December, 2005
Somewhere in Kentucky
The holidays crept in without fanfare. No snow, just cold rain and gray skies that seemed to stretch on forever. They'd picked Kentucky for the warmer weather–or at least the lack of snow and ice–and the slower pace. Lena's sling was a reminder of what they'd just lived through. Her arm hadn't broken on the plane, but the muscle was torn, the joint bruised. She hated it. Hated feeling like a burden.
Training was paused. Still, Dean didn't complain. They had a stretch of days, almost two full weeks, to lie low. Heal. Breathe.
One night, they found themselves in a hole-in-the-wall bar where every third guy wore cowboy boots and more than half of the patrons were wearing ugly Christmas sweaters. A karaoke machine wheezed out off-key renditions of "Feliz Navidad" and "Livin' on a Prayer."
Lena sipped a drink slowly with her good hand. The red glow of the bar lights made her hair shine like embers. Sam leaned back in the booth, contentedly nursing a beer, while Dean nursed a whiskey and didn't even flirt when the waitress called him "sugar" and lingered just a second too long.
"Okay," Lena said, squinting toward the dartboard. "One game. If I beat you, I get to pick the music in the car tomorrow."
Dean raised a brow. "You do realize your arm's in a sling."
"Luckily," she said, holding up her right hand with a flourish, "I'm right-handed and fueled by spite."
He smirked. "I'm terrified."
She lobbed the first dart. It missed by a mile.
Dean laughed. "Menacing."
"Bite me, Winchester."
They didn't keep score.
Later, Lena sat back with a fresh drink–something cherry-red and deceptively strong–watching as Dean and Sam played a game of pool. Dean was in rare form, not just cocky but relaxed, his shoulders loose, his expression open. Sam smiled more than he had in weeks.
Then, some guy sidled up to Lena and offered to buy her a drink. Before she could answer, Dean was suddenly there. He didn't shove the guy, or raise his voice, but the message was clear. "She's with me."
The man backed off.
Lena blinked up at Dean, a little stunned. "You didn't have to–"
Dean shrugged, but he didn't look back at her. "Yeah, I did."
She slipped off to the bathroom, her cheeks warm.
At the pool table, Sam chalked his cue and eyed his brother sideways. "With you?"
Dean didn't answer. Just lined up his shot and sank the eight ball. Sam didn't push, but he knew.
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By midnight, Lena was definitively tipsy, one arm in a sling, the other curled tightly around Dean's jacket sleeve as they walked back to the motel.
"Okay, okay, you're definitely drunk," Dean said, half-laughing as he guided her up the steps. She was warm against his side, all heat and cotton and muttered indignation.
"I'm fine," she mumbled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Just… shouldn't've had the third cherry thingy. It tasted like cough syrup but like… sexy?"
Dean huffed. "Jesus. That was your fourth."
She pouted. "You were drinking faster."
"You weigh, like, a hundred-ten pounds soaking wet."
"Hundred and twenty-five," she mumbled. "Without the boots."
"Sure."
Inside her room, she swayed toward the bed, but Dean caught her gently at the elbow. The light flickered on–warm, yellow, comforting.
"Arms up," Dean said softly.
She obeyed. He eased the cargo jacket off her carefully, folding it neatly over the chair. He knelt and tugged her boots off next, like he'd done it a thousand times, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"You're good at this," she said, blinking sleepily at him. "Taking care of people."
Dean didn't say anything. Just handed her a glass of water. "Drink."
She did. Half of it. Then slumped onto the bed, boneless. Her cheeks were flushed from alcohol and warmth. The sling looked awkward now, draped across her chest. He adjusted the blanket, tugged it up to her shoulders.
"'S'just for a while," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just 'til I get home."
Dean's heart clenched. She didn't open her eyes when he brushed the hair from her forehead. Didn't stir when he leaned in and kissed her there, barely a whisper of touch.
"Dean?" she whispered, not quite awake, eyes still closed.
"Yeah?"
"You're my favorite."
He smiled. Something in him cracked. "Go to sleep, Lena."
She did. And Dean sat there a little longer, watching her breathe. Then he stood. Turned out the light. And slipped back into the dark through the door that linked her room to his and Sam's.
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It was too warm for now, but Lena made it Christmas anyway. She woke early and dragged Sam to the Dollar Tree in town with a stubborn glint in her eyes. "We're doing Christmas," she said simply, as if it wasn't up for debate. "Even if it's sad and smells like bleach and cheap air freshener."
Sam–still bleary and clutching a Styrofoam coffee–didn't argue.
By noon, the motel room that the boys' shared looked like a holiday exploded inside it. Cheap, multicolored string lights were tacked crookedly to the cracked ceiling tiles. A miniature plastic tree sat lopsided on the dresser beside the TV, decked out in off-brand tinsel and a single silver star. The three of them had wrapped the table lamps in garland. They buzzed faintly, like they were annoyed.
Lena made hot cocoa on the room's crusty little coffee pot burner. It was too sweet. She still made them drink it.
"Alright," Dean said later, dropping onto the motel's sagging plaid couch with a sigh more dramatic than necessary. "You got your lights, your glitter, your unholy amount of cheer. Now what?"
"Presents." Lena grinned, dragging a crinkled paper grocery bag out from the dresser with the tinsel tree. "We're doing this right."
Sam reached in and handed her a modest, neatly wrapped bundle. She tore the paper open to find a matching red scarf, gloves, and knit hat–classic, simple, cozy.
"Since red's your favorite," Sam said, a little sheepish.
She pulled the hat on immediately. "I look adorable."
"You do," he agreed, smiling.
Lena handed Sam a gift bag in return. Inside was a bright green sweater with a ridiculous cartoon moose wearing a Santa hat.
Sam let out a laugh–loud, surprised. "Oh my god."
"There's more," Lena said, nudging the bag. Beneath the sweater sat a paperback: Devil in the White City.
"I dunno. It just… called to me. Chicago," she added, voice quieter.
Dean glanced over from the couch at the mention. His eyes flicked to her face–just for a second–but he didn't say anything.
Instead, he reached for something on his nightstand. "Here," he said, offering her a small black box with no ribbon, edges worn like it had lived in his bag for a while. Inside was a 9mm pistol. Sleek. Light. New.
"For next time," Dean said simply.
Lena stared at it, silent. Then she set the box down and threw her good arm around his neck, hard enough to make him grunt. Dean stiffened–but only for a second–before his arms came up around her back.
"Thank you," she whispered.
When she pulled back, she handed him a gift wrapped in old newspaper comics. Dean smirked. Inside: a pack of fresh socks.
"Socks?" he said.
"So you can finally toss the ones with holes," she said, smug. "You're basically one bad step away from tetanus."
He barked a laugh–and then unwrapped the second gift. Smaller. A linen sachet. Inside: a simple obsidian bead bracelet.
"Protection charm," she said. "From that metaphysical shop. Figured it couldn't hurt."
Dean stared at it. Then, without a word, he slipped it onto his wrist.
Sam raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Then came the brothers' exchange. Sam handed Dean a flask with a leather case too nice to be cheap. "Filled it with the good stuff," he said. "You're welcome."
Dean snorted, then tossed Sam a thin, square box. Inside: a rare first edition of Slaughterhouse-Five Dean had somehow found at a roadside thrift store.
"No way," Sam breathed. "You don't even reading."
"I like you, bitch," Dean muttered.
"Jerk," Sam said, grinning.
Lena looked between them, fond and exasperated. "You two are actual turds."
Dean raised a brow. "That your official Christmas toast?"
She raised her cup of hot chocolate like a chalice. "To the turds I'm stuck with."
Sam clinked his cup against hers, chuckling. "Cheers."
And for a few quiet minutes in that rundown motel room, it almost felt like Christmas.
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They spent the night watching A Christmas Story and Die Hard, squished together on the couch. Lena sat between them, and somewhere around the second movie, her head slumped onto Dean's shoulder. She stayed there. Dean didn't move.
Later, when the credits rolled and Lena was asleep against him, Sam made the TV quieter.
"You're not seriously gonna play dumb forever," he whispered.
Dean didn't answer.
Sam glanced at Lena between them. "If you tell me it's because she's like a sister–"
Dean's jaw clenched. "It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
Dean looked down at her, the way her face softened in sleep. Her lashes trembled slightly. One hand still loosely curled around his arm.
"I don't know," he said.
Sam sighed. "Just don't wait too long."
Dean didn't look away from her. "I know."
The room glowed with Christmas lights. Snow didn't fall, but the quiet did. Thick. Peaceful. For once, it was enough.
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New Year's didn't hit the same.
The bar was quieter than it had been before. The karaoke machine wheezed its way through '80s songs, and the crowd leaned harder into whiskey than cheer. Sam stayed inside, nursing a beer and watching a rerun of The Twilight Zone on the TV above the bar. Lena, however, slipped out, murmuring something about needing air.
Dean followed her. He wasn't far behind, a couple drinks in his system and the kind of buzz that made the chill feel optional. He found her outside by the back entrance, a pack of Marlboro Lights in her hand, her thumb fumbling against the cheap plastic lighter.
"You sure about that?" he asked, leaning against the brick wall beside her.
Lena smirked sideways at him, the cigarette between her lips. "Nope." Still, she lit it. Took a drag. Let the smoke trail out like a secret.
Dean hesitated. Then, with an almost sheepish shrug, he held out his hand. "Gimme one."
She raised a brow. "Didn't think you smoked."
"I don't. Not really." He plucked one from the pack anyway. "Guess I'm feeling reflective."
Lena lit his cigarette for him, shielding the flame from the wind with her palm. Their hands brushed. Dean's chest went tight.
They stood there in silence for a few minutes and watched the way their smoky breaths curled into the night air. The chill nipped at Lena's cheeks, already tinged pink. Her sling was mostly hidden beneath her coat, but her right hand held the cigarette like muscle memory.
"I don't like New Year's," she said eventually.
Dean glanced at her. "Yeah?"
She nodded, exhaling smoke through her nose. "Resolutions feel like promises I'll break. Januaries are too long. And I hate the pressure of trying to be excited about what's next." She paused, then added softly, "Especially when you can't imagine your future."
Dean didn't say anything. Just listened.
Lena went on. "I've felt lost since coming back. More than when I was sixteen. Back then, at least we were with Bobby, or your dad… and everything was new. Big. Now, I just feel like I'm… orbiting."
Dean's brows pulled together. "Do you remember where you went? That night, when you said you'd get more ice cream?"
Lena shook her head. "No. I've tried. Over and over. All I know is that I disappeared. And then I was on that roadside, with you two pulling up like you'd been expecting me." She took another drag. "Maybe I'm the real hunt. Forget monsters and ghosts. I'm the thing that needs figuring out."
Dean flicked ash to the side, his jaw clenching briefly. Then he moved, slow and sure, draping his arm over her shoulder and pulling her close.
She leaned in automatically. Her body fit against his like it belonged there.
"You're not a mystery to me," he said, his voice rough. "Not where it counts."
Lena turned her head to look up at him, her hazel eyes soft and surprised. "Dean…"
He was already looking at her–really looking. That earnest, quiet gaze he rarely let anyone see. And for a heartbeat, it felt like he might do it. He leaned just a little closer, his smoky breath curling with hers in the space between.
Then–
"Hey," a guy near the dumpster called, checking his watch. "One minute to midnight."
Lena blinked. Pulled back just slightly. "Should we go find Sam before the countdown?"
Dean hesitated. "Yeah," he said eventually, forcing a smile. "Yeah, let's go."
She dropped her cigarette, crushed it under her boot, and walked ahead of him through the back door.
Dean followed, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, his heart still lodged somewhere between the pull of her and the moment that slipped away. He didn't get his kiss.
But when the clock hit midnight, and Lena grabbed his hand without thinking–without hesitation–he held on. And he didn't let go.
January, 2006
Somewhere in Tennessee
One of Those Motels with Plaid Curtains and an Odor That Wouldn't Die
A few weeks into January, the holidays were behind them, Lena's sling was off, and the rain hadn't stopped since Kentucky. The break was officially over. Back to training. Back to the grind.
Her new 9mm rested on the motel nightstand like a quiet promise–one Dean had made good on just days ago. She'd taken it to the range, still adjusting to the weight of it, the kick in her wrist, the sharp crack that echoed in her chest more than her ears. It didn't scare her. But it didn't thrill her either. It was just loud. And heavy. And real.
Tonight wasn't a shooting night. Tonight was hand-to-hand.
Sam had shoved the motel furniture aside to make room–floral armchair crammed into the kitchenette, coffee table tilted like it had given up. The lamp perched crookedly on the TV stand, casting long shadows across the carpet. Dean lounged on one of the beds like he was watching a pay-per-view fight, forearm-deep in a bag of chips.
"Alright," Sam said, raising his palms, "just try to block me."
Lena, barefoot and determined, adjusted her stance. "You're like a foot taller than me."
"Then don't let me get that close," he said, grinning.
They moved in a loose rhythm. Sam stayed light on his feet, telegraphing his moves just enough to give her a chance. When she stumbled, he caught her elbow like it was instinct.
"You're overthinking it," he said. "Watch my shoulders, not my hands."
"Easy for you to say, Sasquatch."
Dean snorted from the bed. Lena flipped him off without even looking.
She tried again. Sam feinted. She bit. He slipped past her guard and tapped her shoulder–gentle, but enough.
"Ugh," she muttered, yanking her hair into a messy ponytail. "Okay. Switch."
Sam nodded and went for water. Dean stretched and stood, cracking his neck with theatrical flair.
"You sure about this, rookie?" he asked.
Lena rolled her eyes. "You're the one who needs a nap between sets."
They squared off. This time, no holding back. Dean didn't play gentle. He moved like he was born doing this–fast, fluid, unrelenting. Lena lunged, tried a combo Sam had taught her, but Dean sidestepped it, caught her wrist, twisted just enough, and dropped her flat onto the couch.
She landed with a frustrated thud. "Jesus, Dean! You could try not tossing me around like a sack of potatoes."
He smirked. "Potatoes don't charge me like that."
She hurled a pillow at his head. Dean caught the pillow midair, tossed it right back with a smirk.
Sam peeked around the corner, sipping water. "Are we… calling it?"
"She started it," Dean said, still smug.
"I swear to God," Lena growled, pushing herself upright. "I'm not Black Widow. I'm not some underground KGB ninja with titanium knees. I'm just trying to learn."
Sam wisely began edging toward the bathroom. "Yup. And on that note…"
Dean held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just helping. The world doesn't pull punches."
"No," Lena shot back. "You don't get to treat me like I'm just some helpless tagalong and then toss me around like I'm in a Marvel movie."
Dean arched a brow. "I'm training you. What do you want me to do? Pretend you're not gonna face worse than me out there?"
"I don't know!" she snapped, her voice cracking around the edges. "I don't know what I want. I just–" She stopped herself, her jaw tight. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this. Maybe I never was."
Dean's expression faltered. "Where the hell's this coming from?"
"I'm tired," she muttered. "And crampy. And sore. And I'm trying, okay? I really am. But I'm not built like you guys, and my body's kind of making it clear today that it's not thrilled about running drills tonight, and I just–" She cut herself off, biting her lip hard.
Dean blinked. "Wait. Is this a–like a… lady thing?"
Lena groaned and turned around like she could physically walk away from the conversation. "Oh my God."
Sam poked his head back in, took one look at the scene, and raised both hands. "I'm gonna go fold socks. Forever." And promptly vanished again.
Lena crossed her arms, her shoulders tense, her eyes on the floor.
Dean took a breath and stepped forward, his tone quieter now. "Hey. You don't have to prove anything to me. Just being here, doing this? Most people would've bailed a long time ago."
She shook her head. "You say that now, but tomorrow you're gonna knock me flat again and act like it's nothing."
"Then you get back up again," Dean said. "And I'll be right there to help you. Every time."
She didn't look at him. But her jaw unclenched a little.
"I know you're not made of steel," he added, "but that doesn't mean you're not tough as hell."
That made her look up. For one long beat, neither of them said anything. Then Lena turned, walked back to the couch, picked up the pillow–and nailed him square in the face.
Dean blinked as the pillow fell to the floor. "…Okay. Fair."
She collapsed onto the cushions with a groan, curling up like she could hide from everything. Dean tossed her a chip from his bag. She caught it and popped it in her mouth without comment. Peace treaty signed. For now.
February, 2006
Ohio
The nightmare came like a wave–sharp, cold, and cruel. Jessica burning. Her mouth pen in a scream he couldn't hear. Her eyes turning to ash. Sam jolted awake in the Impala's front passenger seat, breath ragged, his fists clenched in his lap like he could strangle the memory into silence.
Dean didn't stir. He was slumped in the driver's seat, his arms crossed, mouth slightly parted in sleep. They'd pulled off the highway outside Toledo hours ago, too drained to make it to a motel.
But Lena saw. She was curled in the backseat, her hoodie pulled tight around her, chin tucked into her shoulder. Her eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, where Sam's reflection stared back at her–haunted.
"You okay?" she asked softly, the words barely audible over the whistle of wind outside.
Sam wiped his mouth, then nodded. "Just a dream."
"Yeah," she said after a beat. "I get those too." She didn't press. She never did.
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County Morgue
Lena didn't go in. She stood outside the corridor with her back against the cold tile wall, her arms crossed tight, her fingers twisted into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her boots squeaked against the linoleum every time she shifted her weight. She hated morgues. Always had. She didn't know why–maybe something from before, from wherever she came from. All she knew was the sterile chill made her skin crawl.
Inside, Dean and Sam leaned over Steven Shoemaker's body. Skull flooded with blood. Eyes gone to pulp. Dean looked paler than usual when he came out, tugging his coat tighter around his shoulders. Sam's jaw was set in stone.
"Eyes exploded," Dean said casually, too casually. "Real party trick."
Lena's stomach twisted. "Jesus Christ."
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Shoemaker Residence
The grief clung to the house like the winter cold. Lena stayed near the stairs while Dean talked with Donna, his voice gentler than usual. Sam asked Charlie quiet questions, measured and kind.
Lily sat on the couch, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to disappear into herself. Lena knelt beside her, brushing hair from the girl's damp cheek.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You hear me? None of this is your fault."
"I said her name," Lily whispered. "Three times. Like in the mirror."
Lena shook her head. "No one dies from a game, sweetheart. Whoever did this–whatever did this–it wasn't you."
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Back at the Motel
Charlie's call came just after sunset. His voice shook. Jill was gone. Bloody eyes. Just like Steven. Dean cursed under his breath and grabbed his keys. Sam already had the laptop open, staying.
Lena didn't move from the bed. She sat cross-legged, her hair tied up, her sleeves pushed past her elbows, staring down at the cheap carpet like it had answers. That feeling again. Dread dressed up as déjà vu. Like her bones remembered something her brain didn't. Just like the plane. Just like the lake.
She wanted to crawl under the motel blanket and not come out until the world made sense again.
Dean paused at the door and glanced at her. "You coming?"
"I will," she said. "Just give me a minute."
He hesitated, then nodded once. When the door shut behind them, Lena finally closed her eyes. She waited for something in the dark to come calling.
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The Case Deepens
The names carved behind mirrors. Lena watched Sam make the connections–fast, sharp, relentless. Grief had etched something hard into him, and now it honed him like a blade.
When Dean finally crashed, Lena stayed up. Sitting beside Sam on the motel carpet, pages of lore and death records fanned out between them like puzzle pieces from a dream neither of them could name.
"You really think she only goes after people who've caused a death?" Sam asked, his voice low, his knuckles pale around a folder.
Lena hesitated. "That's what she thinks. But she's wrong. It's not about what you did. It's about what you carry."
Sam went quiet after that, the room heavy with unsaid things.
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Indiana
The photo made Lena flinch. A beautiful girl with her eyes scratched out. A mirror smeared with blood. The letters T-R-E slashed like a scream no one heard in time. She had to step outside the precinct to breathe. February wind bit at her skin, but she welcomed the pain–it felt real. Grounding.
Dean joined her a minute later, holding two cups of coffee. He handed her one without a word.
"You okay?" he asked.
Lena didn't lie. "No." She forced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But I don't think we're supposed to be."
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Motel Room
Every mirror in the room was covered–old towels, taped-up newspapers, even one of Sam's shirts. Charlie sat curled up on the bed, her knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes were wide and raw.
Lena brought her hot cocoa, sat beside her on the worn comforter, and told her the dumbest dare story she could think of, could make up. Something about a cemetery, a pack of Smarties, and a boy named Kevin who screamed like a banshee when a squirrel startled him. Charlie laughed–soft, small, but real.
"I didn't mean to hurt him," she said after a while, her voice cracking. "I didn't think he'd really do it."
Lena shook her head. "You didn't make him do anything. We all carry something. Doesn't mean it's ours to blame."
Sam sat across the room, watching. Quiet. Thoughtful. Dean leaned against the window, arms crossed, gaze locked on Lena–not Charlie.
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The Final Showdown
They summoned her at the antique shop they broke into. The mirror shimmered like water, the surface rippling as Mary Worthington emerged–bloodied, hollow, her face a reflection of every terrible thing a person wished they could forget.
Sam stood his ground, his eyes fixed on the glass. He didn't flinch when the reflection started to speak.
You knew. You saw her die. You let her burn.
Lena stepped between Sam and the glass, her voice cracking with rage and something greater. "No," she said. "That's not how this works. You don't get to twist grief into guilt."
Mary's eyes locked onto her. He failed her.
"No," Lena repeated, fiercer now. "You were murdered. That was supposed to be the end. But you let your pain rot you. You're not justice. You're just another ghost looking for someone to bleed."
Dean swung the shotgun up. "Back off."
He shattered the mirror. It didn't stop her.
Mary crawled out of the broken frame, dragging shards of herself behind her. Dean cursed and stumbled back. Sam moved to protect Lena. But Lena held her ground, even as she shook.
Dean caught sight of another mirror. He snatched it, held it up–
Mary saw her own reflection. And screamed. She fractured from the inside, splintering in a bloom of glass and blood and light until there was nothing left but silence.
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Aftermath
They drove Charlie home in silence, the Impala carving a path through dark Indiana roads. Lena sat in the back with her, their hands linked loosely.
"Sometimes," Lena said softly, "we don't get to choose what we carry. But we don't have to carry it alone."
Charlie squeezed her fingers. "Thanks," she whispered.
Dean glanced in the rearview. "That was good advice," he muttered to Sam.
Sam didn't miss a beat. "Take it, then."
Later, after they took Charlie home, as the Impala rolled onward again, the silence stretched.
Dean tapped the wheel. "So, Sammy. What was your secret?"
Sam didn't answer.
Lena looked out the window–and froze. A girl in a white nightgown. Long blonde hair. Barefoot. Standing at the edge of the road. Jess. Sam gasped, seeing her too. Then, she vanished.
Dean glanced in the mirror. Nothing.
"She's gone," Sam whispered, his voice thinned out like breath on glass.
No one spoke. But something shifted again. Heavier now. Lena leaned her head against her window, her jaw tight, her hand curled around the seatbelt like it might anchor her.
This wasn't over. Not even close.
2006, Late Feburary
Missouri
The cold in St. Louis clung to everything–coats, hair, nerves. Lena didn't like the city. Too loud. Too busy. Too many people moving with places to go and none of them looking up. When Sam got the email from Becky–a college friend whose brother, Zach, had just been arrested for murdering his girlfriend–Lena didn't hesitate to encourage them to go. She might not have known much about who she was before she'd fallen into their lives, but she knew this: if there was even a sliver of doubt, they had to follow it.
Becky met them outside her house, her eyes swollen from crying, her voice cracking with desperation. "Zach didn't do it," she insisted. "He was with me. The whole night."
Dean raised an eyebrow, skeptical until he saw the footage: Zach–or someone who looked exactly like him–entering Emily's house the night she died. His eyes flashed on camera. Not natural. Not human.
"Shapeshifter," Lena said quietly, arms crossed. "Has to be." She didn't know how she knew.
Dean frowned. "Great. Skinwalkin' psycho."
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The second murder mirrored the first. Another man. Another wife. Same time of night. Same blood. Same alibi. The alley behind the victim's building was slick with rain and something darker. Sam spotted the smear first–red, still wet–leading to a manhole, its metal cover nudged open just enough to whisper: follow me.
So they did.
The sewer swallowed them whole–rank, echoing, wet with rot. Lena pressed her sleeve to her face, trying not to gag. Her boots slipped on the slick concrete as they moved in single file, flashlights slicing through the dark.
Then the beam landed on it. A gelatinous pile of goop. Melted skin. Peeled back, hollow. A human face–eyes empty, mouth frozen mid-scream–tossed like garbage on the floor.
Dean swore under his breath. "Jesus."
Then the shapeshifter hit them. It came fast–a blur of muscle and bone. In the chaos, Lena hit the ground hard, skinning her palms on the concrete. By the time she scrambled up, her gun raised, the thing was gone.
So were Dean and Sam.
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They reunited at the Impala later, wet, winded, adrenaline still spiking.
"We lost it," Dean said.
Lena's heartbeat pounded in her ears, but she didn't question it. Sam did.
His eyes narrowed. "That thing could be any of us."
Dean scoffed, annoyed–or pretending to be. Sam's hand inched toward his gun.
"Back off," Dean warned, his voice dropping with uncharacteristic rage.
He moved first. Sam hit the pavement. Lena barely had time to scream before everything went dark.
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Sam came to first. Bound to a metal beam, her wrists raw. Dean groaned nearby, just starting to stir.
"Where's Lena?" Dean rasped.
Sam shook his head. "She's not here. I think… it took her."
Dean's jaw clenched. "Son of a bitch."
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She woke groggy in the motel room. The ache in her skull throbbed behind her eyes. Dean sat on the bed across from her, looking pale. Disheveled. Bleeding. Or… not Dean. There was something off in the way he blinked, his eyes. Something hollow behind the green. She knew.
"You ever wonder where you went?" he asked. "That night. One second you were there. Then poof. Gone. Maybe you were never really you to begin with."
Lena swallowed hard. "What are you talking about?"
He stepped closer. "Dean's always watching you. You know that, right? He's never looked at anyone like that."
She flinched. "Shut up."
"He'd never admit it. Not to Sam. Not even to himself. But he wants you. That's the secret."
She scooted back. Her heart jackhammered against her ribs. Then he knelt, grabbed her face, and kissed her. Hard. Calculated. Wrong. She shoved him off.
"You're not him."
The thing's eyes burned gold. She screamed. He knocked her out again. But didn't kill her.
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Still wearing Dean's face, the shifter showed up at Becky's door with panic in his voice and dried blood on his jacket. "Becky—it's bad. I can't find Sam. Or Lena. I think the thing's still out there."
She let him in without hesitation. He looked shaken, breathless, scared. Like Dean. At first, he paced the living room, hands trembling, his eyes darting toward the windows like he expected something to burst through.
"I don't know what's going on," he said. "I lost them. I turned around, and they were just... gone."
Becky offered him water. Told him to sit. Tried to comfort him. But then his voice shifted—low and faraway.
"I've been thinking," he murmured, "what if we didn't go back? What if we just left? Me and Lena. Somewhere quiet. No monsters. No hunts. Just... peace."
Becky blinked. "What?"
He kept talking, staring into the corner of the room like he could see the future there. "She sees me. Even when I'm breaking. She looks at me like I'm worth something. I could make her happy. I could be enough."
Becky's stomach dropped. The words were Dean's—but the cadence wasn't. The look in his eyes was wrong. Empty. Detached.
"Dean," she said slowly, backing toward the landline. "You're not making sense."
He looked at her. And smiled. Cold. Not Dean. She spun, grabbing the receiver—but he was faster. The phone clattered. Her body slammed against the wall. She screamed once before he silenced her with a strip of duct tape, pulling wire from a kitchen drawer like he'd done it a hundred times before. Calm. Mechanical.
He tied her up. Knelt beside her like a man at confession. "I get it now," he said. "Why he keeps going. Why he never quits. You find someone like her, and suddenly the world's not so bad. Even if it chews you up."
Becky's eyes filled with tears.
"I just wanted to see what it felt like," he whispered.
Sirens howled in the distance. Then closer. Tires screeching. Doors slamming. Voices shouting. The SWAT team burst through the door seconds later, guns drawn. The shifter turned feral, fighting like an animal. He took down one officer with a savage blow to the head before vaulting through the kitchen window, vanishing into the night.
Becky was left tied up, bloodied, but alive. And now? The real Dean Winchester was wanted for assault, battery, and attempted murder.
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Down in the sewer, Dean and Sam fought their way out–splintered zipties, bruised ribs, and teeth gritted against the pain.
"We need to find Lena," Dean snarled the moment he could speak.
They found her at the motel, crouched in the corner of the room, hoodie wrapped tight around her, dazed. Her lip was split. Her knuckles were scraped. But she was alive.
"He kissed me," she said faintly, not meeting Dean's eyes. "Wearing your face."
Dean froze. The muscle in his jaw twitched.
Later, in the Impala, his hands gripped the wheel hard enough to blanch his knuckles. Lena sat in the backseat, silent. She didn't mention the rest–that the shifter had said Dean watched her. Wanted her. That for one terrifying second, she'd wanted it to be real.
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The cops were closing in. Sam stayed behind to run interference. Lena ducked into the Impala, hidden under a blanket in the backseat. Dean slipped off alone, back into the sewers. The air stank of rot and something worse. He moved by instinct now, the way you do in dreams or nightmares.
He found Becky. The real one. She was bound, gagged, and barely conscious in a utility alcove. But alive. Elsewhere, the shapeshifter struck again–this time at Becky's house.
It ambushed Sam and Lena, pretending to be Becky, and knocked him out cold. Lena didn't even have time to scream before the thing grabbed her from behind as she tried to run. Her new gun slid from her jacket and clattered across the tile floor.
When they woke, they were tied together, back-to-back, in Becky's basement. The shifter crouched nearby Lena, who woke up first. It was Dean's face. Dean's voice. But not Dean.
"I like you," he said conversationally. "You're different. Like me. Don't belong here. No past. No future. Just floating through borrowed time." His fingers brushed her cheek. She recoiled.
"I could keep you. We'd make our own rules. Just me and you. A world of ghosts."
That was the moment the real Dean kicked in the door. The shot was instant. Silver bullet, through the heart. The creature jerked back with a soundless gasp–Dean's face twisted in pain–then slumped forward, lifeless.
The basement was quiet except for Lena's ragged breathing just as Sam woke up.
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Zach was cleared. Becky was released from the hospital. The cops had their killer, or so they thought. Dean watched the body bag disappear into the coroner's van from the edge of the alley, his arms folded tight across his chest. Lena stood beside him, her hoodie up, shivering in the early Feburary wind.
"I guess you're officially dead now," she said softly.
Dean huffed a laugh that didn't quite land. "Yeah. Missed my own funeral."
She touched her lip–the one the shifter had split open. "He… wanted me."
Dean's shoulders stiffened.
"I'm sorry," she added. "I should've known it wasn't you."
"You're not the one who fucked up," Dean said, jaw tight. "That's on me. I should've gotten to you sooner."
"I just–" Her voice cracked. "I try so hard, Dean. The training, the shooting, the reading. I'm still always the one who gets knocked out. I'm not made for this."
"Yes, you are."
"I don't even know if I'm human."
Dean turned to face her. His voice was steady. Sure. "You are."
She looked up at him then–really looked–and for a second, she thought she'd tell him. What the shifter had said about his feelings. What she feared might be true. But then–
"Let's hit the road," Sam called from behind them, tossing his duffel into the trunk.
Dean looked at her, like he wanted to finish the conversation. Like he would. Later. Lena nodded, brushing past him. She slid into the backseat of the Impala. Dean stood there for a breath. Then followed.
They left St. Louis behind–three souls in a car that didn't belong to the world. Still breathing. Still running. Together.
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After the shifter, everything was just a little off. Lena didn't say it aloud, but the kiss haunted her. Because it wasn't actually him. And because it still made her heart lurch before it made her stomach turn. Worse was what the shifter had said. About Dean. About how he looked at her. How he felt. She wanted to ask. Desperately. And she didn't. Because if it wasn't true, she wasn't sure she could face the silence. And if it was? She didn't know what to do with that either. So, she buried it. Buried it in training.
She insisted they get back to work. Harder this time. Longer hours. More drills. Gun maintenance. Tactics. Close combat. She pushed herself like she had something to prove. Maybe she did.
Dean noticed, of course. Noticed how she pulled back just enough not to touch him. Noticed how she didn't laugh as easily. Noticed that she still watched him–but now with questions buried behind her eyes.
They never finished that conversation. Not after St. Louis. Not in the car. Not in the motels. Not in the in-between.
So they sparred instead. In a dusty motel room in Kansas, the furniture was shoved up against the walls. Sam flipped pages at the table and, pretending not to watch, and Lena squared up with Dean and didn't hold back.
She still couldn't beat him. Not really. But she was faster now. Sharper. And once–just once–when Dean got behind her and tried to trap her in a hold, she shifted her weight, drove her elbow back, and caught him in the temple hard enough to draw blood.
"Shit," she gasped, spinning around as he staggered. "Oh my god, Dean–I'm so sorry–"
He blinked at her, then gave a dazed half-smile. "Damn, Lena. That was a good one."
"You're bleeding," she said, reaching up without thinking. "Sit."
He let her fuss over him. Sat on the edge of the motel bed while she cleaned the gash with a rag and bottled water, her hands gentle and sure even as they trembled.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said, voice low.
"I still hit you."
"Yeah," he said with a soft chuckle. "And you almost knocked me out. You're getting better."
When she finished, her hands hovered over him for a second too long. Then Dean pulled her in. His arms wrapped around her back, strong and steady, and she folded into him like a breath she'd been holding. They stayed like that–quiet, still–until the world felt less sharp around the edges.
Sam looked up from the table, then looked away again. Because he knew. They both needed it. Even if they didn't have the words for why. Not yet.
March, 2006
Ankeny, Iowa
Lena didn't like college towns. Too polished. Too performative. Too many deaths disguised beneath candlelight vigils and well-lit grief. Rich Carter had been in the ground for three days by the time they pulled up to Eastern Iowa University. Hung from a tree over 9 Mile Road, like a warning. Like a punishment.
They posed as student reporters—Sam asking careful questions, Dean doing his charm routine, Lena hanging back to watch. Lori Sorenson, the reverend's daughter, was pale and exhausted, her hands shaking on a mug of untouched tea.
"I know how it sounds," Lori whispered. "But he had a hook."
"We believe you," Lena said gently. And she meant it.
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While the boys scouted the bridge, Lena stayed behind, combing through the town's records in a cramped library basement. She didn't need to see more blood to know something wasn't right. Her research uncovered a name: Jacob Karns, an 1860s preacher turned murderer who killed thirteen women with a silver hook. Executed. Buried. But legends linger.
When Dean and Sam returned—muddy, handcuffed, annoyed—she handed them the name circled in red ink.
Dean blinked. "Damn. Training's working."
Lena smirked. "Glad you noticed."
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But they were too late. Lori's roommate was slaughtered in her sleep. Blood on the walls. A message carved in red: AREN'T YOU GLAD YOU DIDN'T TURN ON THE LIGHT?
It made Lena's stomach twist. While Dean and Sam salted Karns' grave, Lena went to the church. Something felt… tethered. She followed her gut.
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The next attack came fast.
The Hook Man was a blur of silver and smoke, all fury and static. Dean's shotgun slowed him, but not for long. Sam dragged Lori to safety while Lena stood her ground—aim sharp, feet planted. She fired once, forcing the spirit back through sheer will and salt.
"He's not gone," she gasped, chest heaving. "Something's still keeping him here."
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Later, in the sanctuary of St. Barnabas, they found the missing piece: Lori's necklace. Silver. A gift from her father. Melted down from the same hook that once killed thirteen women.
Lena stepped forward, hand out. "Can I see it?"
Lori hesitated—then unclasped it.
Dean took one look and headed for the church furnace without a word.
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The Hook Man came for them one last time. He tore through the church like a storm. Sam was already bleeding. Lori screamed. Lena raised her shotgun and didn't flinch. Not this time. Not anymore.
And then the light came. Blinding. Cleansing. The necklace melted. The spirit burned. And it was over.
Outside, the night air was sharp and still. Sam sat on the bumper of an ambulance, his shoulder wrapped in gauze. Lori hugged him and murmured a thank you.
Dean leaned against the Impala, arms crossed, watching Lena approach.
"You did good in there," he said, quieter than usual.
Lena didn't answer right away. She was scraped up, her sleeves damp with sweat and ash, her eyes still haunted by the words on the wall.
"I kept thinking…" she said, voice low. "What would it have said for me?"
Dean didn't respond. He just stepped forward, rested a hand on the back of her neck, and kissed her forehead—soft, solid, real.
"You're not the same girl who showed up on the side of the road," Dean said.
Lena swallowed hard, her throat tight. "Thanks," she murmured.
"Anytime, Red."
She blinked. "Red?"
He smirked. "It's your favorite color."
A beat passed. "Should I dye my hair?"
Dean reached up, brushed a lock of her hair between his fingers, then let it fall. "Absolutely not."
Something in her chest eased. Just a little. And for the first time since the hunt began, she let herself believe it: The training was working. She was changing. She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was becoming a hunter.
Late March, 2006
Oklahoma
Lena hated Oklahoma. She hated the smell of sunbaked dirt and plastic siding. But more than anything, she hated bugs. Dean had teased her since they got there–buzzing fake noises near her ear, pretending to swat imaginary insects off her arm. She'd nearly elbowed him in the ribs.
"This is your nightmare, isn't it?" Dean had smirked as they passed the caution tape around the sinkhole. "Creepy crawly death-by-centipede."
Lena had shivered. "I will actually scream if anything lands on me."
The three of them had shown up under a guise–family friends, interested buyers, whatever fit. They'd been trailing the story of a man who'd died in a sinkhole, body riddled with insect bites no one could explain. CJD, the official report claimed. But Sam called bullshit. "Prion diseases don't act that fast," he'd muttered over the paper. "And definitely not with bug bites."
Lena stayed in the car when Dean and Sam went to speak with the gas company foreman. She wasn't squeamish exactly–she'd seen a Wendigo tear someone apart–but bugs? That was where she drew the line. But even from the Impala, she could feel it. Something off. The air was too still, like the world was waiting for something to happen.
By the time they made it to the housing development's barbecue, she was already antsy. The forced suburban smiles, the scent of overcooked hotdogs, the fake sales pitch about "family-friendly communities"–it all made her itch. Dean, of course, was in rare form, charming the developer's wife and slipping jokes under his breath. When Larry Pike assumed the two of them were a couple, Lena had smirked and said nothing, letting Dean do the talking. Even though they were pretending, it was nice.
But inside the model home, things got weird. The builder's son, Matt, was a quiet kid. He'd shown Lena his bug jars and even offered to let her hold a tarantula.
She nearly threw up. "I'm good," she said, backing away. "Thanks though. Love the glass... enclosure."
Later, when Linda Bloome, the real estate agent, was found dead–her body covered in spider bites–Lena almost couldn't go inside the house. Sam offered to stay with her. "You don't have to see it," he said quietly. "I get it." But she went in anyway. She always did.
The worst part was how the bugs weren't just acting... natural. They weren't swarming randomly. It was deliberate. Targeted. Sam said it had something to do with a cursed land–maybe tied to a massacre or ritual.
In the woods behind the development, they followed Matt to a spot where the ground pulsed with life. Worms. Beetles. Hundreds of them, all migrating in concentric circles. Lena tried to focus on Sam's voice as he examined the mounds, but the sound of the insects skittering through the leaves nearly broke her. When Dean unearthed a skull, she turned away.
"Tell me when it's back underground," she muttered.
The trail led them to an old tribal site, where they learned of the land's history: six nights of slaughter after the Spring Equinox. An entire tribe wiped out. And nature, it seemed, had remembered.
The sixth night was now. They called Larry. Tried to get him out. Lied. Begged. He didn't believe them.
"Matt does," Lena said. "He'll get them out."
But even Matt couldn't convince his father–not until it was too late.
The storm came at sundown. The bugs with it. A black cloud of wings and pincers swarmed the house. They ran inside, barricading the windows, stuffing towels in the doorjambs, and sealing every crevice they could. Dean found bug spray and a lighter. Sam tried calling for help, but the phones were dead.
When the termites came through the walls, Lena screamed. Dean grabbed her wrist. "Breathe," he said low, holding a can of hairspray like a weapon. "We've got you."
She hated how much she wanted to lean into him.
They retreated to the attic, Lena shaking, biting the inside of her cheek to stay quiet. Sam held the shotgun. Dean torched anything that moved. The night passed in a blur of screams and skittering. And then... dawn. The bugs vanished. Just like that. The house was a mess of chewed wood and shattered nerves, but they were alive.
Later, Lena sat on the hood of the Impala, staring out at the empty fields as Larry and his family packed up in the distance. Her fingers trembled as she lit a cigarette. The flame danced too close before she pulled it back.
Dean came up beside her. "You alright?"
"I'm gonna have nightmares for weeks," she said, exhaling smoke like it might carry the memory away.
He looked like he wanted to say something else—something real—but didn't. Neither did she. Instead, she handed him a cigarette. They smoked in silence, watching the sun bleed over the horizon. The world kept turning, soft and golden, like it hadn't just tried to eat them alive.
Sam joined them a minute later, his hands in his jacket pockets. "You know," he said quietly, "if Dad had known about this place, he would've burned it to the ground."
Lena nodded. "Should've burned it anyway."
No one argued. They stubbed out their cigarettes, climbed back into the Impala, and drove toward the next nightmare. The road didn't wait. It never did.
Late March, 2006
Lawrence, Kansas
Jenny didn't expect anything strange when she moved into the old house on Stull Street with her kids, Sari and Ritchie. It was a new start. A new town. A little rough around the edges, but it would do.
Until the closet opened.
Until the fire started screaming.
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Somewhere
Another motel
Sam woke up gasping from a nightmare. After, he sketched in his notebook a drawing—a gnarled tree. Familiar. Unshakable. His fingers shook as he flipped through his duffel and found the old photo. Dean was nearby, browsing case files and eating cereal.
"I've seen this tree before," Sam said quietly. "It's in front of our old house."
Dean froze. "Lawrence?"
Sam nodded. "And I saw a woman—screaming from the second-floor window. Holding a little girl. Just like when Jessica…"
Dean's jaw clenched. "You think it's happening again?"
"I think it already is."
Dean didn't want to go back. Not there. Not home. But Lena—still half-asleep and bundled in one of Dean's flannels—just looked at him and said, "If you don't go, you'll regret it."
So they packed the Impala. And drove.
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The house looked smaller than it did in Dean's memory. Faded white siding. Sagging porch. A tree with gnarled limbs out front that hadn't changed at all. Lena stood on the curb, her arms crossed tightly, like the wind was whispering something she didn't want to hear.
"You okay?" Dean asked her quietly.
"I don't want to go in."
Dean didn't press. Inside, Sam explained the situation to Jenny. The boys once lived there, decades ago. Jenny showed them around: flickering lights, cold spots, the toy monkey that wouldn't stop clapping. Lena stayed outside the whole time, watching the house.
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After a dead-end with an old friend of John's, Mike Guenther, who worked at an auto shop with him years ago, Dean suddenly remembered something from his dad's journal.
"I went to Missouri—and I learned the truth."
The three of them drove straight to the address listed.
The door opened before they could knock. Missouri Mosely stood there in a robe, looking between the three of them like she'd been expecting this for years.
"You took your sweet time," she said.
Then her eyes fell on Lena. And softened. "I see," she murmured.
"You see what?" Lena asked warily.
But Missouri didn't answer. Not yet.
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While Dean and Sam moved through the house, tucking ritual bags into corners and under floorboards, Missouri sat with Lena on the old porch swing. The air buzzed faintly—something electric, something ancient—like the house itself was holding its breath.
Missouri took Lena's palm in her hand, tracing the lines like a map she already knew. "You alright, sweetheart?"
Lena hesitated. Her voice was thin. "It feels like I've been here before. But not in this life."
Missouri nodded, not surprised. "Because your soul remembers." She ran her finger along the crease of Lena's hand. "You've already walked through two lives. And here—" she pointed to a split in the line, one that hadn't yet fully formed— "there's another coming. Sooner than you'd like."
Lena's throat tightened. "What does that mean?"
"It means you'll leave again, child," Missouri said gently. "You're meant to."
"I don't want to."
Missouri looked up, her gaze soft but unflinching. "You may not have a choice. But wherever you go, your soul stays tied to those boys. Stronger than blood. Stronger than fate. You're not just passing through their story anymore. You're part of it now."
Lena didn't answer. But she felt the truth of it settle into her chest like something too big to name. Like gravity. And it made her want to cry.
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The spirit fought back.
Books flew. Glass shattered. Dean nearly got thrown across the living room. But they pushed through it—Lena ducking flying debris to help Sam plant the final bag. Missouri declared the house clean.
But Lena didn't believe it.
"Something's still here," she murmured.
Missouri frowned. "You may be right."
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That night, Jenny screamed. The dream. Sam's dream. The team burst into the house. Dean grabbed Jenny and got her to safety. Lena caught Ritchie on the stairs, shielding him as something tore through the walls with invisible claws.
"You're okay," she whispered. "You're safe. I promise."
Dean and Sam fought through the kitchen, pinned and cornered—until she appeared.
Their mother. Mary Winchester. She looked at Dean. Then Sam. "I'm sorry," she whispered. And with a final blaze of light, the poltergeist vanished.
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The morning after, the house was quiet. For the first time in days, no whispers behind walls, no flickering lights. Just silence. Stillness. Peace. Sari clung to Lena's leg at the curb. Jenny gave a quiet, heartfelt thank-you, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something like gratitude. Dean and Sam packed the Impala in silence, their movements slower than usual, heavier.
Missouri stood beside Lena one last time on the sidewalk, her hands folded neatly in front of her. The breeze tugged gently at the hem of her coat.
"You feel it now, don't you?" she asked.
Lena nodded. "Yeah."
"You're part of this."
"I know."
Missouri smiled, but there was weight behind it. "John knows you're back."
Lena blinked. "He was here?"
"Last night," Missouri said. "Sat right in my living room. Said he couldn't face the boys. Not yet. Said the truth would break more than it'd fix."
Lena frowned, not knowing what that meant.
Missouri paused, her eyes narrowing like she was measuring something invisible. "You matter. More than you think. You rattle something in John. Maybe it's who you are. Or maybe it's what you remind him of."
Lena looked down the street to the Impala. Dean was behind the wheel, engine running, eyes on her like always.
"Should I be here?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"You are here," Missouri said, firm and kind. "That's what matters. And if you're brave enough to stay… you're going to help change everything."
Lena didn't answer. Just nodded. She, Dean, and Sam didn't talk much on the drive out of Lawrence. The air felt thicker now. Heavier. But Lena didn't look back. She didn't need to. She could still feel it—behind her, inside her. The house. The fire. The past. Waiting. And whatever came next—she wasn't running from it. Not yet.