move at all.
They watched in silence as the flames consumed what was left of Tyler, the fire crackling in the dead stillness of the salvage yard.
Dean glanced back toward the house.
Ali wasn't there.
She hadn't come. She couldn't look at him again.
Dean exhaled sharply and turned back to the fire.
No one spoke.
There was nothing left to say.
AN: Hope you enjoyed that chapter! Poor Ali :(
Next up - the group deal with the aftermath of Tyler's death...