AN: Here's the next chapter! With some more Ali and Sam tension, and Dean's hell PTSD
Also, posting this today as I'm working nights this weekend, so likely won't be updating :(
The kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and gun oil. A half-eaten pie sat on the counter, forgotten in the wake of bigger concerns. The four of them sat around the worn wooden table, books and notes spread between them, but no one was really looking at them anymore. The conversation had shifted.
"So, what?" Dean leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His face was set, sceptical, the way it always was when something didn't sit right with him. "We're just supposed to believe this guy? 'Cause he says he's an angel?"
Sam, sitting across from him, let out a sharp breath, clearly frustrated. "Dean, you saw what he could do."
Dean scoffed. "Yeah, I saw it. And you know what? I've seen demons toss people across rooms, too. Doesn't mean I'm carving their names into a damn hymn book."
Sam shook his head. "It's different, and you know it. He wasn't repelled by salt. He walked right through the devil's trap. Hell, you said stabbed him with Ruby's knife and —" Sam hesitated, then glanced at Bobby, who was rubbing his temple like the whole conversation was giving him a migraine. "He didn't even flinch."
Bobby huffed. "Ain't exactly something demons do."
Dean's jaw tightened. He knew they had a point, but that didn't mean he was ready to accept it. "Maybe he's something else. Something we haven't dealt with before."
Sam let out a dry laugh. "Like what, Dean? Something that looks like an angel, acts like an angel, and calls itself an angel, but somehow isn't an angel?"
Dean didn't answer.
Silence settled over the table, heavy and thick.
Ali barely noticed it.
She was staring at the table, fingers loosely wrapped around the chipped ceramic mug in front of her. The coffee inside had long gone cold. She hadn't touched it in a while.
Her mind was somewhere else.
Back in that barn.
The force of Castiel's presence, the way his voice had filled the entire space like it had weight. The way he had looked at them, not with malice, but with something worse—something close to pity. Like he was standing on a different plane of existence, looking down at them.
And the power—
She swallowed.
That power had filled the room as soon as he stepped inside. Had sent Bobby—who had survived more hunts than most hunters ever would—collapsing to the ground like a damn ragdoll.
Nothing they'd done had even scratched him. He hadn't even flinched.
It wasn't just that he was powerful. She was used to powerful things.
It was the fact that they'd been nothing to him.
She didn't like that feeling.
"Ali?"
Her head snapped up.
Dean was watching her now, eyes sharp and expectant. "What do you think?"
Ali blinked. "What?"
Dean gestured vaguely. "The angel thing. You're quiet. What's your take?"
Ali hesitated.
She felt Sam's and Bobby's gazes turn toward her too, waiting for an answer.
Dean tilted his head slightly. "Did your family ever say anything about angels?" he asked, his voice softer now. "Ever hear stories?"
Her family.
Ali exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Stories, yeah. That's all they ever were."
Dean's eyes flickered, but he didn't push.
Ali didn't say the rest of what she was thinking.
That if angels were real, if this was what they were…
Then maybe the things her family had believed in, the things they'd prayed to—
Maybe no one had ever really been listening.
The house was still, wrapped in the kind of silence that never sat right with Ali. It was too heavy, too unnatural.
They'd spent the rest of the day reading all the books Bobby had on angels, God, and whatever else they could get their hands on. Ali was exhausted, but her mind still buzzed with the possibility that everything she thought she knew about their world was slowly unravelling.
She walked into the living room. Sam had disappeared upstairs a few hours ago, and Bobby soon after. Dean was sprawled on the couch, his face half-buried in the crook of his arm, the blanket he'd been using twisted around his legs. His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths. It was the first time Ali had seen him sleep since he got back.
She hesitated in the dim glow of the lamp, her eyes flicking over him. Even in sleep, he looked worn down—like he was still fighting something the rest of them couldn't see. The bruises under his eyes hadn't faded, and his fingers twitched slightly, like he was gripping something invisible.
She didn't want to wake him—God knew the guy barely slept these days – but something in his expression caught her eye, making her stomach twist uncomfortably.
His eyes darted erratically under his eyelids, his mouth twitching as he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. The tension in his jaw, the way his hands fisted the blanket—it wasn't just restlessness. It was a fight.
A nightmare.
Ali exhaled quietly and stepped closer. Her movements were slow, careful. She reached for his arm, fingers just brushing the edge of the blanket.
Then it happened.
An iron grip closed around her wrist.
A heartbeat later, she was yanked down hard— strong hands grabbing, twisting, pinning. Her back slamming against the floor, her breath punching out of her lungs on impact.
Her vision blurred for a second, her brain scrambling to catch up. She barely had time to register the pain before Dean was on top of her, pinning her down, his weight pressing the air from her lungs like he was subduing a monster.
Not Dean. Not him.
Her body jolted into survival mode before the thought fully formed. She shoved at him, panic clawing up her throat.
"Dean!" Ali gasped, trying to shove him off. He didn't budge.
His fingers clamped around her throat like a steel vice.
A strangled noise escaped her, the pressure sending white-hot panic through her veins. Her hands flew up, clawing at his grip, trying to pry him loose—but it was like trying to break through stone.
Too strong. Too fast. Too real.
Her pulse roared in her ears. Her lungs screamed for air.
She bucked beneath him, using all the strength she had left, but nothing worked. Dean wasn't just pinning her. He was restraining her like she was a goddamn demon—like he was back in Hell, fighting something only he could see.
He isn't awake. He isn't awake.
It didn't matter. His grip was killing her.
Ali dug her nails into his arm, raking them down his skin, hard enough to draw blood, desperate to snap him out of it.
No reaction.
She kicked out wildly, trying to find some kind of leverage, her body burning from the lack of oxygen.
She could hear her own heartbeat slowing, her vision darkening at the edges.
No, no, no.
She gasped, trying to say his name, but nothing came out. She couldn't breathe.
Then—
"Dean!"
A rough hand grabbed Dean's shoulder and ripped him backwards.
Dean jerked awake instantly.
His entire body seized up, his chest heaving like he'd just surfaced from drowning. His arms shot up as if to defend himself, but Bobby's grip was solid, keeping him from lunging forward.
The second he let go, Ali sucked in a ragged, desperate breath, her body convulsing as air flooded her lungs. She coughed violently, rolling onto her side, her whole body shaking as she tried to get oxygen back into starving muscles. Her throat felt like it was on fire, raw and bruised from the pressure.
Bobby was kneeling beside her, his face red with fury as he shot to his feet, whirling on Dean.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Bobby's voice was sharp as a whip, his fists clenched at his sides. "Keep your goddamn hands off her!"
Dean didn't move. Didn't say a word.
His eyes locked onto Ali, and all the colour drained from his face. His hands were still shaking, skin as pale as death.
"Shit—Ali—" His voice was hoarse, horrified. "I—"
Ali could see it—the pure terror in his expression. His chest was rising and falling too fast, his eyes locked on her like he couldn't believe what he'd done.
Ali tried to push herself up, but her arms gave out, and she sagged against the floor. A sharp, aching sting flared in her throat as she swallowed, her breath still coming too fast. Finally, she managed to press a shaking hand to her bruised skin, wincing at the tenderness.
"It's okay," she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't your fault."
Dean's whole body flinched. He looked wrecked.
Bobby wasn't as forgiving. He turned on Dean, his face stormy as he stepped forward. "You wanna tell me what the hell that was?"
Dean swallowed thickly, his voice hoarse. "I—I didn't—" He shook his head, looking down at his hands like they didn't belong to him. His breath hitched. "I thought—"
His voice broke. He couldn't even finish the sentence.
Ali pushed herself up slowly, pressing a shaking hand to her bruised throat. Her lungs still burned from lack of oxygen, her head still swimming.
"Bobby," she rasped, her voice barely there. "It wasn't his fault."
Bobby turned on her, his expression still furious. "Like hell it wasn't."
Dean flinched again, stepping back. His breathing was still uneven, his whole body tense like he was barely keeping it together.
Ali coughed, her throat aching. "It was—he was still asleep."
"Yeah? Tell that to the bruises on your goddamn neck," Bobby snapped.
Dean backed away, his breathing erratic. He looked like he was going to be sick. "I need—I need a minute."
Before anyone could stop him, he lurched away from them, shoving past the doorway and into the night. The door slammed hard against the wall, the sound ringing through the silence.
Bobby exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Goddammit."
Ali swallowed against the ache in her throat, wincing at the pain.
She wasn't afraid of Dean.
But she was terrified of whatever Hell had done to him.
Ali barely slept.
Her body ached—a dull, deep pain radiating from her throat, her arms, her ribs. Every time she moved, she felt the lingering bruises from last night. But the worst of it wasn't the physical pain.
It was the image of Dean's face when he realised what he'd done.
The horror in his eyes. The way he had looked at his own hands like they were something alien.
She had seen Dean Winchester beat himself up over a lot of things before, but this?
This was eating him alive.
She pulled on an old hoodie, the fabric loose enough that it didn't press against her bruised throat, and padded downstairs. The house was quiet—Bobby was probably still asleep, and Sam… well, if Sam had gotten any rest at all, she'd be surprised.
She made herself a coffee, cradling the warm mug in her hands, but it didn't do anything to chase away the unease. She could still feel the weight of last night, pressing down on her like an invisible force.
Eventually, she grabbed her pack of cigarettes from the counter and stepped outside.
The morning air was cool and crisp, the sky washed in soft grey light.
She was halfway through lighting up when she saw him.
Dean was at the Impala, hunched over the hood, pretending to work on the engine. But Ali had no doubt she was already in perfect condition—she always was.
This wasn't about fixing the car.
Dean was trying to escape his own head.
Ali exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl in the air before heading toward him.
"You're up early," she said, coming to stand beside him.
Dean didn't look at her. "Didn't sleep."
She nodded, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. Yeah. She figured as much.
He finally glanced at her. "You okay?"
Ali gave a small shrug. "I should be asking you that."
Dean huffed out a humourless laugh, shutting the hood of the Impala with more force than necessary. "Pretty sure you're the one that got choked out last night."
Ali shifted uncomfortably. "I told you, I'm fine."
Dean turned toward her fully now, stepping closer. His green eyes searched her face, unreadable, like he was trying to convince himself she wasn't lying.
"Show me."
Ali frowned. "Dean—"
"Show me." His voice was quieter this time, but firm.
She shook her head, trying to dismiss it. "It's not a big deal."
Dean didn't buy it. He reached out, gently grabbing the wrist of the hand that was holding her cigarette.
Ali flinched. It was barely anything, but it was enough. She dropped the cigarette.
Dean saw it.
His jaw tightened, his grip loosening as his fingers brushed over her sleeve. Then, with careful precision, he rolled up the fabric.
The bruises were ugly. Deep, finger-shaped marks wrapped around her forearm where he'd held her down.
Ali pulled back sharply, yanking her arm out of his grasp. "Dean, it's fine."
Dean shook his head. No. No, it wasn't.
Before she could step away, his hands found the collar of her hoodie, and he tugged it down just enough to expose her neck.
His entire body stilled.
The bruises there were even worse.
Angry, dark marks spread across the delicate skin of her throat—the exact imprint of his fingers.
Dean staggered back. Like he'd been physically hit.
Guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole.
He turned away, dragging a hand over his face. "Jesus Christ." His voice was raw. "I—" He exhaled sharply, his hands clenching into tight fists. "I'm so goddamn sorry."
Ali swallowed, ignoring the ache in her throat. "Dean—"
"I could've killed you." He was still not looking at her. Like he couldn't bear to. "I could've—" His voice broke before he could finish.
Ali hesitated before stepping closer. "But you didn't."
Dean let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Doesn't change what I did."
Ali sighed. "It wasn't you, Dean. It was a nightmare. You were still in it."
Dean finally looked at her again, his expression haunted. "Yeah? And what happens next time?"
Ali held his gaze, unwavering. "There won't be a next time."
Dean exhaled heavily, shaking his head again. "You don't know that."
Ali could still see it—the shame, the self-hatred eating him alive.
She didn't know how to fix it.
So, instead, she just stood there, silently refusing to let him push her away.
The room was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages turning and the faint scrape of a chair shifting. Books were spread across the table, open to pages filled with faded ink and cryptic lore. The smell of old paper and coffee hung in the air, mixing with the lingering scent of gun oil from the weapons they always kept close.
Ali sat curled up on the couch, one foot tucked beneath her, flipping absently through a thick, leather-bound tome. Across the room, Dean was at the table, sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed in concentration—or at least, that's how it looked. She knew better.
He hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.
Sam was the only one who seemed actually invested in what they were reading, his eyes scanning each paragraph like he was trying to burn the information directly into his brain.
Every time she shifted, a dull ache flared in her ribs, in her throat. She ignored it, kept her head down. Every now and then, she caught Dean glancing at her. Not obviously, not enough for anyone else to notice—just quick, flickering looks before his eyes snapped back to the book.
Sam, seated at the other end of the table, was also watching. Not her, not Dean specifically—just noticing. The way she was holding herself, the way her hoodie was zipped up higher than usual. The way Dean seemed wound too tight, like a tripwire waiting to snap.
But he didn't ask.
Didn't say anything about the way Ali flinched slightly when she shifted. Didn't comment when she barely touched her coffee, even though she usually inhaled caffeine like it was air. He just took it all in, filing it away somewhere in that sharp, analytical mind of his.
Then, the silence broke.
Bobby strode into the room, rubbing a hand over his beard. "Alright, listen up," he said, grabbing their attention. "I been tryin' to reach a buddy of mine, Olivia Lowry—hunter out in Indiana. I reached out a few days back, figured she might have some insight on this Castiel situation. Problem is, she hasn't answered."
Dean frowned, shutting his book with a dull thud. "How long's it been?"
"Too long," Bobby grunted. "Not like her to go quiet. Either she's up to her neck in somethin', or somethin' got to her first."
Ali exhaled, closing her own book and setting it aside. "So, we're going to check it out."
Bobby nodded. "Damn right we are. Grab your gear."
Chairs scraped against the floor as they moved into action, books forgotten as they started gathering weapons, stuffing duffel bags with salt, iron, and whatever else they might need.
Ali grabbed her bag from the corner and started slinging it over her shoulder—
"Hold up," Bobby said.
She turned to find him watching her, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but the look in his eyes was pointed. Measuring.
"Maybe you should sit this one out," he said, voice even.
The words hit like a slap.
Ali froze for half a second, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "What?"
Bobby didn't say it outright, didn't glance at her throat, but she felt the reason hanging in the air between them.
Ali's stomach twisted. She knew he wasn't wrong—she was sore, her throat still felt like it was on fire, and she wasn't sure how much of a fight she could actually put up right now.
But still.
Her instinct was to push back, to argue, to insist she was fine. But then her eyes flicked—just for a second—toward Dean.
And he was watching.
His hands had stilled over the duffel he was packing, his whole body tense like he was waiting for something. His gaze met hers, unreadable, but there was something there. Something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fingers curled slightly like he was resisting the urge to say something.
Ali's throat felt tight, and not just from the bruises.
She exhaled slowly, nodding once. "Yeah. Okay."
Dean looked away.
And across the room, Sam noticed.
His eyes flicked between Ali and Bobby, then landed on Dean. He didn't say anything, but his frown deepened, something shifting behind his gaze.
He knew something was off.
He just didn't know what.
The house was silent.
Ali stood in the dim light of the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror.
The bruises on her neck were worse today. Deep, ugly smudges that spread from her throat down over her collarbone. A painful reminder of just how close she'd come to dying.
She winced as she brushed her fingers over the tender skin.
Dean's hands had been there.
Not him, not really—but it didn't change the fact that his grip had been strong enough to leave marks that still ached with every breath.
Ali exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away. She grabbed a clean washcloth, wrapped some ice in it, and pressed it gently to her skin, hissing at the sting. Then she left the bathroom, making her way to the couch, grabbing one of the lore books Bobby had left behind.
She wasn't expecting much—just something to keep her mind occupied.
She barely got through two pages when her phone rang.
The sudden sound made her jolt, her heart already on edge. She grabbed the phone from the coffee table and glanced at the screen.
Bobby.
Frowning, she answered. "Hey. What's up?"
There was a pause, then Bobby's voice, low and grim. "Olivia's dead."
Ali sat up straighter. "What?"
"Her. Couple others. Looks like ghost attacks."
Ali's grip tightened on the phone. Olivia Lowry had been a hunter for over a decade. Tough as hell. Smart. If something had taken her down, it wasn't something to mess around with.
Bobby sighed on the other end. "I'm heading back now. I'll be there soon. In the meantime, keep your damn head down."
Ali's stomach twisted. "Yeah. Got it."
The call ended, and she sat there for a long moment, listening to the silence of the house.
Then she moved.
She grabbed a shotgun from Bobby's stash, checked the rounds, and filled it with salt shells. Just in case.
That's when she felt it.
The shift in the air.
Cold.
Not just a chill—but the kind of biting, unnatural cold that seeped into your bones. Her breath ghosted white in front of her.
Ali froze.
The house was still—but it wasn't empty.
She gripped the shotgun tighter and turned slowly, scanning the room. Nothing. But she could feel something watching her.
A faint creak sounded from upstairs.
Ali's pulse jumped.
She swallowed hard, moving carefully toward the staircase. The floorboards beneath her feet groaned softly with every step, the shotgun firm in her hands. She reached the top, heart hammering against her ribs.
The hallway stretched out in front of her, shadowed in the dim light.
Another creak.
Ali's head snapped toward the noise.
A figure stood at the end of the hallway.
A woman.
Ali knew that face.
It was Meg.
Or—no.
Not Meg.
The girl the demon had possessed. The one who had died.
Ali's blood ran cold.
She hesitated for only a second before raising the shotgun.
Boom.
The salt round exploded through the air—
The figure vanished in a swirl of mist.
Ali exhaled sharply, lowering the gun just a fraction.
Then the air dropped another ten degrees.
She wasn't gone.
Ali moved, stepping backward, keeping her back to the wall. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
This wasn't a fight she wanted to stick around for.
She needed to get out.
She crept toward the stairs, her breath coming fast and shallow. The floorboards beneath her feet creaked softly.
Then—
A whisper. Right behind her ear.
"Miss me?"
Ali spun—
The ghost lunged.
A cold, crushing force slammed into her, knocking her off balance. She stumbled, lost her footing—
The stairs.
She fell.
The shotgun fired wildly as she tumbled, the world spinning around her.
Pain exploded through her body as she crashed down the wooden steps, limbs twisting, head cracking against the floor at the bottom.
Then—
Nothing.
The house fell silent again.
Ali lay still.
Out cold.
Dean Winchester entered the house cautiously, his grip tightening around his gun. The place was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant nobody was home, but the kind that made his instincts scream trap.
His breath curled white in the air.
Damn it.
"Ali?" His voice was low but urgent. No answer.
He stepped further inside, his boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor. The whole place felt wrong. The kind of wrong he'd learned to trust. His gaze swept the room, alert, watching for movement—until his eyes landed on her.
Ali lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs.
Dean's stomach lurched, but he forced himself to stay focused. He closed the distance in seconds, dropping to a knee beside her.
His hand found her throat, fingers pressing against her pulse point.
There. Steady.
Relief flooded him, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he nudged her shoulder, first gently, then more forcefully. "Ali."
A low groan escaped her lips. Her body shifted, tense at first, before she blinked blearily up at him.
Dean exhaled. "You alright?"
Ali groaned again, reaching for his outstretched hand. "Define alright."
Dean pulled her up, steadying her as she swayed slightly on her feet. She winced, rubbing the back of her head.
"The first ghost I see in months, and it immediately shoves me down the damn stairs."
Dean huffed, his lips twitching. "Guess you're getting rusty."
Ali shot him a flat look. "Thanks for the concern."
Dean just shrugged, eyes scanning the room. "Where's Bobby?"
"Sam's looking for him," Dean answered.
Ali rolled her shoulders, still trying to shake off the ache. "The ghost—" she paused, her expression tightening. "It was Meg."
Dean's expression darkened. "Son of a bitch."
They moved through the house cautiously, Ali reloading her shotgun, Dean gripping his gun tighter. The air was still thick with that unnatural cold.
Then—
A whisper.
Ali barely had time to react before the temperature plummeted and something slammed into Dean, knocking him flat on his back.
Ali whipped around, shotgun raised. She fired—missed.
Dean groaned from the floor. "Yup. Rusty."
Ali shot him a glare before aiming again. This time, the salt round hit. The ghost evaporated in a swirl of mist.
Dean pushed himself up, rubbing the back of his head. "You're really off your game, huh?"
Ali huffed, reloading. "Maybe I just like keeping you on your toes."
But before Dean could fire back, the cold surged again.
Meg materialized right in front of Ali.
The ghost didn't hesitate. She threw Ali back with a violent force, sending her crashing over the table. Wood splintered beneath her as her body hit the ground with a thud.
Pain flared in every inch of her body.
Dean barely had time to react before Meg turned on him again.
His gun went flying as he dodged her first strike, rolling to grab the nearest thing he could—a heavy iron crowbar.
The ghost lunged.
Dean swung. Hard.
The impact connected, and Meg let out an unholy screech before vanishing.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Ali groaning from the floor.
Dean turned toward her. She was still sprawled over the wrecked table, staring up at the ceiling.
She let her head fall back against the floor with a sigh.
"I am so not cut out for this anymore."
The air in the panic room was heavy.
The iron-lined walls, the faint scent of gun oil, the quiet scrape of metal as Dean and Sam loaded more salt rounds—it was all familiar, all necessary. But that didn't make it any less suffocating.
Ali sat on the makeshift bed, one knee drawn up, fingers absently tracing over her collarbone. It was stupid, really, like rubbing the bruises would somehow make them disappear. But the ache was still there, a dull, lingering throb from Dean's hands around her throat.
She didn't blame him. Not really.
Didn't mean she wanted to talk about it.
Across the room, Sam shifted, glancing up from the shotgun shell he was filling. His brow furrowed as he caught sight of her hand ghosting over her collarbone. His gaze flicked to the bruises. He was watching her. Noticing.
"What happened to your neck?"
She didn't react at first, just kept her eyes fixed on the floor like she hadn't heard him.
Dean tensed beside him, his hands tightening around the shotgun he was loading.
Sam pressed. "Ali."
Ali barely spared him a glance. "Nothing."
Sam wasn't buying it. "Ali."
She sighed, shaking her head like it wasn't worth the conversation. "Just got knocked around a little. Comes with the job."
Sam's frown deepened. He set the salt shell down. "Knocked around by what?"
She exhaled through her nose, still not looking at him. "Just got shoved down the stairs by a ghost. Remember your good friend Meg?"
"I think ghosts don't leave bruises like that."
Ali let out a dry, humourless laugh, growing annoyed with his incessant questioning. "You don't get to suddenly give a shit now just because it's convenient for you."
Dean exhaled sharply through his nose.
Sam's expression hardened. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Ali levelled him with a look. "It means you don't get to pick and choose when I'm worth worrying about."
Bobby glanced up from his lore book, eyes flicking between them but saying nothing—for now.
Sam shook his head, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "That's not fair."
Ali scoffed. "Isn't it?"
Dean's hands stilled over the box of shells. He ran a hand down his face, then exhaled hard. "Guys."
Neither of them looked at him.
Dean's patience thinned. He snapped the lid on the ammo box shut, letting the sound cut through the tension. "Look, I know we're all just thrilled to be stuck in here together, but maybe—just maybe—we could try to make it a little less painful?"
Silence.
Ali's jaw clenched. She looked away first, flexing her fingers like she needed to work out the frustration.
Sam shook his head but didn't push further.
Bobby turned back to his book with a muttered, "Bout damn time."
Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Yeah. This was gonna be fun.
The silence in the panic room stretched, thick and heavy, until Bobby finally exhaled through his nose and muttered, "Well, ain't this a goddamn delight."
Dean shot him a look. "You got something, or you just enjoying the show?"
Bobby ignored the jab, flipping the lore book closed with a decisive thud. "I might have found something," he said. "This ain't just some run-of-the-mill haunting. It's bigger."
Ali raised a brow. "Bigger how?"
Bobby sighed, rubbing at his temple before looking up at them. "All these ghosts—Meg, the others—they didn't come back on their own. They were brought back. Forced into this."
Ali frowned, leaning forward slightly. "Forced? By who?"
Bobby's mouth set into a grim line. "Not a who—a what." He hesitated for only a beat before saying, "It's called the Rise of the Witnesses."
A chill crawled down Ali's spine at the weight in his voice.
Sam sat up straighter. "Wait, I've heard of that. It's an old prophecy, right?"
Bobby nodded. "Damn right it is. The Witnesses—people who died violent deaths, people who got screwed over by the supernatural—they're brought back against their will to haunt the living. And it ain't just random." He exhaled. "It's a sign."
Ali narrowed her eyes. "A sign of what?"
Bobby hesitated. "The Apocalypse."
Dean's voice cut in, low and edged with something uneasy. "You mean like… the end of the world?"
Bobby didn't answer right away, and that said enough.
Sam ran a hand down his face. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Ali let out a short, humourless laugh, glancing between them. "So, what, we're talking Heaven and Hell, fire and brimstone, Book of Revelation type shit?"
They all exchanged uneasy glances.
Bobby sighed, flipping the book open again. "Looks like it."
Ali rubbed a hand through her dark hair. "Great. Love that for us."
Dean shook his head, leaning back against the table. "So what does this mean? We got front-row seats to the apocalypse now?"
"Looks like it," Bobby muttered.
Ali exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Okay, well, let's park the end of the world talk for a second. How do we save our asses right now from becoming ghost food?"
Bobby turned a page, scanning quickly before stabbing a finger at a passage. "There's a ritual," he said. "It'll put the Witnesses to rest, stop 'em from coming after us again."
Dean straightened. "Alright. What do we need?"
Bobby rubbed his beard. "A few ingredients I've already got. But the catch is, it has to be done over an open flame."
Sam frowned. "So? We light a match."
Bobby shook his head. "Not just any flame. Needs to be big—fireplace size." He looked up at them. "Which means we gotta do it in the library."
Ali blinked. "Perfect," she muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because nothing bad has ever happened when we leave the nice, safe panic room."
Dean pushed up from his seat, cracking his neck. "Well, unless you got a better idea, kid, I say we saddle up."
Ali rolled her eyes but got to her feet, stretching out her aching limbs.
Sam was already loading salt rounds into his shotgun, and Bobby was gathering the supplies.
Dean checked his weapon before looking at them all. "Alright. Let's move."
They all braced themselves before stepping out of the safety of the panic room and into the unknown.
The library was dark, the only light coming from the fire flickering in the old stone hearth. Bobby knelt in front of it, muttering in Latin as he ground the last of the ingredients together in a bowl. His voice was steady, but the tension in his shoulders was impossible to miss.
Ali stood beside him, shotgun in hand, her grip firm despite the dull ache in her bruised fingers. She kept her back to Bobby, scanning the room, her body tight with anticipation.
Footsteps echoed down the hall—Sam and Dean, moving quickly, gathering the last of the supplies they needed. They weren't fast enough.
The air turned frigid.
Ali tensed.
A whisper, just behind her ear.
She spun.
A ghost lunged at her.
She fired—
The salt round hit, sending the spirit dissipating into mist.
Ali exhaled sharply, readjusting her stance. The gun felt both familiar and foreign in her hands, the weight of it throwing her off just enough to make her second-guess her aim.
Another rush of cold air.
She turned, firing again—
Missed.
The ghost slammed into her, knocking her back. She hit the ground hard, her breath punching out of her lungs.
"Shit—"
She rolled, barely avoiding a clawed hand reaching for her throat. She grabbed the shotgun again, cocked it, and fired at point-blank range.
The ghost vanished.
Ali pushed herself up, heart pounding, barely getting to her feet before another one came at her.
Bobby kept chanting, his voice unwavering despite the chaos.
"Dean!" Ali shouted.
Footsteps pounded down the hall.
Dean and Sam burst into the room, dropping the last of the ingredients into Bobby's bowl.
Dean shot a ghost trying to sneak up behind Ali. "You're welcome," he grunted.
Ali huffed, spinning and firing at another spirit. "I had it handled."
Dean smirked but didn't argue.
Bobby's chant grew louder, his voice almost drowned out by the shrieking of the ghosts.
Another spirit rushed Ali.
She fired—missed.
It knocked her sideways, sending her sprawling across the floor.
Pain flared through her bruised body as she hit the ground again.
Dean fired over her shoulder, sending the ghost away. "You definitely need target practice."
Ali groaned, pushing herself up. "Not the time, Winchester."
"Just saying," Dean muttered.
Sam was already at Bobby's side, helping him toss the last of the ingredients into the fire.
The flames roared, turning an eerie shade of blue.
A sudden, violent gust of wind ripped through the room.
The ghosts screamed—high, keening wails—before vanishing in an instant.
Silence fell.
Ali exhaled, letting her head drop back against the floor as she caught her breath.
Dean smirked down at her. "So… about that target practice."
Ali rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "Shut up."
