AN: Next instalment in the story. Enjoy x
The moment Ali saw sign pointing to the Singer Salvage through the windshield, her stomach twisted.
The junkyard looked the same—piles of rusting cars, the porch light glowing weakly against the night. But it didn't feel the same.
Because she wasn't the same.
Dean pulled the stolen car up in front of the house, cutting the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Ali stared at the familiar house, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. It had been months since she left. Months since she turned her back on the closest thing she had to a home. And now, sitting here, she wasn't sure if she had the right to walk back through that door.
Dean shifted in his seat, watching her. "You gonna get out, or should I carry you in?"
She shot him a glare, but it lacked real heat. He was giving her an out—an easy way to brush off the nerves twisting in her gut.
But there was no brushing this off.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she shoved open the door and stepped out into the night. The cool air bit at her skin, but it barely registered. Her heart was hammering too damn hard.
The porch light flickered once. Then the screen door creaked open.
Bobby Singer stepped out, his trucker cap casting a shadow over his grizzled face. He looked just as she remembered—same worn flannel, same sharp gaze. But there was something different in the way he stood. A tension in his shoulders.
Ali swallowed hard.
"Hey Bobby."
For a second, Bobby just looked at her. And she thought—maybe this was it. Maybe he was pissed, maybe he'd tell her to get lost, maybe she had screwed up too badly this time.
Then, before she could react, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
"It's good to see ya, Al."
The breath left her lungs in a sharp exhale.
She had prepared herself for anything except this.
Bobby's grip was firm, warm, grounding. His hand came up, fingers pressing against the back of her head in a way that nearly undid her completely. He smelled like motor oil and whiskey, and for a second, she felt twelve years-old again, standing in this same yard, being held together by the only father figure she had left.
"I'm sorry," she whispered before she could stop herself.
Bobby exhaled sharply. "Ain't got nothing to be sorry for, kid."
She almost laughed at that. If he only knew.
But Bobby—God, Bobby had always seen straight through her. His grip tightened for half a second before he pulled back just enough to study her. His gaze flickered briefly over the darker hair that fell way passed her shoulders now. His sharp eyes searched her face, the same way they had a thousand times before, like he was checking for bruises or broken bones.
And maybe he was.
"You eatin' enough?" he asked, voice gruff.
Ali swallowed hard. "Bobby—"
"You look like you've been livin' off gas station coffee and bad decisions."
She let out a sharp breath, something almost like a laugh, but it caught in her throat. Her vision blurred for half a second, but she blinked it away.
She didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve the way he still gave a damn after she'd left him.
"I shouldn't have—" she started, but Bobby cut her off.
"Don't," he said firmly. "You're here now."
She nodded, swallowing back the lump in her throat.
Dean cleared his throat behind them, and Bobby turned, his eyes landing on him. His face shifted, the tough bastard act flickering for a split second before relief crept in.
"'Bout damn time you showed up," Bobby grumbled, shaking his head.
Dean smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah. You miss me already?"
"Like a hole in the head," Bobby shot back.
The words were sharp, but his tone wasn't.
Bobby stepped aside to let them in, and Ali hesitated at the threshold.
The porch smelled the same—old wood, cigarette smoke, something faintly metallic. It felt like standing in the past.
She took a slow breath, then stepped inside.
The house was warm, dimly lit. The TV murmured softly from the living room, casting shifting shadows on the walls.
And then she saw him.
Sam.
Sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He looked different.
Bigger, somehow. Broader. His face was sharper, his jaw set. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was longer than before. But it wasn't just the way he looked.
It was the way he stared at her. Like he didn't know if she was real. Like maybe he wasn't sure if he wanted her to be.
Ali's breath caught in her throat, her body going rigid before she could stop herself.
The tension in the air was instant. Suffocating.
Sam sat up straighter, hands tightening into fists on his knees.
Dean, still in the doorway, felt the shift. His brows pulled together, but he didn't say anything.
For a long, unbearable second, nobody moved.
Then—
"Hey, Ali."
His voice was quiet. Careful. Like he wasn't sure how to talk to her anymore.
Ali exhaled slowly through her nose. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
She didn't respond.
Didn't even nod.
Sam's jaw clenched, something flickering in his expression—anger, hurt, something darker beneath the surface.
Dean definitely noticed now.
"Ali," Sam tried again, voice a little rougher this time.
Still, nothing.
She just stared at him, eyes dark and unreadable, and God, if looks could kill—
The silence stretched long enough to turn unbearable.
Sam looked away first.
Dean felt that more than he saw it.
He shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between them. He'd known things were off, but this? This was bad. Worse than he'd thought.
This wasn't just awkwardness. This was a deep cut. A wound that hadn't healed.
Ali let out a sharp breath through her nose, breaking the silence. She adjusted the strap of her bag and turned on her heel, already walking away.
"I'm gonna—" She hesitated, like she was searching for an excuse. "Wash up."
It was an escape. They all knew it.
Sam didn't move.
Didn't say anything.
He just watched her go, something unreadable in his expression.
Dean's stomach twisted.
He waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
"Okay," he said, rubbing a hand down his face. "What the hell was that?"
Sam exhaled sharply through his nose. "Nothing."
Dean scoffed. "Nothing? Jesus, Sam, she looked like she wanted to slit your throat."
Sam didn't even flinch. He just leaned back into the couch, eyes fixed on the TV, like her reaction was exactly what he had expected.
Dean clenched his jaw. He knew things had changed. He knew four months apart would leave scars. But he hadn't realised just how deep they ran.
Dean stared at his brother, waiting for some kind of explanation—anything—but Sam just sat there, jaw tight, eyes locked on the muted TV like Dean wasn't even in the room.
Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, okay. Sure. Nothing."
Sam's fingers curled against his knee, his only tell that he wasn't as unaffected as he was pretending to be.
Dean took a step closer. "I don't know what the hell went down while I was gone, but that—" he gestured toward the hallway where Ali had disappeared— "was not nothing. She looked like she wanted to rip your face off."
Sam finally turned his head, his expression dark. "And?"
Dean blinked, taken aback by the sheer coldness in his brother's voice.
"And? What the hell does that mean?"
Sam exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like he was already done with this conversation.
Dean's patience snapped.
"You wanna tell me why she just walked in here like she'd rather be anywhere else? Because last time I checked, you two were damn near inseparable."
Sam didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Just kept his gaze on the TV, jaw locked so tight Dean thought he might crack a tooth.
Dean took another step forward, his voice lowering. "You don't just go from that to—" He gestured vaguely toward the empty space Ali had left behind. "—to whatever the hell this is without something happening."
Sam inhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before exhaling just as carefully. His fingers tapped once against his knee. Then he stood up.
Dean straightened instinctively, eyes narrowing as he watched his brother.
Sam towered over him, shoulders squared, something unreadable in his expression. "She left."
Dean frowned. "Yeah, I figured that much."
"She left, Dean," Sam clarified, voice quieter but sharper. "I didn't leave. She did. She walked out on me."
Dean frowned, something uneasy settling in his gut. "Okay. So, she left. People leave, Sam. And maybe she had her reasons."
Sam let out a hollow, humourless chuckle, shaking his head.
Dean's frown deepened. "You gonna tell me what the hell happened, or you just gonna keep acting like a pissed-off teenager?"
Sam clenched his jaw. "No, Dean."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"No," Sam repeated, voice colder than before. "Because it doesn't matter."
Dean let out a sharp breath, trying to reel in the frustration bubbling under his skin.
"Jesus, man. You don't think it matters that she just walked in here and could barely look at you? You don't think it matters that whatever the hell happened between you two left her standing out there like she wasn't even sure if she belonged here anymore?"
Sam's eyes flickered, just for a second, before the mask slid back into place.
Dean caught it.
He hated it.
Sam turned slightly, angling his body away like that would somehow end the conversation. "You just got back, Dean. Maybe don't waste your first night home getting in the middle of something you don't understand."
Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, because you're doing such a damn good job handling it."
Sam's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Drop it."
Dean almost laughed. "Yeah? What if I don't?"
Sam's nostrils flared, his eyes flashing with something Dean couldn't quite place.
Something dark.
Something that reminded him too much of—
Dean swallowed, pushing that thought way the hell down before it could take root.
Sam stared at him for another long moment before shaking his head and walking away.
Dean watched his brother go, frustration clawing at his ribs.
This was worse than he thought.
Way worse.
Because Sam wasn't just angry.
He was hurt.
And if Ali's reaction was anything to go by, so was she.
Dean let out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair.
Something big had happened while he was gone.
Something that had shattered whatever was left of the people he cared about.
And for the first time since crawling out of his own damn grave, Dean realised—
Hell might've changed him, but he wasn't the only one who came out different.
The air inside the house was thick, heavy with tension that had been brewing since Ali had arrived. It had been lingering, unspoken, like a wound left to fester. The house was too damn quiet. Too damn small for the weight pressing in on all of them.
Ali stood at the kitchen sink, gripping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles were white. The tap was running, water pouring into the drain, but she wasn't really paying attention. She could feel Sam standing behind her, could feel the tension radiating off of him.
He was waiting. Waiting for her to acknowledge him, to give him some kind of opening.
She wasn't in the mood.
"Ali."
Ali closed her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose before rinsing the glass that sat on the side and shutting off the tap. She placed the glass down on the counter, fingers tightening around it for just a second before turning around. Arms crossed, jaw tight. "What?"
Sam shifted on his feet, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Can we talk?"
Ali let out a short, humourless laugh. "Talk? That's rich."
Something flickered across Sam's face—hesitation, regret, something almost softer—but it was gone as quickly as it came. His jaw tightened instead. "I don't want things to be like this."
Ali arched a brow. "Like what, Sam? Like this?" She gestured between them. "Like the mess you made?"
His jaw clenched. "I didn't—" He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "That's not fair."
Ali let out a sharp, humourless laugh. "Oh, it's not fair? Well, you know what else wasn't fair? The way you—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting down on the words threatening to spill out. No, not now. Not like this.
She stepped closer, her voice sharpening. "You think you get to pick and choose what matters, who matters?"
Sam's eyes darkened. "You think I don't care?"
Ali scoffed. "Oh, you care? That's funny, Sam, because from where I'm standing, you don't give a damn about anything but yourself."
Sam's expression twisted. "That's not true."
Ali laughed again, sharp and bitter. "Bullshit."
Sam stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You think you're the only one who lost something?"
Ali's eyes snapped to his, sharp as glass. "I did lose something, Sam. And I lost you too."
Sam flinched, but quickly masked it, his expression hardening. "You left, Ali."
Ali's nostrils flared. "Because I had to!"
Sam's voice was almost a growl. "No. You chose to."
Ali's fists clenched. "Oh, screw you, Sam."
His eyes flashed. "Right back at you."
The air between them crackled like a live wire.
Ali was shaking now, fury and something else—something worse—clawing at her chest. "You think this is all my fault?" she spat. "You think I just walked away for no reason?"
Sam threw his arms out. "You did walk away!"
Ali's eyes burned. "Because you didn't give me a choice!"
Sam scoffed. "You're so full of shit."
The second it left his mouth, he saw it—the flicker in her eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to know he'd pushed her over the edge. But Ali didn't give him time to take it back. Her expression iced over. Whatever had cracked in that moment—whatever had softened—was gone
She took a step forward, almost toe to toe with him now, voice shaking from the force of her anger. "And you're a goddamn hypocrite."
Sam's hands curled into fists at his sides. "At least I didn't—" He stopped himself short, nostrils flaring, biting down whatever he had almost said.
Ali's breath caught. She swallowed. "Go on, Sam. Say it."
Silence.
Sam looked at her then, really looked at her, and something flashed in his eyes—something angry, something wounded. But he clenched his jaw and didn't say a damn thing.
Her voice dropped, but it was no less sharp. "At least you didn't what?"
Sam's jaw worked, his whole body vibrating with restraint.
Ali let out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, no. You don't get to do that, Sam. You wanna be an asshole? Finish the damn sentence."
Silence again.
His nostrils flared. His hands shook at his sides. But he still didn't speak.
Coward.
Ali let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. "You don't get to play the victim here."
Sam's expression twisted, and before he could stop himself, he was yelling—
"You don't know what the hell I've been through, Ali!"
Ali's voice matched his, fury boiling over. "You don't think I know exactly what you've been doing? You don't think I know how far you've gone?"
Sam let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, please. Like you're any better? I know how you've been getting by."
Ali went still. Her pulse roared in her ears. Her fingers twitched, like she wanted to do something—lash out, push him, maybe even reach for him. Instead, she just curled them into fists.
Sam stepped closer, eyes burning into hers. "Go on. Deny it."
Ali's breath came short and fast. But she didn't say anything.
Sam shook his head, letting out a sharp breath. "That's what I thought."
The room was suffocating now. Both of them were breathing hard, chests rising and falling, fury vibrating in the air between them.
Then—
"ENOUGH!"
Bobby's voice slammed through the house like a shotgun blast.
Both Ali and Sam snapped their heads toward him. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking done. But Bobby wasn't just mad. He was watching them, brow furrowed, like he was seeing something he hadn't before—like he was realising just how deep this thing between them went.
"You two finished throwin' your damn tantrums?"
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them even moved.
Bobby took a slow step forward, voice low and dangerous. "Now I don't know what the hell happened to get you two so pissed at each other, but ya need to sort it out." He looked between them, eyes furious. "The last thing Dean needs is to come back here and hear you two screamin' like a couple of damn children."
Ali looked away first, her throat burning.
Sam let out a breath, fists slowly unclenching.
Bobby shook his head, muttering under his breath. "If you're gonna be under my roof, you're gonna act like adults. Or get the hell out."
Silence.
Ali swallowed hard, then turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, walking past Sam without another word.
Sam stayed where he was, glaring at the floor like it might have the answers he needed.
Bobby exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Damn kids," he muttered, before walking off, leaving Sam standing alone in the kitchen.
Sam exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His fingers trembled just a little.
He clenched his fists again. Steadied them.
Then he walked away.
The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind through the junked cars. The air smelled of old oil and rust, familiar scents that should have felt like home. But to Ali, they didn't. Not anymore.
She sat on an old wooden crate near the makeshift firing range she used to practice at. The ground was littered with shells from long-forgotten rounds, but there was no gun in her hands tonight. Just a cigarette, burning low between her fingers.
She took a slow drag, the ember flaring in the darkness. The nicotine didn't do much, but it gave her something to focus on. Something steady.
She barely reacted when she heard footsteps crunching toward her.
Dean.
He came to a stop a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't say anything at first, just looked at her, eyes flicking from the cigarette to her face. Then he huffed.
"You really need to be done with that crap."
Ali let out a small, breathy laugh through her nose, taking one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out against the crate. "Yeah, yeah. I know."
Dean rocked back on his heels, watching her for a beat. Then he exhaled and got to the point. "Bobby's got a contact a few hours out. Psychic."
Ali raised an eyebrow. "A psychic?"
"Yeah. We're hoping they'll have some answers about what yanked me out of hell."
Ali frowned slightly. "Dragged you out?"
Dean hesitated, then rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. The moonlight caught on his skin, illuminating the raw, angry shape of a handprint burned into his shoulder.
Ali's frown deepened. "What the hell, Dean?"
Dean gave a humourless chuckle. "That's the million-dollar question, kid." He rolled his sleeve back down and sighed. "Anyway, we're heading out first thing in the morning. You coming?"
Ali didn't answer right away. She looked out over the yard, exhaling slowly.
"Sam going?" she asked finally.
Dean hesitated just long enough for Ali to notice.
"Yeah," he said. "Of course, he is."
Ali nodded once, lips pressing into a thin line. Then she shrugged. "I'll just stay here."
Dean frowned. "What? Why?"
Ali waved a hand vaguely. "Psychic stuff gives me the creeps."
Dean gave her a sceptical look. "Since when?"
Ali didn't answer. She took out another cigarette from her pocket and lit up like Dean wasn't standing right there watching her. He sighed.
"Ali," Dean started, like he could not ask her about it. He needed to know. "Ali, what's going on with you and Sam?"
Ali took a slow drag of her cigarette, exhaled, and shook her head. "Nothing. We were just bickering."
Dean scoffed. "Yeah. Yeah, that's what Bobby said." He tilted his head slightly, eyeing her. "See, the thing is, you and Sam don't bicker."
Ali flicked the ash off the cigarette, keeping her eyes forward. "What are you talking about?"
Dean leaned against the truck beside her, crossing his arms. "Petty fighting and insults? That's what we do. Hell, that's what we all do. But you and Sam? No, you're not like that. Not with each other. Sure, you fight when something serious is going on, but you don't bicker like that."
Ali's jaw tightened. "Dean…"
"Four months ago, you and Sam were as close as anything. And now—" He exhaled, shaking his head. "I mean, Ali, when we walked through the door, you barely acknowledged his existence."
She didn't answer, just took another drag of her cigarette.
Dean turned fully to face her now, his voice quieter, but firm. "People don't just wake up one day and stop caring, Ali."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "People change, Dean."
His expression hardened. "People change? It's like you're an entirely different person."
Ali finally turned to look at him, her eyes dark. Guarded. "Don't, Dean. Don't go and do that. Don't get pissed at me."
"I'm not pissed," Dean shot back. "I'm just trying to understand."
She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Well, stop. You can't understand."
Dean's jaw tensed, his hands flexing at his sides.
Ali's breath hitched just slightly. She looked away, swallowing hard. "Four months is a long time," she mumbled. Dean scoffed.
"You really think you have to tell me that?" Dean replied, voice rougher now.
Ali swallowed hard. For a second, her fingers tightened around the cigarette like she might crush it. But then, just like that, her face smoothed out. She exhaled, shaking her head like she'd already decided this conversation is over.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. The cigarette burned down between her fingers, forgotten.
Finally, Ali sighed, shaking her head. "Look… I'm sorry, okay? A lot's happened. We just haven't seen each other in a while, that's all."
Dean watched her, eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"Yeah," he muttered, looking away. "Guess that's all it is."
Neither of them believed that. But neither of them said it.
"So you coming, or not?" he asked finally. Ali shook her head.
Dean studied her for a long moment, as if he was trying to figure out what was going on in her head. But whatever he saw there, he didn't push. Instead, he sighed and nodded, stepping back.
"Alright," he said. "Your call." He turned to leave but paused after a few steps, glancing back at her. "Just… take care of yourself, okay?"
Ali forced a small smile. "Yeah. You too, Winchester."
Dean gave her a look—one that said he didn't quite believe her—but he left it at that. With one last nod, he wandered off, disappearing into the shadows of the yard.
Ali sat there for a long time after he left, staring out into the dark.
She thought about the road ahead.
And she thought about the one she was leaving behind.
The rumble of Ali's car engine filled the quiet night as she pulled up outside the barn. The place looked as abandoned as ever—weathered wood, a sagging roof, nothing but empty fields stretching out into darkness beyond it. But Bobby's car was parked just outside, a sure sign she was in the right place.
She cut the engine and exhaled, gripping the wheel for a moment before stepping out. She didn't want to be here. Not really. But the way Dean had sounded on the phone made it seem urgent. And she couldn't help but like the feeling of being needed again.
The night air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and hay. Popping the trunk, she grabbed the heavy duffel bag filled with weapons, old books on ancient sigils, and other supplies Bobby had rattled off over the phone. She swung it over her shoulder and made her way to the barn, boots crunching against the dirt.
The moment she stepped inside, she spotted Bobby and Dean. Some part of her relaxed slightly when she didn't see Sam. She didn't ask where he was.
Instead, she shifted the duffel on her shoulder and arched a brow. "Alright. What the hell are we doing?"
Dean, standing near a table covered in an arsenal of weapons, glanced up at her. "Summoning whatever yanked me out of Hell."
Ali blinked. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
She exhaled sharply, adjusting her grip on the bag. "And whatever it is… you don't even know?"
Dean shook his head. "Name's Castiel. That's all we got."
Ali looked to Bobby, who was flipping through an old book.
"Take it whatever psychic crap you did worked?" she asked.
Bobby gave her a grim nod. "But whatever it is—it's a powerful son of a bitch. Burned Pamela's eyes clean out."
Ali grimaced. "Wonderful." She tossed the duffel onto the table with a heavy thud, shaking her head. "Should've brought my sunglasses."
Dean smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes.
They got to work.
Every inch of the barn walls was covered in ancient symbols, sigils, Enochian script—anything they could find to protect themselves from whatever the hell was coming. The weapons were laid out, primed and ready—salt rounds, iron, silver, Ruby's demon-killing knife. They weren't taking chances.
Bobby stepped into the centre of the barn, clutching a book in his hands. "Alright," he muttered, eyes scanning over the Latin text. "Let's get this over with."
He started the ritual.
The words came slow and deliberate at first, then faster, his voice filling the empty space around them. The air seemed to shift, thickening, the temperature dropping just enough to be noticeable. Ali exchanged a glance with Dean, tension coiling in her chest.
Then—nothing.
Silence.
Ali exhaled, shaking her head. "Well. That was anticlimactic."
Bobby frowned. "Give it a minute."
A minute passed. Then two. Then ten.
Then the wind outside picked up, rattling the walls. The lights in the barn flickered. A low, distant rumble filled the air, and then—
BANG.
Something crashed against the roof, hard enough that the wooden beams groaned under the impact. Ali stiffened, hand already reaching for the gun at her hip.
Another crash—closer this time. The wind howled, rattling the barn doors.
Then—
They burst open.
A man stepped inside, silhouetted by the flashing lights overhead.
Ali barely had time to take him in—trench coat, dark hair, eyes that seemed too deep, too calm—before she was moving on instinct. She yanked out her gun and fired.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three shots straight to the chest.
Nothing.
Her stomach twisted. That wasn't demon-fast reflexes. That was something else entirely.
Dean was already grabbing Ruby's knife. He lunged forward, jamming the blade into the man's chest—right where a demon's heart would be.
Again—nothing.
Not even a flinch.
Ali's pulse thundered. "Oh, that's not good."
Bobby stepped forward, Latin already spilling from his lips, but before he could finish, the man closed the distance between them in a blink.
Two fingers pressed against Bobby's forehead.
Bobby collapsed.
The sound of his body hitting the floor sent a cold jolt down her spine. Bobby didn't just drop like that. Not unless—
Ali's stomach lurched. "Bobby—!" She dropped down beside him, pressing her fingers to his throat. A pulse. He was still breathing. Unconscious, but alive.
Her head snapped up, rage flaring through her veins.
She snatched a silver knife from the table and surged forward, swinging for the man's throat.
But he caught her wrist.
Effortlessly.
Ali's breath hitched. His grip was strong—too strong. Panic flared in her chest as she struggled against him, but his fingers didn't so much as budge.
Then—
His free hand rose. Two fingers pressed against her forehead.
And everything went black.
AN: Hope you liked that chapter. So things aren't looking too good between Sam and Ali... what do you think went down whilst Dean was in hell?
And now we finally have Castiel in the story! I'm super excited to write more with him!
Let me know what you thought, much love x