AN: Hello! Meant to update earlier in the week. I had the next couple of chapters already written, but then I decided it needed this chapter first. So here it is:

Enjoy x


The morning was quiet, for once. No ghostly whispers. No creaking stairs. Just the low hum of the old space heater and the occasional clink of a spoon in a mug.

Ali sat curled into the farthest corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, an oversized hoodie swallowing her whole. Her fingers were wrapped tight around a steaming mug of tea, and she was drinking it like her life depended on it—because honestly? It kind of did.

Her throat was still raw. Every swallow a burn. But the tea helped. A little.

The box of herbal crap Bobby had found in the back of some cabinet was half-empty now, and she was pretty sure she'd tried every honey-to-lemon ratio known to man. Didn't matter. It was something to do. Something to hold. Something that wasn't trembling hands or the memory of airless panic.

The silence was almost peaceful—until it wasn't.

Dean walked in, scratching the back of his neck, hoodie half-zipped, hair sticking up like he'd lost a fight with the pillow. His footsteps were soft, but the room still shifted with him—like it always did. The kind of presence you felt before you saw.

He glanced over and offered her a sleepy half-smile. "Mornin', tea gremlin."

Ali raised a brow, her voice raspier than she wanted it to be. "You say that like I haven't earned the title."

Dean crossed to the fridge, grabbed a beer—yes, at 9AM, because of course—and popped the cap with a flick of his wrist.

"Fair. You've had, what, six cups in the last twelve hours?"

"Seven," she said, sipping. "And counting."

Dean took a long drink from the bottle, then leaned against the counter. "You, uh… planning to take on a ghost tea-drunk?"

Ali blinked at him. "Are you planning to fight one hungover?"

Dean raised his bottle like a toast. "It's called balance."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a menace."

He grinned, eyes twinkling now. "Speaking of menaces—how's the spine? You took that staircase like a damn action hero."

Ali narrowed her eyes. "You did not just make a joke about me falling down the stairs."

"Hey, you landed on your feet," he said. "Eventually."

Ali gave him a deadpan glare over the rim of her mug.

Dean smirked. "That's the look. There it is."

And for a second—just a second—it felt normal.

Easy.

Then Dean walked past the couch.

And his shoulder brushed hers.

Ali flinched.

It wasn't big. Just a twitch. A jolt. Like a current snapped through her spine and made her bones brace for impact. Her breath caught. The tea nearly sloshed over the rim of her mug.

Dean froze mid-step.

So did she.

The moment stretched, too long, suspended in that breathless limbo where neither of them knew if they were supposed to pretend it didn't happen—or say something they weren't ready to say.

Dean stood behind her for a second longer, then cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said quietly.

Not like he bumped her.

Like he hurt her.

Like he knew.

Ali didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her throat wasn't ready, and neither was she.

Dean moved to the table, sat down heavily in one of the old wooden chairs, and stared at his beer like it might hold an answer he didn't want to hear out loud.

Ali brought her mug back to her lips, but her hands were shaking now.

The tea didn't taste like anything anymore.

Her breath was too shallow. Her chest too tight. She hated it—hated that one touch, that one moment, could reduce her to a live wire, sparking with fear she couldn't explain fast enough to kill.

She glanced at Dean. Just a flick of her eyes.

His shoulders were hunched. His jaw clenched. The way he sat, the tension in his hands—it was all apology, without a single word spoken.

And that almost made it worse.

Because she didn't blame him. Not really.

But her body didn't know that.

The quiet pressed down again, thick and aching. Dean didn't look up. Ali didn't move.

Somewhere deep in the house, a floorboard creaked. The heater rattled softly. A bird chirped once outside, sharp and jarring against the stillness.

And for a moment, neither of them were warriors. Or survivors. Or anything strong at all.

They were just two people in a room full of silence, with a thousand things between them that couldn't be undone.

Dean sat at the table, beer sweating in his hand, staring at the wood grain like it might open up and swallow him whole if he looked hard enough. Part of him wished it would.

She'd flinched.

Like he was a threat. Like she wasn't sure what was coming next.

Like she hadn't already lived through the worst of him.

He ran a hand down his face, fingers dragging over tired skin. He hadn't shaved. He hadn't slept. Not really. He just existed. With that moment on repeat in his head like a scratched vinyl record. Over and over.

They were laughing.

He made her laugh. Just for a second. He saw it—the sparkle in her eye, the way her mouth twitched when she tried to glare at him. It felt like a win. A thread of something familiar in a world that had gotten too damn weird.

And then he walked past her.

And she flinched.

Like he was going to do it again.

Like her body remembered something her heart kept trying to forgive.

Dean set the bottle down. He didn't want it anymore. Not really.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye—still curled on the couch, still gripping that mug like it was the only thing holding her together.

She didn't look at him.

And that—that—was the worst part.

Because she was always the one who did. The one who checked in. The one who met him with dry sarcasm and sharp eyes and that half-smirk that made the weight on his chest feel a little less crushing.

But not now.

Now she just sat there, tea gone cold, shoulders hunched like she was folding into herself.

She didn't trust him. Not yet.

Not like before.

And maybe she wouldn't again.

He could live with the bruises on her neck. They'd fade.

But this?

This would scar.


The backyard behind Bobby's house was a patchy sprawl of dead grass and half-frozen mud. The wind cut through it in sharp little bursts, stealing the warmth from her fingers no matter how tightly she clenched them.

Ali stood a few feet from the fence line, her jumper pulled up to hide the bruises on her neck, fingers wrapped around the grip of Bobby's old Glock. A shotgun sat at her feet. A row of soda cans lined the top of the fence like taunts. She stared them down like they owed her something.

She lifted the gun. Lined up her shot.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She grit her teeth, tried to breathe through it. In. Out. Hold steady.

BANG.

The bullet hit the dirt a few inches wide.

"Dammit," she muttered.

She reset. Tried again.

Another miss.

She exhaled sharply, lowering the gun and flexing her hands like she could force the tremor out of them.

Get over it, she told herself. You've been shooting since you were seven. You know this.

Another breath. Another attempt.

Another miss.

"You're too tense."

Ali flinched, almost dropped the gun.

She turned her head slightly and saw Dean approaching from the edge of the yard. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jacket, his brow furrowed—not in judgment, but something else. Worry. Regret. Something that made her want to shrink away and snap at him in the same breath.

"I'm fine," she said flatly, turning back to the cans.

Dean stopped a few feet behind her. "Didn't say you weren't."

Ali raised the gun again, but the shake was worse now. Her muscles were tight, jaw clenched, shoulders up around her ears.

She fired.

The bullet hit the fence with a dull thud, nowhere near the target.

"Try holding your breath before you squeeze the trigger."

Ali stiffened, not turning. "I know how to shoot, Dean."

"I know you do."

He stepped up beside her, keeping a careful distance.

"You're flinching."

She scoffed. "Yeah. No shit."

Dean nodded, quiet. "It's not just your hand. It's your whole body. You're not grounded."

Ali set the pistol down with more force than necessary. "Maybe because I've been slammed into the ground enough lately."

Dean didn't argue. Just looked at her for a moment, then knelt to pick up the pistol. He checked it, reloaded it, handed it back to her grip-first.

"Try again."

Ali hesitated, then took it.

Dean stepped closer. "You're anticipating the recoil. That's why you're missing."

Ali exhaled, low and sharp. "Thanks for the tip, Winchester. That definitely wasn't what I already said to myself five times."

He didn't rise to the bait. Just stood there, quiet.

She hated the way her hands trembled when she lowered the gun again. Hated how she couldn't make them stop. Like her body was still caught in the chokehold, still scrambling for air that she already had back. Like it didn't know she was safe now.

Dean must've noticed.

"You want help or not?" he asked, voice low.

Ali didn't answer right away. She stared at the gun in her hands like it had betrayed her.

"…Fine," she muttered.

Dean moved up beside her—close, but not touching. Careful. Measured. Like she was something breakable, and he'd already broken her once.

"Okay," he said. "Start over. Feet shoulder-width apart."

She adjusted.

"Left foot slightly forward. Don't lock your knees."

Ali rolled her eyes but did it anyway.

Dean's voice was steady. Calm. The same tone he used when patching up a wound or building a salt circle. All business, no heat.

"Grip the gun tighter. Not a death grip—just firm. Control, not panic."

Ali let out a slow breath. Tried to steady her fingers.

"Now breathe in. Hold it at the top."

She raised the gun. It wavered just a little.

Dean's voice dropped quieter. "You're not back there. This isn't a fight. It's a shot."

Ali's throat clenched.

"Don't pull the trigger. Squeeze it."

Her hands still trembled.

"I can't—" she muttered.

"You can," he said, voice low. "I've seen you."

Her jaw clenched.

"You're not broken, Ali."

That's when the first tear slipped down her cheek—quiet, unexpected, immediately wiped away.

She squeezed the trigger.

BANG.

The can on the far right flew off the fence, tumbling into the dirt.

Ali blinked.

Dean let out a small breath, a hint of a smile ghosting over his face. "There you go."

She didn't smile back. Just reset. Lined up another shot. This time, the tremble wasn't gone—but it was smaller. Manageable.

BANG.

Another can down.

"You're doing good," Dean said.

Ali didn't reply.

After a beat, she lowered the gun. Her breath came out shaky, fogging in the cold air. Her hands still weren't steady. Not really. But they were better. And that was something.

She looked over at him finally.

Dean was watching her—not the gun, not the targets, her. Like he was trying to read the bruises under her hoodie. Like he was still waiting for her to flinch again.

"I'm not scared of you," she said, quiet.

Dean looked down. "You flinched this morning."

"Yeah." She didn't deny it. "Doesn't mean I'm scared of you."

He nodded once. "Okay."

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Then he added, so softly she almost missed it:

"I'm scared of me."

Ali looked away.

The cold bit deeper. Her fingers were numb now. She set the gun down on the fence and shoved her hands into her pockets.

"You're not the only one with ghosts, Dean."

They didn't say anything else.

But they stood there a while longer, together in the cold, facing down targets that weren't made of tin and soda. And when Ali picked up the gun again, Dean didn't move away.

They didn't talk much on the walk back to the house.

Dean kept a half-step behind her, like he didn't trust himself not to get too close. Ali didn't look over her shoulder once. The weight of the pistol in her jacket pocket felt heavier than it should've—but at least her hands weren't shaking anymore. Not visibly.

Inside, the house was quiet, the kind of hush that felt deliberate. Like it was waiting for something to break.

Ali headed straight for the kitchen. Her throat was raw from the cold, and she needed something warm—anything warm.

Dean lingered near the front door, like going any farther in would make it too real. After a few seconds, he turned and disappeared toward the garage, where Bobby kept his tools and his more emotionally suffocating silences.

Ali didn't follow.

She filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and leaned on the counter, staring at the chipped tile. She wasn't crying. She wasn't anything. She just felt tired. Tired in her muscles, in her skin, in her thoughts.

The kettle hissed. She poured, ignoring how her hands still twitched.

Then:

"Tea again?" Sam's voice, low and careful, from the doorway.

Ali didn't jump. She'd heard him coming, even if she hadn't acknowledged it. She didn't look up, either.

"Helps my throat," she said simply, wrapping her hands around the mug.

Sam stepped into the room. "You and Dean were out back."

She took a slow sip. "Yep."

"How was it?"

"Loud." Another sip. Her voice was hoarse, barely there.

Sam released a pained breath, crossed his arms, and leant against the doorframe. "Ali…" But she didn't let him finish, pushing past him and up to her room before he could complete whatever it was he was going to say.


It was past midnight when Ali padded into the living room, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, and found Dean on the couch—half a bottle deep into something strong and brown, staring at the muted TV screen like it owed him an apology.

He didn't look up.

"You're gonna kill your liver before the angels get a chance," she said lightly, heading for the kitchen.

Dean let out a low grunt. "Worth it."

Ali came back a minute later with her own glass—something clear and bitter, stolen from Bobby's stash. She dropped onto the couch beside him with a huff, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth.

"Do you think he's real?" Dean asked after a minute.

Ali looked at him, brow furrowed. "Castiel?"

Dean shook his head once. "No. I mean… yeah. I know he's real. I stabbed him, remember?" He let out a sharp exhale. "Didn't do a damn thing."

He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it might have the answers he didn't.

"I meant Lucifer."

The name sat in the air like a gun on the table.

Ali blinked. Her throat tightened.

She didn't answer right away.

Dean didn't push. Just waited.

Finally, she set her mug down and leaned back, pulling a blanket around her.

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I didn't even think angels were real until a week ago. Now I'm not sure what's scarier—that he is, or that he isn't."

Dean looked up, eyes locking on hers.

She continued, voice low and even:

"If he's real, then everything changes. Heaven and Hell, the Apocalypse… it's not just lore anymore. It's prophecy. Destiny. All of it."

"But if he isn't real…" She trailed off for a moment. "Then what the hell is Castiel warning us about?"

Dean swallowed hard. His jaw worked like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite get the words past the fear in his throat.

"He looked at me," Dean said finally, voice hoarse. "In that barn. Like I was supposed to know something. Like I was already part of some plan."

"I keep thinking…" He shook his head. "If there's an angel, and he pulled me out of Hell… then why? Why me? Why now?"

Ali's fingers twitched around the edge of the blanket.

"Maybe it's not just about you," she said softly. "Maybe it's about what's coming."

Dean let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh, but there was no humour in it.

"Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of."

They lapsed into silence again, but it was heavier this time. Not awkward—just weighted. Like the whole world was teetering on the edge of something, and neither of them knew which way it was going to fall.

Then Dean said, almost too quiet to hear:

"If Lucifer's real… what does that make me?"

Ali turned toward him. "What do you mean?"

Dean didn't look at her.

"I was down there," he replied. "I keep thinking… if the Devil's real, if he's walking, whispering, pulling strings—what if I'm already part of whatever game he's playing?"

Ali's heart cracked a little.

She didn't reach for him. Didn't move.

But her voice was steady when she said:

"You're not."

Dean finally looked at her.

"How do you know?"

She held his gaze.

"Because you still ask the question."

Dean's eyes dropped again, but the tight line of his jaw eased, just a little.

The silence returned, but now it pulsed—like there was something else between them, something unsaid that had been waiting for its moment.

Ali shifted, adjusting the blanket around her. She hesitated. Her fingers tapped once against the side of her mug, then stilled.

"Can I ask you something?" she said quietly.

Dean glanced at her, guarded again. "Shoot."

She looked down at the steam rising from her cup, voice low—almost like she was afraid saying it too loud might shatter something.

"That night. When you…" She swallowed, and his shoulders immediately tensed. "Do you… remember what you were dreaming about?"

Dean didn't answer.

She didn't look at him, not yet. Just kept her eyes fixed on the tea, bracing herself.

"It's okay if you don't," she added quickly. "I just… I've been wondering. Trying to figure out what you saw. If it was me. If I looked like—" Her voice caught. "Like something else."

That was when she finally looked at him.

Dean's face was tight, unreadable. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He rubbed his hands together like he was trying to ground himself in the feel of them—trying to decide what to say.

"I don't know," he said finally. Voice low. Rough. "It was Hell. It's always Hell."

Ali's chest tightened.

Dean let out a slow, shaky breath. "It's like… flashes. Screaming. Blood. Sometimes I'm the one getting torn apart. Sometimes I'm the one holding the knife."

He didn't look at her.

"That night…" He trailed off, then shook his head. "It was bad. Worse than usual. But I don't know what I saw when I woke up. It wasn't you. Not to me. I swear."

Ali nodded slowly, but her hands gripped the blanket tighter.

"Okay," she said, barely above a whisper.

But her mind was spinning anyway.

Worse than usual.

Sometimes I'm the one holding the knife.

He didn't say it outright—but he didn't have to.

The pieces painted enough of a picture.

Ali looked down into her mug again, and then—softly, but clearly:

"Did you ever see Tyler down there?"

Dean blinked. Slowly. His entire body went still.

He didn't answer.

He looked away instead, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he was stalling, like the words wouldn't come easy.

"I don't really… remember most of it," he said finally, voice rough. "Not clearly."

But Ali shook her head.

"Don't do that." Her voice cracked, but she didn't back down. "I know that's bullshit."

Dean's jaw clenched. His fists curled in his lap.

He didn't argue.

He just swallowed hard.

"No," he said finally. "I didn't see him."

Ali stared at him.

"Are you lying?"

Dean closed his eyes for a second. Like the weight of the question physically hurt.

"Ali…"

"Are you lying?" she asked again, firmer now.

Dean opened his eyes—and this time, he looked right at her. The shadows in his expression didn't shift. He looked wrecked. Haunted.

But he didn't look away.

"No," he said. "I didn't see Tyler."

She held his gaze a moment longer, searching for something she wouldn't find. Then finally, she nodded once. Tight. Quick.

But that didn't make it easier.

For a while, they sat like that. Silent. Drinking. Not okay, but at least not alone.

Then Sam walked in.

Dean glanced over. "Can't sleep?"

Sam just gave him a look. He hesitated a second longer, then crossed the room and sat in the armchair opposite them. His gaze flicked between Dean and Ali—who was already taking another sip without acknowledging him.

The silence that followed was different.

Thicker.

Heavier.

Ali shifted, glancing at Sam for half a second before looking away. "This is fun," she muttered. "We should bottle this tension and sell it to demons. Real crowd-pleaser."

Dean snorted.

Sam didn't.

Ali looked at him again. "What? You got nothing to say?"

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You're the one who's barely said anything to me in three days."

Ali raised her brows. "Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't realize ignoring you was such a hardship."

Dean sat up a little straighter, sensing the slope getting slippery. "Alright. Let's not—"

"I got an idea," Ali interrupted, draining the rest of her glass. "Let's play a game. Like we're friends or something."

Dean eyed her warily. "Ali…"

She grabbed the bottle off the table and poured another round. "C'mon. 'I Never.' Classic. Stupid. Perfect for unhealthy coping."

Dean sighed, but took his glass back. "This is a bad idea."

Sam, to his credit, didn't argue. He just sat back and waited.

Ali smiled—tight and sharp. "I'll start. I never… got stitches from someone who was definitely not a licensed medical professional."

All three of them drank.

Dean scoffed. "If we don't count Bobby's kitchen as a hospital, none of us would be here."

Dean took the next round. "I never… exorcised a demon with a busted Latin pronunciation and still made it work."

Ali downed her drink. "Listen, the demon's the one that panicked. I was improvising."

Dean laughed, tension bleeding out a little. "Dumbass still fled. You said 'Oreo Potentia'."

"It sounded right!" she shot back.

They all chuckled. Just for a second—it felt easy.

Sam went next. "I never flirted with someone for information and ended up on an actual date."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam before taking a drink. "Okay, that was targeted."

Sam rolled his eyes a little, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "That's the point, Dean."

Ali chuckled, rolling her glass in her hand. "I never impersonated a federal agent using an ID I printed in a gas station parking lot."

Sam and Dean both took a sip of their drinks. The younger Winchester looked up from his glass, his eyes catching Ali's for a second. "I never thought sarcasm and dollar store hair dye could solve all my problems."

The air shifted. Something in Ali's expression darkened, her fingers tightening around the glass. She took a sip.

Dean's eyes flicked between them, but he stayed quiet.

Ali's smile was tighter now. Her tone sharpened just a little.

"I never let someone walk away because it was easier than apologising."

Sam took a drink. Slowly.

There was pause. The air grew tense.

Dean tried to lighten it again. He cleared his throat. "Alright, alright, back to dumb stuff. Uh—"

He thought for a second.

"I never got caught breaking into a morgue by actual cops."

Ali and Sam didn't move, their eyes still locked on each other, like they hadn't even heard him.

"I never left without saying goodbye," Sam shot back, his voice still even, but sharper now.

The silence snapped tight.

Dean froze, glass halfway to his lips.

Ali's smile disappeared. "That's real cute, Sam." She took a drink. Then, she leant forward, voice cool, even.

"I never acted like the only one who was grieving."

Sam's face went cold.

Dean's brows drew down. "Okay—"

Sam cuts in. "I never judged someone for their grief while pretending I had none of my own."

Ali stared at him.

Then drank.

The room was silent. No laughter. No movement except the subtle grip Dean tightened around his glass.

"I never used my grief to justify my own shitty decisions," Ali snapped back, her tone shifting to something lethal.

Sam didn't move.

Dean watched him.

Then Sam drank.

Ali didn't even look surprised.

The Dean spoke up, trying to cut the tension. "Alright, maybe we're done—"

But Sam cut in. "I never made myself so hard to reach that it was easier to stop trying."

Ali scoffed. She didn't drink this time.

"I never turned my back on the people who would've done anything to help me."

Sam's eyes flashed. Ali didn't wait to see if he'd drink, cutting in immediately with another question, her fuse about to blow.

"I never played martyr so I wouldn't have to admit I fucked up."

Dean held up a hand, firm. "Guys—"

Sam pushed on, not backing down.

"I never ran away just to make someone chase me."

Ali stood. Glass in hand.

"I never let a demon crawl inside me and then acted like I had no choice."

Sam looked like she just punched the air out of him.

Dean stood too. "Ali."

Ali didn't back down. Her voice was shaking, but not from fear.

"You wanna talk about trust, Sam? You think I don't remember exactly what happened. You talk about people walking away—you disappeared first. I just stopped pretending you'd come back."

Sam was frozen. Breathless. Because she's wasn't wrong—and that made it so much worse.

Dean stepped between them, arm out. "That's enough."

But she was already walking. The bottle wobbled on the table as she went, the clink of glass on wood the only sound in the room.

She didn't slam the door—but it closed with enough weight to feel like one.

Dean stared after her.

Sam exhaled hard and leaned back, running a hand down his face. He didn't say anything. He just stared at the bottle like it betrayed him.

Dean exhaled slowly. "Well," he muttered. "That went great."