glimmeringwinchester

[glimmeringwinchester]

right so this next update of love the law is shaping up to be unbelievably long, we’re at 10k words 11 minutes into the episode 👀

[glimmeringwinchester]

john and mary winchester are mine and grace’s number one opp

hell house

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — grace winchester has more skeletons in the closet than she and her can fight, and as they race against the clock to find their missing father, slowly but surely everything unknown comes into the light

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) — canon supernatural violence, gore, and themes. mentions of past abuse, ptsd, anxiety, indications of claustrophobia, sickness, john winchester being an absolute asshole. deans a dick (what’s new) but he’s soft with his sister, oc au

series: love was the law

Grace Winchester rolls her eyes as she watches Dean reach across the car with a disposable spoon in hand, his smile wide and a little too mischievous as he wedges the thin plastic into their brother's slightly agape mouth. Sam is passed out in the passenger seat, his seat reclined despite the person that sits behind him, and his head is falling slack to the side as he catches up on much needed rest. The days had been long in the seven months that had played out since Dean had pulled them both away from life at Stanford, and instead back to the lives they’d lived before, though not by choice. Grace remembers how long the days used to feel when she was only a kid, but for whatever reason, the last seven months have felt excruciating. She can only sympathize with Sam as she watches him sleep, light colored eyes ghosting across the subtle motions of his breathing – the only indication he’s actually alive up there.

She would’ve found the energy to smile in wry amusement if her head didn’t feel so heavy on her shoulders. Her body is slouched against the door, her knees pulled up to her chest if only to allow Sam the space he needs to sleep, and her head cheek pressed against the window somewhat uncomfortably; though she appreciates the coolness that spreads across her flushed skin too much to adjust her position. Her eyes are glassy, bloodshot and stinging, but she blinks rapidly despite the pain, determined to keep herself awake as nausea pools in her lower belly.

She manages a weak eye roll as Dean finagles his phone into a specific position, peeling his eyes away from the road to snap a picture that will certainly be used as leverage in the next battle over music choice. She barely has the time to prepare for him cranking up the volume, an involuntary wince making her aware of the sudden soreness in her muscles as she leans away from the abrupt sound, unable to deny the way it seems to pierce through her skull like pinpricks.

Sam bolts awake, his eyes wide and panicked for a handful of seconds before he’s batting at the spoon between his lips, a grimace of utter annoyance overtaking his once relaxed expression. Dean couldn’t care less, grinning with pride in the driver's seat as he drums along to the chorus of a song Grace has heard too many times since only last week. He turns his head to Sam, eyes squinted as he beams, though Sam’s not easily amused by Dean’s clear enjoyment.

“Ha ha. Very funny.” He huffs, fixing the position of his seat with one hand while the other reaches for the stereo, turning the music down to an acceptable decibel, though Grace still thinks it's too loud as she barely conceals another involuntary wince.

“Sorry. Not a lot of scenery here in East Texas. You kinda gotta make your own.” Dean apologizes, though both of his siblings know he’s not being the slightest bit sincere. Grace wants to roll her eyes, but a deep and incessant pressure at the front of her temple prevents her from so much as looking to her left.

“Man, we’re not kids anymore, Dean. We’re not gonna start that crap up again.” Sam scoffs, his jaw clenched as he expresses his annoyance, his eyes trailing toward the backseat as he searches for signs of life from Grace, hardly reacting when he finds her curled up into a tight ball, blanket ditched around her ankles, and her eyes closed as she gnaws on her lower lip. He can see exhaustion rolling off of her body – her eyes sunken, her face flush – and so he assumes she’s annoyed, not treading any deeper into that isolated spiral of thoughts.

“Start what up?” Dean, ever the antagonistic older brother, reaches into the backseat, his palm tapping against Grace’s blanket covered ankles in a silent greeting. He can only chuckle beneath his breath when her foot kicks out at him in response, an annoyed huff rolling off of her lips as she curls further toward the seats, just out of reach from his assault should he try again.

“That prank stuff. It’s stupid, and it always escalates.” Sam groans, slapping Dean’s hand when he reaches out for Grace again, his eyes rolling when Dean only shakes his shoulder in admitted defeat, looking entirely too smug about irritating his younger siblings for his own entertainment.

“What’s the matter, Sammy? You afraid you’re gonna get a little nair in your shampoo again, huh?” Grace doesn’t even have to see her brothers to know that one quip was enough to entirely change Sam’s attitude, his ego still bruised from the epic nair prank of 1990. Grace can only wonder how boys never mature past the age of fourteen, unable to believe they’re actually considering rehashing ‘prank wars’.

“All right. Just remember, you started it.” Sam can barely conceal his smirk as he shakes his head, eyes now glancing out the window, watching as rows of lush trees blur together into evergreen flashes.

“Oh, bring it on, Baldy.” Dean smirks, though his eyes flicker to Grace in the rear view mirror, “You in, G?” He sings smugly, only able to laugh in amusement when he receives nothing more than Grace throwing the bird his way in response. She’d never wanted to be part of their prank wars as a kid either, but Dean was never so quick to relent, always effectively dragging her into them whether that be by deception, or simply pranking her anyways.

“Where are we, anyway?” Sam asks, changing the topic as he glances out at the passing scenery.

Dean glances out the window, his face a neutral expression as he assesses the road surrounding them, never able to truly be secure in the temporary safety they find between places. Grace pretends not to notice the fault in Dean’s stoic persona as she shifts in the backseat, tugging off the sweatshirt that’s only trapping in unwanted heat. “A few hours outside of Richardson. Give me the lowdown again.” Dean reaches into the backseat again, although this time his gesture isn’t so playful, but softly he catches his sister's attention as Sam rustles through their current case information. “You should get some sleep. Need you at your best.” Grace wants to remind Dean of all the sleepless nights that haunt their pasts, but instead she nods, finally finding a moment of ease where not every part of her body is aching and churning at once.

She just barely hears Sam begin his refresher when her head lulls to the side, resting just below the leather headrest as she finally submits to the exhaustion that’s been crushing her for hours.

When she wakes, the Impala is parked in front of a record store, and Sam is ruffling through his bag that’s on the floor beside her feet. Grace bats his hand away with an exasperated eye roll, ignoring the wave of simultaneous nausea and dizziness that hits her as she sits up. Her muscles ache at the change in position, and she’s vaguely aware of her shoulder cracking as she rustles through the bag instead, pulling out the worn leather wallet she knows her idiot brother was searching for. Sam offers a bashful smile, his eyebrows furrowing after a handful of seconds as he takes in her appearance, but Grace only shrugs him off, cracking her fingers as she waits for Dean to make the first move, able to grasp why they’re here without the step-by-step break down she knows Sam wants to give her.

“Let's roll, Gracie.” Dean whistles as he opens the door, only acknowledging his younger sister, aware of how Sam wants to roll his eyes in annoyance every time he’s singled out. Grace follows his motions, though unlike her brother who has entirely reframed his mannerisms by the time their doors close in tandem, it takes her a minute to gain her bearings, only managing to deflect the discomfort radiating through her body as she steps ahead of Sam, through the door he’s holding open for her with that same stupid furrow in his eyebrow.

Her eyes are immediately drawn to a vinyl on one of the farthest shelves from the door, and naturally she lets herself float towards it, aware of how Dean and Sam are trailing behind her instinctively, though Dean’s eyes are definitely wandering as he gathers his critiques.

Grace looks up as a young looking guy approaches, a beat up record in his hands that he flips with indifference, his eyes scanning the black and white labels that differentiate the slots on the shelves. She picks up the record she’d been eyeing, effortlessly playing the role of inquisitive customer. “Gentlemen, ma’am, help you with anything?” The man asks, his eyes trailing over Grace an unnecessary second time, though he seems innocent enough as he lingers on the design against her chest. She’s only vaguely aware of the fact that she’d never changed out of her Spice Girls t-shirt, and that she’s holding one of their albums in her hands; definitely a conversation starter when standing in the middle of a music store.

“Yeah. Are you Craig Thurston?” Sam asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he analyzes the employee. Grace turns the vinyl over in her hands, reading over the tracklist as she tunes into the conversation happening in front of her.

“I am.” Craig nods, reaching over the rack as he shuffles through alphabetized slots. Grace can only roll her eyes at the sight, her thought of how boys never mature past puberty coming back once again.

“Oh. Well, we’re reporters with the Dallas Morning News. I’m Dean. This is Sam. Grace.” Grace brings her eyes away from the vinyl at the mention of her name, offering Craig a polite smile as she fights to stay balanced on her feet, even the slightest movement amplifying the dizziness that’s fogging up her senses.

Craig smiles at the information, his posture relaxing as he nods along to Dean’s fabrication. “No way. Yeah, I’m a writer, too. I write for my school’s lit magazine.” Despite his earlier display of reaching over the shelves, Craig peels from his post, stalking around the shelves as he grabs a seemingly sought after vinyl, showing no indication of contemplation as he reaches for the slot and pulls one up.

“Well, good for you, Morrison.” Dean huffs out a laugh, his smile entirely insincere as she gazes down at the vinyls, batting Grace’s arm when he notices one of his favorite bands at the very front, his fascination somewhat amusing as Grace’s lips quirk into a smirk.

“Um, we’re doing an article on local haunting, and rumor has it you might know about one.” Sam sways slightly, appearing hesitant, uncertain even, but both Grace and Dean know he’s anything but. They’ve learned a thing or two in the decades they’ve been doing this job, and one of those things is people are always more inclined to help you out when they think they have an opportunity to gossip or gloat.

“You mean the Hell House?” There’s a certain tick in Craig’s eyebrow that has Grace hooked, her eyes analyzing his movements because she knows her brothers won’t focus so much on the physical. They’ve always focused more on voice inflection, but Grace has always known a thing or two about body language.

“That’s the one.” Dean nods, his smirk almost condescending as he stares Craig down, but the employee hardly bristles, a subtle glint of arrogance in his eyes as he inclines his body just the slightest inch towards Dean, like he’s fascinated, or maybe transfixed, by the things that he knows – or thinks he knows.

“I didn’t think there was anything to the story.”

“So why don’t you tell us the story?” Grace smiles sweetly, her head tilting to the side, allowing her thin hair to spill over her shoulder. She’s aware of how her voice wavered in the middle, and how it feels like hellfire’s tearing through her throat as she swallows, but she makes no indication that anything’s wrong, keeping her eyes fixed on Craig.

“Well, supposedly back in the ‘30s, this farmer, Mordechai Morduch, used to live in the house with his six daughters. It was during the depression, his crops were failing. Didn’t have enough money to even feed his own children. So I guess that’s when he went off the deep end.” Grace tries not to wince at the mention of hungry children, but the grimace that wrinkles her upper lip is a dead give away that it strikes her. Sam doesn’t notice, his interest entirely in Craig, much to her relief.

“How?”

Grace rolls her eyes as Dean sneaks up beside her, throwing his arm over her shoulder as he tugs her into his side annoyingly. She has to fight the nausea that threatens to climb up her throat at his jostling, elbowing him between the ribs as she pulls herself away.

“Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quick rather than starve to death…so he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop. But he just strung them up, one after another. And then when he was all finished, he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl who goes inside.” Craig looks entirely too fascinated with the harrowing details of the story, his eyes becoming wide as he loses himself in the details like a kid fascinated by a fairytale. Grace only barely hides her grimace as she continues to analyze his posture.

“Where’d you learn all this?” Dean inclines his head interestingly, squaring his shoulders as he stares Craig down.

“My cousin Dana told me. I don’t know where she heard it from. You gotta realize, I didn’t believe this for a second.” There’s a quip in his tone that has Sam shifting on his feet, and Grace isn’t blind to the way Craig’s fists clench in his pockets, that gleam of fascination slowly becoming a mixture of terror and uncertainty.

“But now you do?” Sam questions, his tone somewhat incredulous though there’s a hitch toward the end that keeps Craig hooked and spilling.

“Guys, I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to god, I don’t want to go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?” Grace understands the fear that becomes fascination all too well, and she offers Craig a sympathetic smile as Dean and Sam lock eyes, the elder of the two extending his appreciation toward Craig before he tapped Grace’s forearm, already beginning to lead the way back to the door.

She wobbles on her feet as she follows after him, looking over at Sam when his fingers ghost across the small of her back, reaching to catch her if she fell. She ignores the questioning look in his eyes, picking up the pace as she aims to catch up with Dean, eager to get away from Sam and his incessant questioning and analyzing.

She breathes a sigh of relief when the cool air hits her as she exits the music store, her flush face seemingly burning as its assaulted by the chilly wind around them, but all she does is deflate at the exposure, temporary relief settling in before she’s rushing into the backseat, not wanting to hold up the boys or raise anymore suspicion than she already has.

Despite how warm she feels, she reaches for the hoodie she’d thrown on the floor hours earlier, knowing Dean’ll grow suspicious if she doesn’t react to the cold soon. For men that rarely pay any attention to minor details, somehow they always pick up on the things that Grace wants to be left alone. She flips Sam off when she catches his eye in the rear view mirror, pleased when she watches his lips quirk into an amused smirk, his eyes no longer so clouded by concern. She hates that lying to them comes so easily.

Sometime later, the Winchesters are trekking through the Tennessee woods, searching for the so-called Hell House that Craig informed them of. The warmth that had once felt suffocating had fully abandoned Grace, and she shivers as she pulls the sleeves of her hoodie over her fingers, trying to keep out as much of the chill as she could manage without her jacket that’s buried in the trunk of the Impala. She looks up questioningly when Dean nudges her shoulder, but soon a grateful smile spreads across her lips as she realizes he’s extending his jacket. She slips it on eagerly, zipping it all the way up to her chin before she’s pulling the drawstrings of her hoodie even tighter, creating a barricade around her face that has Sam laughing.

“It’s not even that cold, G.” Sam rolls his eyes at her dramatics, unaware of the chills that are rolling down Grace’s spine and her arms, or that she’s fighting off a violent wave of nausea that has her practically seeing white from the discomfort.

“Do I need to remind you that women’s bodies and men's bodies interpret temperature differently because of our core temperatures?” She huffs, beyond irritable as she fights off the stinging sensation in her eyes, the burning sensation in her throat, the foggy pounding in her head, and the churning in her stomach. She’d been hopeful that those symptoms were just a result of her exhaustion, but she’s not so sure anymore, though she’s also not willing to admit that she’s sick. Definitely not willing to admit that she’s sick.

“Let’s go, nerd.” Dean only rolls his eyes at her snarky comment, nudging her forward with his shoulder. Grace stumbles on her feet, eyes becoming unfocused as her vision blurs for a second. She fights the urge to grab at her temple, instead keeping her hands in the pockets of Dean’s jacket as she steadies her balance.

Sam frowns, only steps behind her. “Dude, you okay?” He finally brings himself to ask, but all he gets in response is a huff from Grace and an indifferent shrug from Dean.

“Shark week?” The elder Winchester suggests, his expression neutral though there’s the slightest quirk in his lip that suggests he’s a little too smug about the suggestion.

Grace wants to cry in frustration, her eyes stinging with tears she refuses to let her brothers see. Her head is pounding, black spots dance in her vision if she turns her head too quickly, her stomach is in knots, but she refuses to accept that she’s sick. She refuses to even acknowledge the possibility. Instead, she scoffs, shaking her head as she moves past Dean, now being the one to lead the way through the wooded area.

“Definitely shark week.” Dean nods, to which Grace flips him off, her footsteps heavy as she quickens her pace, not sure if she’s aiming to lose them in the trees or simply express every emotion that's overwhelming her.

“Can’t say I blame the kid.” Sam comments, his eyes trailing over Grace’s frame before he turns his attention to the abandoned houses around them, an eerie feeling creeping up his spine as the miles of land around them appear barren and worn down.

“Yeah. So much for curb appeal.” Dean scoffs, finally catching up to Grace who isn’t so intent on ‘accidentally’ losing her brothers anymore. He slings an arm over her shoulder, but she shrugs him off, her glare unwavering as she looks over at him.

She sticks closer to Sam as they continue down the gravel path, annoyance rolling off of her body in thick waves that has Dean shaking his head as if he’d not been the one to agitate her. Twenty years with a little sister and he still doesn’t know how to not be a dick around women. Grace hates to think that she loses more and more hope in men every time her brothers get too comfortable with their precious masculinity.

When they come up to a specific house, she peels away from them both, her eyes squinting as she approaches the abandoned building cautiously. Neither Sam or Dean attempt to stop her, blindly following her onto the dying blades of grass, equally as curious. Sam kicks around at broken branches, but Dean hangs back, the EMF detector in hand, his fingers tapping at the small device incessantly.

“You got something?” Sam questions, walking closer to where Dean is standing, having abandoned the corner of the house where he’d initially been searching, coming up with nothing of importance to them or the case at hand.

“Yeah. The EMF’s no good.” Dean sighs, the machine buzzing in his hand. “I think that things still got a little juice in it. It’s screwing with all the readings.” His eyes glance toward the power lines, and both Grace and Sam follow the motion, looking at the wires that cross over their heads.

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” Sam agrees quietly, only looking down at Grace for a second as she comes to stand beside them, not finding anything important on her end of the house.

“Come on, let's go.” Dean nods towards the house, and both Grace and Sam follow. For an instant, Grace almost wishes that they had even the slightest bit of reluctance to be entering an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, but it's certainly not the creepiest of settings they’ve wandered into with less information than what they currently have. She’ll never understand how this became her life, but she’s too far into it to start asking questions now.

The house is somehow colder inside than it is outside, and she shivers as she steps over the threshold, pulling the leather jacket tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes sweep over the interior, noting the cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings, and insignificant piles of debris scattered around the baseboards.

“Looks like old man Murdoch was a bit of a tagger during his time.” Dean comments as they walk farther into the house, eyes scanning over the decor that’s still sitting on shelves and pinned to walls.

Sam follows Dean’s line of sight, looking straight at the reverse cross that Grace had already set her gaze on, her thoughts spiraling in every possible direction as she pulls on everything she’s ever learned about religion and its branches. “And after his time, too.”

“The reverse cross has been used by Satanists for centuries, but the sigil of sulfur–” Grace starts, looking directly at Sam, who knows exactly where she’s going with that specific train of thought. He doesn’t hesitate before jumping in, their brains attempting to unscramble the puzzle in front of them in tandem. “–didn’t show up in San Francisco until the ‘60s.” He finished, eyebroward furrowed as they shared a single glance before Sam was lifting his phone, snapping a picture of the cross.

“This is why you never get laid.” Dean scoffs, never above making a dig at Sam about his lack of sexual activity, though he seems to bristle when he realizes he’s unintentionally looped Grace into the insult, and the slightest grimace of disgust that crosses his features at the insinuation of his little sister having random hookups is enough satisfaction for the woman, not feeling it necessary to call him a pig when he’s already regretting his choice words. “What about this one? You seen this one before?” Dean nods toward the opposite wall, stepping away from Sam and Grace who are still trying to memorize the image of the cross.

“No.” Grace shakes her head, stalking closer to where Dean is standing, his head tilted like he’s trying to remember something just out of reach. She shuffles closer to him out of instinct, their arms brushing at the newfound proximity, but if Dean thinks anything of it, he doesn’t comment on it. Sam comes up on the other side of Grace, his phone already raised as he snaps a picture of the symbol on the wall.

Dean keeps his eyes on the symbol, his head turning as he further analyzes it. “I have… somewhere.”

Sam reaches out inquisitively, brushing the pads of his fingers over the markings. “It’s paint.” He notes as he pulls his fingers away, glancing at the residue that comes off on his hand. “Seems pretty fresh, too.”

“I don’t know. I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but the cops might be right about this one.” Dean sighs, turning away from the symbol on the wall as he takes in everything else in sight, Sam trailing after him as he contemplates the truth in that statement. Grace doesn’t move, her head lulling on her shoulders as fights off a sniffle, suddenly congested despite the fresh air that streams into the house from beneath window sills and door frames.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Sam agrees.

Just as the three Winchesters let their guard down, a crash comes from somewhere in the house, instantaneously raising their guards. Sam and Dean take initiative, stalking through the house until they come upon a closed door where the sound seemed to have come from. Grace stands to the side, her eyes on both of her brothers who wait a single second before nodding at her, Dean reaching for his gun just as Grace reaches for the handle and pushes it open. She’s immediately blinded by a shining light, her eyes squinting as she quietly groans and backs away. Sam pulls her behind him, equally as frazzled but ever the protective older brother.

“God!” A man choirs, his heart undoubtedly racing as he glances at the siblings in front of him. “Ugh. Cut!” He calls, posture deflating as he regains his bearing, the flashlight lowering and no longer blinding Grace who thinks the black spots in her vision have doubled now. Still, she makes no indication that she’s not at her best, keeping her chin high and her shoulders square despite how Sam’s wide frame keeps her concealed. “Just a couple humans. What are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean throws back at them, his eyes watching Grace as she steps away from Sam, though he makes no indication that he sees the way she closes her eyes tightly and masks a wince of discomfort. His theory on her odd behavior being a symptom of shark week is dwindling by the minute, but he’s not brave enough to quiz her again, still highly aware of the fact that he has to be in a car with her later on, and he does not want a pissed off little sister on his ass in confined spaces.

“Um, we belong here. We’re professionals.” The man with the camera explains like its obvious, his hands waving at his sides as he addresses Dean.

“Professional what?”

“Paranormal investigators?” Grace notes how the frames of his glasses do little to compliment his features, the blue button down he wears only another factor that aids in her analysis of his character; and whether he’s going to be a royal pain in their ass throughout the duration of the case. She’s not always so quick to judge, but nerdy men who think they have a chance at social redemption have a thing or two in common. She scoffs quickly beneath her breath when he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a card with a little too much finesse to be authentic. Her analysis is quickly proven correct, his air of false confidence already annoying her as she watches the scene unfold, not willing to help her brothers out with this one. “Here you go. Take a look at that, boys.” He entirely ignores her presence, and she can only roll her eyes. Not all men are the same, she knows and appreciates that, but most of the ones she stumbles across in this line of work do not fall very far from the same misogynistic tree.

She glances down at the card in Dean’s hands, rolling her eyes as she reads over the blocky black text. “You got to be kidding me.” Dean comments, not an ounce of humor in his tone.

“Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler, hellhoundslair.com – You guys run that website.” Sam looks up at them, disbelief in his expression though Ed and Harry take it for what it's not, pride filling their features as their shoulders square and their chins rise the slightest inch.

“Yeah.” Ed hums.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re huge fans.” Dean mumbles as he passes them, Grace following behind him, eager to find something to look at that isnt the two men who couldn’t care less about her presence. For once, she’s thankful that they have no interest in her, not sure if she’d be able to handle the high levels of masculinity that twinge the air with something almost hostile.

“And, uh, we know who you guys are, too.” There’s a stiff beat of silence that elapses as Dean and Grace lock eyes, their gazes trailing toward Ed and Harry curiously, though cautiously.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam questions, being the only one to find his voice quick enough.

Ed clears his throat, “Amatures looking for ghosts and cheap thrills.” Grace rolls her eyes, opening a cupboard on the left of her body, not so entertained by the conversation anymore. She grips at the hinges for support when a wave of dizziness crashes over her, knuckles becoming white from the intensity of her grip as she forces herself steady and coherent.

“Yeah, so, if you guys don’t mind, we’re trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here.” Harry not-so-subtly attempts to get the Winchesters to leave, his eyes trailing across Grace’s petite frame as she searches through the cabinets for something undisclosed. She’s entirely unaware, but Dean’s not, and his body quickly shields her from sight as he turns around to look at the men fully.

“Yeah? What do you got so far?” He picks up a camera, playing it cool despite the annoyance thats radiating off of him.

“Har, why don’t you tell them about EMF?” Ed looks entirely too smug, and when Sam questions it, Harry only beams with arrogance, his smirk deeply unsettling as he nods like he knows everything that the Winchesters couldn’t even dream of one day finding out. Grace really wants to punch him, but she’s aware of the fact that she’s more irritable than she usually is as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, only slightly apologetic about the action that he’s not at all aware of.

“Electromagnetic field.” He boasts, and Sam can only smile as he scratches at his head, enjoying this far too much. “Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector like this bad boy right here.” Harry pulls an EMF detector out of his duffle bag on the counter, and Grace can only roll her eyes as she moves through the space, standing beside Dean now as they watch Sam lead the conversation. “Woah, woah. It’s a 2.8 mG. It’s hot in here.”

“Wow.” Sam fakes interest, his lips curving downward into an impressed expression as he glances at Grace and Dean, amusement sparkling in his eyes that only his siblings can pick up on.

“Huh. So, have you guys ever really seen a ghost before?” Dean questions, hands vaguely gesturing around the room they’re occupying.

“Once.” Ed nods, “We were investigating this old house, and we saw a vase fall right off the table–”

“ –by itself.” Harry adds, though the statement is quickly undermined by Ed who snaps his gaze to meet his partners.

“We didn’t actually see it, but we heard it. And something like that, it– it changes you.” Grace wants to bash her head into the wall as she listens to Ed talk, his tone entirely too filled with pride for something so insignificant.

“I think I get the picture.” Dean nods, “We should go, let them get back to work.” Nothing has ever sounded better to Grace, the woman desperately craving to seek warmth from the Impala, hoping to get another few hours of rest as well, though that's not looking too promising anymore.

-

Grace Winchester is definitely sick. She grimaces at the aftertaste on her tongue as she walks down the street balancing three hot drinks. While Sam and Dean had gone off to gather more intel on the case, she’d sought out a local coffee shop, thinking it was time that they put a little something in their bodies other than dust and debris. She hadn’t expected to make a b-line for the bathroom as soon as she’d entered the quaint little shop, but she was glad her brothers weren’t around to hear her wretch over the toilet, wanting to keep her sudden illness far off their radars, although she knew she was off to a terrible start already. She sneezed for the third time in the last five minutes as she approached Dean and Sam on the corner, standing outside of the Impala waiting for her to return, though they look to be having a pretty in depth conversation as Sam grips a handful of papers and pamphlets in his hands. Grace is painfully aware of how her eyes are glassy and swollen, her cheeks flush and yet somehow also pale, but she hopes that they think nothing of it, willing to lie and say she’s simply cold if they start to ask too many questions.

“I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals.” She only hears the tail end of their conversation, and a pout forms on her lips instantaneously as she glances down at the cups of coffee in her hands for the both of them. Sam winces sympathetically, taking one from her as she steps up to him softly.

“Thanks, Gracie.” He smiles softly, but his eyes stay fixed on her face for longer than necessary, and she sighs as she anticipates his next question. “You okay?”

“Fine. Definitely inhaled too much dust.” She plays it off, though the excuse is timed perfectly with another soft sneeze, and for once Sam doesn’t question it any further, nodding as he offers a quiet bless you. She’s about to get into the car, but Sam stops her with a hand on her forearm, a smirk on his lips that tells her everything she needs to know.

“What the–” Dean startles easily when he turns the car on and a spanish song starts blaring through the speakers. Sam can only laugh, entirely unaware of how Grace flinches at the sudden noise, her eyes pinching shut as she attempts to focus on her breathing and not throw up for the second time in ten minutes.

She gets into the car when Sam opens the passenger door, handing Dean his coffee before she’s making herself comfortable in the back, her cup of hot chocolate held between her kneecaps as she curls up tight, reaching for the blanket that’s crumpled up in a heap toward the other end of the seat. She tunes out their conversation, already half asleep by the time Dean puts the gear in drive and peels away from the curb.

She’s passed out when Sam glances back at her, his eyes filled with concern. He reaches for the hot chocolate that’s still between her knees, pulling it away from her unconscious body before it has the chance to spill and burn her. He frowns when he realizes she’s hardly even taken a single sip from it, his eyes immediately trailing toward Dean who isn’t so subtly watching her through the rearview mirror. “She’s sick.” He notes.

“Knew that the second she started with her ‘womens bodies run hotter than mens’ bullshit.” Dean rolls his eyes, though there's a twinge of concern etched across his brows as he reaches for the stereo, turning the music down despite it already being practically inaudible. “Just– don’t say anything. Don’t need her slashing my tires.” He’s only partly joking, and Sam knows that, but still they both can’t help but dread the anxiety and fear that plagues Grace whenever she comes down with something. Guilt pools in Dean’s chest, his heart hammering as he questions how their lives turned out so shittily that his sister can’t even find it within herself to admit to being sick.

-

The next morning, Grace somehow feels worse than she did the day before, and it's evident in the way she winces with every move she makes, soft sneezing filling the backseat as she masks groans of discomfort every time her muscles tense. After the seventh sneeze, Sam can’t take it anymore, his eyes trailing over her frame that’s partly concealed by the thick blanket she has pulled up to her chin.

“I know that you’re sick.” He comments, not blind to the way Grace tenses with fear, her eyes wide and vulnerable as she shakes her head, attempting to deny the truth they’re all aware of.

“I’m not sick.” She denies the accusation, her voice wavering, though whether it's a result of the fear that grips at her belly and twists it into knots, or the throbbing ache in her throat that’s not quelled by any amount of honey or tea, not even Grace is certain. All that she knows is that it most definitely does not help her case, and that’s evident in the way Sam’s lips twitch with sympathy.

“Gracie–” He starts, only to cut himself off, shaking his head as Dean pulls up to the Hell House, seeing officers and squad members surrounding the abandoned foundation. “It’s okay if you are. Dean and I got this.”

“I’m not fucking sick, Sammy. Would you just get the fuck out of the car already?” There’s a clip in her tone that neither of her brothers have heard in a while, years even, and they can only sigh as they agree to her demands, straightening out their jackets before they push the Impala’s doors open and step out into the awaiting cold. Whoever said Texas was warm year round was most definitely lying through their teeth.

Despite the soreness in her muscles and the way her head begs for reprieve from the constant moving, Grace climbs out of the car after Sam, not even glancing back at her brothers for a loose game plan before she’s stalking up to one of the officers in the yard, an air of confidence surrounding her as she moves, though its not at all genuine, rather, fabricated from the deep-rooted fear that just won’t relent no matter how hard she pleads with herself to just breathe.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 1999

Grace Winchester pants for breath as she looks over at her father, her green eyes glassy and incoherent as she lays limp on damp grass. She can’t remember how she got here – sprawled out in Bobby’s yard, covered in blood and what she thinks is monster goo – nor how long she’s been here. John stands in front of the Impala, arms crossed over his chest as he seethes. It was meant to be an easy fight, a sure fire win, but when he’d handed Grace the gun, when he’d told her to shoot the thing without a single second to prepare herself, all hell broke loose for both Winchesters involved.

Grace’s chest throbs as she hyperventilates on the grass, not sure if the ache in her ribs is from the monster she’d been pit up against, or her fathers assault. It doesn’t matter why she hurts, it only matters that she can’t pull herself up and John is waiting; waiting for her to get up, to dust herself off, to put up her fists and prove that she’s worth keeping around. Grace can’t move though. She can’t even lift her hands off the ground, let alone raise her entire body. Her head is pounding, but it has been pounding for days at this point, her throat is raw, and her eyes sting so horrendously that she thinks it might just be better to keep them closed forever, but that’s not an option. It will never be an option so long as John Winchester expects obedience from her.

“Get up, girl.” He demands, and another rock is hurled in her direction. It thumps against her thigh and becomes yet another sensation for Grace to try and ignore as she continues to try and stay conscious. She knows she’s in even more trouble if she faints, but she hasn’t eaten in days, she’s thrown up every ounce of water John’s let her consume, and she’s practically numb after trying to hold her own against her own father just hours after being thrown against a wall by whatever monster she’d been tasked with ending. “I said, Get. Up.” John growls, pushing himself off of the Impala with impatience. Grace can barely even flinch as he comes closer, too close, and before she knows it, or even has time to prepare, his steel toed boots are crashing into her ribcage, and the pain that she’d been dealing with before suddenly triples.

Grace tries to stand, attempting to get her limbs working again, but just as she lifts her head up off of the rain-soaked grass, she’s throwing up all over herself and John’s shoes. It’s not just stomach acid and water anymore either, and she cringes as she feels blood drip from her lips onto the blades beside her head. She can only whimper when her father grabs her by the collar of her blood soaked t-shirt, pulling her up off the ground without a moment of hesitation. Nothing’s broken. She’d know if something was broken, but that doesn’t mean everythings right either. Her face is flush, her throat is on fire, her stomach churns and not just because she’s terrified. Three days ago, she’d come home from school sick. The flu had been going around her dusty, and very temporary, middle school, and it came as no surprise to anyone that she’d been unlucky enough to catch it. John hadn’t taken kindly to her complaining, though all Grace had done was cough into her elbow at dinner, but apparently that was enough to put her on his chopping block – not that she ever left the very top of that list. He’d dragged her out to South Dakota that very next day, something about a strange death and a monster to hunt slipping past his lips when he’d informed Dean of the case. It wasn’t often that John took Grace on a hunt without her brothers, but it wasn’t uncommon either, and with that logic in mind, neither Sam nor Dean questioned why John wanted only Grace with him, naively assuming it was to keep them away from the flu that had her practically bedridden and imobile until he’d dragged her out by her wrist.

The only thing keeping Grace on her feet is John’s hand around her neck, and when he lets go, when he finally relents and allows her to breathe, she crumbles to the ground, landing in the pile of sick that's already begun to cool. She whimpers, both in pain and disgust, and attempts to get to her feet again, but John’s hand on her shoulder keeps her where she is. She’s little, only thirteen years old and barely half the height of her youngest older brother, but that’s never stopped her father from treating her like an adult. She moans in pain when he backhands her, but headlights shine brightly in the distance, and Grace knows it's the end, at least for now.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bobby rushes out of his car, his breath visible in the air as he races to where Grace is, her blood laced vomit smeared into her hair and her clothes tattered and stained as she succumbs to darkness, finally passing out. The last thing she can hear is John saying something about her being useless, needing to teach her that even a fever doesn’t exempt her from earning her keep in the family; his family.

Present

Grace tries not to panic as she crouches behind wilting shrubbery, the jacket around her shoulders zipped all the way up, though it barely does her any good as she continues to shiver. She has a fever, she doesn’t need a thermometer to tell, but she refuses to let Sam and Dean see this through on their own. She refuses to be a waste of space and air when there’s good to be done, evil to be ganked. It’s been years since she’s seen her father, but his words still echo through her head, and his irrational anger that only increased whenever she came down with something still flashes against her eyelids whenever she lets herself rest.

Her brothers still don’t know half of what she endured at the hands of John Winchester, but with the pieces of the puzzle that they have, Sam especially, they aren’t surprised by Grace’s reaction. None of their childhoods were ideal, none of them had white picket fences and lovey-dovey moments to steal, but Grace had the shortest stick there was to draw, and neither of her brothers can – or try to – deny it. It’s a miracle that she’s even here with them at all, searching for a man that put her through hell for the first eighteen years of her life, but she’s always known a thing or two about loyalty, and Dean hates to think that she’s faithful to a fault. She’ll get herself killed doing this job before she ever lets them go off without her.

“Guess the cops don’t want anymore kids screwing around in there.” Sam notes, watching as flashlights shine bright on the expanse of land surrounding them. For a moment, Grace is back in South Dakota, she’s sprawled out on rain-soaked grass and on the cusp of unconsciousness from a fever and physical injuries, but she forces the memory away, biting down on her bottom lip to focus on something other than the trauma circling through her mind.

“Yeah, but we still got to get in there.” Dean sighs, looking out past the branches, only to snap his gaze to the side when a twig breaks in the distance, leaves crunching beneath footsteps that approach as a pair. Grace follows his line of sigh, her hand falling onto Sam’s thigh as she steadies herself. She doesn’t make a big deal out of needing Sam’s support to find balance, and thankfully, neither does he. “I don’t believe it.” Dean scoffs, all three siblings watching as Ed and Harry stumble up the hill, headlamps shining bright against the night sky.

“I got an idea.” Dean mumbles before he rises off the ground just slightly, and while he’s preoccupied with whatever master plan he's thought up, Sam forces Grace closer to his chest, one arm looping around her waist to keep her close, knowing she’ll struggle.

“Sammy, would you quit it already!” Grace seethes lowly, her voice hushed and weak as she bats at his arm, trying not to panic at the sensation of being trapped; unable to defend herself against someone bigger than herself, stronger than she will ever be. “I told you I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up!” His voice is hushed, a whisper in the night, but still loud enough for Dean to acknowledge as he scoops out the stance of the officers on the front lawn, further curating his plan of distraction, though he’s still fully tuned into the conversation Sam is trying – and failing – to have with Grace. “Dad’s not here, Gracie! You don’t have to pretend like you're not sick!”

“You don’t know what your talking about, so why don’t you just shut up and let me do my fucking job.” She snaps, elbowing him in the gut, putting distance between herself and him. Neither brother notices how she grabs at her throat, or how she seems to heave for breath like she can’t physically draw anything into her lungs. They might be looking for John Winchester, but the effects of his torment and torture have never left Grace, not even for a second.

“Who you gonna call?” Dean bellows, tapping Grace’s side as he nods toward the house. The two officers posted outside bolted toward Ed and Harry, leaving a clear point of entry open for the Winchesters to strike. Grace can only shake her head at their stupidity, but doesn’t harp on how truly terrible they are at their job, thankful that it makes her life easier for once.

The siblings rush through the cover of darkness as the two county officers further chase Ed and Harry back down the hill. Grace gets into the house first, her heart stuttering in her chest as she forces her body to keep going, keep moving, keep being worth something to her brothers. She brushes strands of hair out of her face, sighing in annoyance when she finds that the reason her hair is loose and unruly in the first place is because the elastic band around her tresses has snapped. She looks to Dean when he hits her shoulder, ready to snap, to deny the fever that’s clouding her judgement, but all he does is offer her another hairtie, not saying a single word about how her breathing comes out wheezy, or how her face is flush and she looks somewhat green even beneath the cover nightfall they’ve chosen to sneak around beneath. She doesn’t ask why he even had a hair tie around his wrist to begin with, just takes it gratefully and redoes the ponytail that swings with every crane of her head. She feels better, just slightly, but with cold air hitting the back of her neck now, she hopes that some of the fog over her senses will fall away and become a problem for later on when there aren’t innocent lives to save and monsters to put an end to.

Sam hands Dean a shotgun first, before reaching into the duffle again to hand one to Grace. She barely bristles as she cocks the gun, the metal familiar beneath her fingertips despite how much she hates these weapons. She doesn’t waste a second, because they don’t have a second to waste, before she’s approaching the wall where the unknown symbol remains, Dean’s flashlight illuminating the dried paint as well as it can.

“Where have I seen that symbol before? It’s killing me.” He grumbles, but Sam isn’t waiting around for their brother to figure it out, sneaking up beside Dean and Grace before he’s making a move of his own, peeling away from the post they’ve created beside the wall.

“Come on. We don’t have much time.” He directs them farther into the house, his flashlight illuminating corners they don’t even touch as he searches for the basement. Grace sighs as she follows her brothers, but when Sam stops in front of the staircase, shining his flashlight down the steps, she’s quick to snake her way between them, outright refusing to be the first to descend the rickety stairs or the last last. Sam looks back at her, rolling his eyes, though he’s anything but surprised. She’s always been terrified of basements, and neither Dean nor Sam know why. It’s one of the only fears that Grace can’t explain either, though she’s sure something has happened over the course of her life that would warrant such a fear, but off the top of her head, she always comes up blank.

A sneeze catches both of her brothers off guard, their flashlights temporarily blinding her as they snap their gaze in her direction, expecting to see a shadow or another idiot kid, their shoulders squared and ready for anything that may come at them. She blushes sheepishly, apologizing meekly as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket as a precaution. Growing up with two brothers that never learned how to actually be mature adults means she’s constantly worrying about having something on her face, and she knows neither of them would tell her if she did, though she holds a little bit of hope in Sammy now, but even he’s guilty of omitting the truth for a prank.

Dean’s the first to pull away from the interaction, his flashlight sweeping across the expanse of the basement before he dwells on a single shelf with mason jars of ominous liquid laid out in a neat row. He picks one up that has an off-putting orange tinge to it, a smirk curving his lips upward. “Hey, Sam, I dare you to take a swig of this.” He teases.

Grace rolls her eyes, staying silent, but Sam was never one to just ignore Dean’s wit. “The hell would I do that for?” He rebuttals, features unamused despite giving Dean exactly what he wanted in the first place, which was any kind of response at all.

“I double dare you.” Dean’s entirely too giddy about the situation, but that ends just as quickly as it began when there’s a scratching noise behind them. Instinctively, he reaches for Grace, tugging her further behind him as all three of them turn to address the sudden sound.

They stalk up to the cupboard where the sound came from with intent, shotguns raised and aimed at the cabinet as Sam ever so cautiously inches to pull it open. Grace braces herself for whatever they may face, but ultimately its not needed, rats scampering out of the cupboard the second the door is cracked open.

“I hate rats.” Dean groans, and Grace can only agree, inching backward as the rats run in all directions around her.

“You’d rather it was a ghost?” Sam questions, and Grace nods eagerly, a shriek escaping her lips when a rat tail flicks at her ankle.

“Yes.” Dean grimaces, flashlight still shining on the floor, illuminating the creatures that scamper around.

Grace is still inching backwards, away from the rats when something eerie creeps up her spine. All she has to follow is intuition, but she listens to her instincts without second thought, thankful that she did, because behind her is the shadow of a spirit, an axe held high above her head. Her gun goes off first, aimed directly at the ghost's chest. She doesn’t miss, she hardly ever misses, but even with the echoes of her brothers shooting at it too, the ghost disappears, hardly phased by the ambush.

“What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?” Sam bellows in surprise, his eyes flickering to Dean as Grace steps back into line with them, no longer wanting to be out in the open steps ahead of them. Her chest is racing, her lungs ache. She’s never been a fan of jumpscares, but it's not panic that fills her body with discomfort, it's the reminder that despite wanting to pretend like she’s at her best, there’s still a fever and nausea plaguing her.

“I don’t know! Come on, come on, come on!” Dean chirps with efficiency, all three siblings keeping their shotguns cocked as they peel away from the corner of the basement, rushing toward the stairs, hoping to escape the spirit to regroup the information that they have – which isn’t much of anything – but before they can climb the steps, the shelves are being smashed, and something knocks Grace on the ground, her head bashing against the banister as she falls.

She hardly manages to get to her feet before Dean’s grabbing the back of her jacket and pulling her with him. There’s blood dripping down her head, sticky and warm as it coats her eyebrow and drips farther down her face. She can only grimace as she runs, both hands on her shotgun ready to aim at whatever comes at them. Dean barrels through the front door still holding onto Grace’s jacket, and the both of them tumble to the ground as she loses her footing on the stairs and Dean trips over himself. They’re back up on their feet in seconds, Dean shoving past Harry and Ed who are stupidly holding up cameras that won’t do them any good.

They’re heading to the Impala, the cold air hitting Grace as she races past her brothers and toward the car, desperate for a minute to breathe without fearing for her life. She wipes at the blood dripping down her face, grimacing at the familiar feeling beneath her fingertips and the stain to her white long sleeved shirt but that's the least of her worries as the throbbing in her head only grows, and the wave of nausea intensifies. Somehow she gets into the car without losing any of the lunch she’d barely been able to stomach, and she’s practically dead to the world when Sam and Dean climb in, peeling away from the scene like a bat out of hell, the engine revving as Dean books it back to the motel.

“You okay back there, G?” Dean calls once they are a safe distance away, adrenaline no longer coursing through their veins so intently. Grace can’t say she’s thankful for that, because without the fight or flight instincts taking the reins, she’s aware of how tired she is.

“Peachy.” She chokes out, grimacing as the strain in her throat. “Give me that.” She leans forward, stealing a rag from the passenger seat that Sam had been using to polish his knives. She doesn’t care about what chemicals have touched the rag, or that it’s been trampled on by both her shoes and Sam’s. All she wants is for the blood to stop pouring down her face, not sure how much more she can take before she’s thrown head first into a panic attack that neither of her brothers should need to deal with. “Fucking hell.” She winces, pressing the rag to the cut on her temple. It’s not nearly deep enough for stitches, she’s beyond grateful for that, but it's still deep enough to be a pain in the ass as she puts pressure on the wound. “My brain better not have a fucking splinter.”

-

Grace moans as she slumps against the wall in the bathroom, the porcelain of the toilet seat cold beneath her cheek as he heaves over the bowl once more. She’s been bent over the toilet for the last twelve minutes, not that she was counting, throwing up everything that she’d consumed that day. Her head is pounding, and tears blur in her vision as the breakdown she’d been desperately trying to ignore overcomes her in a moment of weakness. She bashes her fist against the wall, but even the pain in her fingers can’t distract her from the panic attack that’s climbing up her throat. A dry sob falls off her lips, tears falling down her cheeks, mixing with the blood that still smeared across her face.

A knock on the door sends her scrambling back against the wall, swallowing the bile that’s raising in her throat as she stares at the door with wide, terrified eyes. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, or better yet, who she’s expecting, but when Dean jiggles the handle, finding it unlocked, she can only sob in terror that’s wildly misplaced. He has a cup of hot tea in his hands, but quickly he sets it on the sink, crouching in front of Grace who shrinks away from him in fear, her breathes wheezy and shallow as she shakes her head, fingers tangling into her hair as she pulls and pulls at her tangled locks.

“No! No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m fine! I promise!” She mumbles, eyes pleading with Dean to believe her, to spare her anymore pain. She’s not seeing Dean, not in the slightest. The fevers made her delirious, the panic’s turned reality to old memories. She’s in a bathroom, a crappy motel bathroom, but its not the one she shares alone with her brothers. It’s one that her father rented.

West Reading, Pennsylvania. 1997

Grace heaves over the toilet bowl, coughing and spluttering as she expells everything she had at lunch that day. John isn’t with them, but he’s coming back soon, Dean told her as much when she came home early with a fever. It’s not the first time she’s gotten sick at school, not the first time she’s picked up a virus or a bug from hanging around kids her own age. It’s not her fault, not really. All of her classmates get the vaccines and the boosters, all of her classmates are exposed to illness and viruses year round as they socialize and develop their personalities based on the small towns they occupy. Grace has never had the luxury. Grace isn’t even sure she’s ever had the flu shot.

The last time she was sick, John had told her not to let it happen again. That she was already weak enough without a fever and vomiting; that she was no good to any of them if she was hunched over a toilet. He’d told her the only reason he keeps her around at all is to have an extra set of hands, and what good are her hands if she can’t even lift her head up. Grace knows the kids at her school don’t have to worry about their father killing them if they come home with a cough, but she can’t help but think that this may be the reason she dies. She doesn’t want to believe that John will kill her over a stomach bug, but she can’t deny the possibility. Not when he’s hurt her for less. Not when he told her the next time she gets sick, they’ll be a bullet between her eyes before she can even plead for her life.

Her fingers tighten around the seat of the toilet as she retches, the motel door slamming as John comes back. She knows it's him because of the way his boots echo despite the carpeted floors. She knows its him because Dean is sputtering excuses, practically begging John to take him to the diner, claiming he needs a beer. Dean’s not even old enough to drink, Sam’s not even old enough to drive, and Grace is definitely not old enough to be panicking over whether this is the last thing she’ll ever do; throw up in a shitty motel bathroom.

The bathroom door wasn’t locked. It’s never locked. Not when Grace uses it at least. She wishes she locked it when the door knob slams into the wall, almost hard enough to dent it, but it's like John’s showing restraint, not wanting to be questioned at check out if somebody happens to notice the damage before he can peel away from the parking lot. She whimpers, eyes staring straight back at her father who looms over her like a predator. Her friends at school don’t see their dad’s as the enemy. Well, Carrie does, but that’s only because he took away her favorite body spray after her brother tried to start a fire after learning about chemicals in his high school science class. Grace knows this isn’t normal. She understands that now. But understanding something doesn’t mean that it’ll stop, only that it becomes a best kept secret.

“What the hell did I tell you, girl!” John bellows, backhanding her without remorse. Her head slams into the wall, and she starts to vomit again, but this time it falls onto her chest, and she whimpers in humiliation as she stares up at her father with glassy eyes. Sam and Dean stand in the center of the room between the two beds that all four of them share. Dean watches silently, his hand on Sam’s wrist keeping him from getting between John and Grace. Nothing good happens when they do that; when they protect her, but still Sammy always tries anyways.

John doesn’t say anything else as he grabs a fistful of Grace’s hair, pulling her in close to the toilet that she hasn’t had the chance to flush. She doesn’t know where this is going, doesn’t know what to brace herself for, but when her father forces her head into the toilet, into the contaminated water that’s not just water anymore, she desperately tries to get herself free. Dean winces as he watches, Sam flinches. There’s nothing they can do. If they so much as ask him to stop, he’ll only go on longer. If Sam tries to get in the middle, tries to help his baby sister that’s drowning in her own sick, John’ll only hit her harder. They’re trapped. Forced to watch as their father that devotes his life to killing monsters, turns into one any time his youngest child so much as breathes too loud.

The toilet flushes with Grace’s head still in the bowl, her hair wet now as it falls into the water. John only relents when Grace can’t struggle anymore, but he doesn’t give her the chance to catch her breath before he’s pulling her to her feet by the handful of hair that he has. She knows where this is going. Sam and Dean know where this is going. Both brothers watch as their little sister is dragged to the closet, her body, already weak and barely functioning, thrown into it with a venomous force. She’s coughing up water, desperately wiping at her face that is covered in her own sick. She doesn’t have the strength to plead with John, but Dean knows that she wants to; that she would’ve had there not been water in her lungs she’s continuously coughing up. The door slams and the lock clicks, and it's silent for a handful of minutes before John nods toward the door, suddenly interested in that beer Dean suggested.

“Wh-What if she gets sick again? S-She’ll– Dad, she could die if she chokes on it.” Sam glances back at the closet as John demands that he steps outside and comes with them. He knows his little sister is in a ball on the floor, panicking and probably puking, but he knows if he reaches for the handle, if he opens the door now, John’ll only shove Grace right back in and force him outside and on a hunt. He knows that if either he or Dean open that closet before at least a handful of hours have elapsed, it’ll only be worse for Grace.

“You disobeying me, boy?” John narrows his eyes, Dean silently pleading with Sam to drop the subject and get moving, knowing the quicker they leave, the quicker they grab dinner and drinks at the local diner, the quicker they’ll be able to come back and let Grace out. John never has any objections when they let her out after they’ve come back from somewhere. They just need to get through the hour or so they’ll be away first.

“No, sir.” Sam sighs, glancing at the closet one last time before he’s following after his brother, fear pooling in his belly as he tries not to think about what’s happening in the closet, or if his little sister will still be alive when they come back.

Present

“Hey, hey. Hey, Gracie girl.” Dean’s tone is unbelievably soft as he steps closer to his sister, his hands extended toward her, though he doesn’t think he’s really seeing him at all. Her face is flush, her eyes are glassy and rimmed red, swollen from crying and the minutes she’s spent hunched over the toilet. He can still remember that night in Pennsylvania. He can still remember how John held her head in the toilet for what felt like hours, and his heart hammers with guilt for not being able to protect her then, but he can do something about it now, even if it is years too late. “You’re okay. Gonna be sick again?” He’s always been soft with her, always been kind and gentle, but it only shows itself in moments like these. Moments when they’re not hunters, just siblings that have only ever had each other to look out for and count on. Grace might be twenty, she might not be this little girl who doesn’t know how to defend herself anymore, but she’s still his baby sister. She’s still the only piece of Mary that he and Sammy have left.

Grace shakes her head, swallowing thickly. She’s out of it, the fever she’s been ignoring finally getting the best of her. She whimpers when he steps closer, when he brushes hair out of her face that’s damp from the pearls of sweat that drip down her neck. She thinks he’s going for her hair, thinks he’s going to pull her up to her feet and force her into a closet, and she whimpers, flinching away. Dean’s strong, he always has been, he doesn’t care to show emotion, doesn’t care to express his feelings, but he can’t help the frown the pulls at his lips as he finally realizes why his sisters so scared right now. It’s not that he forgot, he could never forget, but when it was all happening, when John was still around and Grace hadn’t yet bailed to find peace with Sam at Stanford, he’d been partly blinded by his fathers dysfunctional style of discipline. He’d always known that the way John treated Grace was abusive, he wasn’t that easily manipulated, but until now, until John wasn’t here to chastise and terrorize her anymore, he’d never realized just how much it had all affected her, and unfortunately, he’s no longer blinded by the false hope that when John pulled her away form them for solo hunts, he wasn’t doing his absolute worse.

“Okay, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed then.” He helps her to her feet, guiding her out of the bathroom, trying not to wince when her head falls onto his shoulder and he can feel the heat radiating off of her forehead. She’s burning up, and he can only sympathize. She’s always been the one to catch an illness, and although he was only six when Mary died, he vaguely remembers how his mother would always fret over her health. John used to worry too, used to tell the boys to wash their hands and never touch her face, always tell them that because she was born so early, her little body couldn’t fight illnesses as well as theirs. He doesn’t know when his father stopped caring. Doesn’t know when Grace became the person he hates most, when she was once his favorite child, but he hates it. He hates that his sister is the sweetest, kindnessest, most trusting and loving person he knows, and their father could never recognize that. He hates that after nineteen years of torture and pain, Grace still has her heart. She’s one of the best damn hunters Dean has ever crossed paths with, but at the end of the day, she’s just a woman with a whole lot of love to give, and somehow she always ends up hurt.

“I need– I need to h-help. Need to– to be worth keeping ‘round.” She wheezes, allowing Dean to lay her down in his bed. He’s a real bitch whenever they get into their motel rooms, always claiming a bed to himself, never willing to share. Usually that means Sam and Grace are bunked together, or on the rare hunts when they can splurge for a bigger room, Sam takes the couch. Grace barely even recognizes that she’s being laid down in Dean’s bed, her fever taking the reins of her consciousness despite how hard she’s trying to fight it.

“You’re worth keeping around, Gracie girl.” That nickname, something so soft, so sweet and slightly abnormal, isn’t one that she hears a lot, but in moments like this, moments when she’s just Dean’s baby sister and not a hunter with near perfect aim, it slips out. “Just take these, and get some sleep, yeah? Sammy and I’ll finish this thing up. We just need you resting.”

He hands her three different pills, and Grace takes them without fuss, not coherent enough to really fight him anyway. She’s only getting hotter by the second, her complexion pale and gauntly as she sinks into the mattress. She’s asleep within seconds, and Sam can only shake his head.

“What are we doing man? Dragging her back into this– I mean, I know she can handle this. The hunts, the monsters… but Dean, you didn’t see her when she turned up to my place at Stanford. She barely left her room for the first month, terrified that Dad would find her, drag her back to some crappy motel and beat the shit out of her for trying to leave. Are we really just going to walk her back into his life?” Sam pulls a hand down her face, and for a moment Dean falters, torn between wanting to find out what happened to their father, and keeping Grace far from him. They don’t have time to sit here and discuss the trauma that still affects their sister who isn’t so far off from still being a kid.

“It’ll be different this time.” Is all Dean says before he’s out the door, and Sam can only follow him, stealing one last glance at Grace before he’s closing the motel door, desperately hoping that Dean’s right, that this time really is different.

It's hours later when they return, and despite expecting to see Grace still asleep in bed, she’s sitting up against the wall, a takeaway container of chicken tenders in her lap. The sun is just beginning to rise again, though the sky is unwilling to let light fan across the endless expanse just yet.

“Hey.” She greets them, holding the box out for Dean, grinning when he doesn’t hesitate to grab a fry and throw it into his mouth.

“Hey. You look better.” Sam comments, already starting to pack his shit up, both him and Dean eager to get the hell out of town and hit the road to somewhere new.

“Took a nap, a shower, went out for some actual meds… and there’s nothing chicken fingers can’t fix. Had to bribe the chef at the dinner to make me some.” She’d be lying if she said her head didn’t still throb, but everything else seems to have faded now that she’s medicated, rested, and actually eating something that’s not a twix bar Dean lifted from a gas station.

“Of course you did.” Dean rolls his eyes, reaching for another fry before he’s scrambling to get his own shit together, not that any of them brought much inside, but there’s still precious items they wouldn't’ dream of just abandoning scattered around the room. “Everything’s good. Dude was a freaking Tulpa.”

Grace nods, but there’s an edge in her eyes that tells Dean he’s on his sister's chopping block. “Next time you leave me here to finish a hunt, I’ll cut your balls off.”

“What were you gonna do, puke on the spirits' feet?” Dean can only laugh when a chicken finger is thrown at his head, Grace huffing as she stands to start packing her own shit, though she’s considerably less disorganized than her brothers who are scrounging around every corner of the room for things.

“Asshole.” Grace mutters beneath her breath, though she’s just glad the world has finally stopped spinning.

[glimmeringwinchester]

Reblog if you're okay with receiving asks for backstory info on any/all of your fics.

If not all, specify which ones in the tags.

[glimmeringwinchester]

are there specific episodes we want to see ?? i’m currently working on the pilot but something in me craves to write grace in the bunker

[glimmeringwinchester]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 – grace winchester has spent her life searching for approval from her father. when she and her brothers find themselves up against a nest of vampires, she realizes its okay to let bridges stay burned.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) – canon typical violence, ptsd, mention of anxiety, implied panic attacks/anxiety disorder, mentions of childhood abuse, additional violence, protective dean and sam, gracie finally stands up for herself, dean is serious when he says john will never hurt his sister again, fluff/comfort f you squint and really take it in, oc au

series: love was the law

Grace Winchester hasn’t been the same since finding her father, or, her father finding her. Even with him gone again, she flinches at every loud noise, recoils into herself at any innocent touch, and has somehow gotten quieter than she already was. She sits beside her brother at a small table, scrounging for another case to work and monster to kill. Sunlight falls into the diner from every angle, and it catches in her tousled hair somewhat angelically. She’s not paying attention to anything around her, entirely absorbed in the newspaper clippings she has between her fingers. 

“All right, dude, not a decent lead in all of Nebraska.” Dean’s voice is gruff and gravely, but it hardly breaks through the focus Grace has found. “What do you got?” 

“Well, I've been scanning Wyoming, Colorado, cd.   Dakota. Here – A woman in Iowa fell ten thousand feet from an airplane and survived.” Sam read off of his laptop, though even he didn’t sound too enthusiastic about that lead but it's all that he’s been able to come up with since opening his web browser. 

Dean shakes his head, hands clasped together as he abandons his paper for a while. “Sounds more like ‘that’s incredible!’ than the twilight zone.” 

“Yeah.” Sam sighs, and his fingers move against the keypad, evidently beginning a search for something else; something real. Grace stays locked into her newspaper, green eyes scanning the pages intently. 

“Hey, you know, we could just keep heading East – New York, Upstate. Could stop by and see Sarah again. Huh? She’s a cool chick, man. Smokin’.” Dean taunted, his smile broad and jesting. “You two seemed pretty friendly. What do you say?” 

Sam laughed, scratching at his head as he kept his eyes down and on the new webpage he’d pulled up. “Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe someday. But in the meantime, we got a lot of work to do, Dean, and you know that.” 

“Yeah, you’re right.” Dean sighed acceptingly, turning his head to Grace who hadn’t shared any potential leads, but looked too interested in the paper to have not found something. “What’d you get, Gracie?” 

Both brothers sigh when they realize she’s not even listening to them, and tenderly Sam reaches out to put a hand on the newspaper. His heart breaks when Grace flinches, eyes wide and alert as she looks between Sam and Dean before eventually shrinking into herself and setting the paper down entirely. “Yeah?” She asks softly, not even slightly aware of why they want her attention. 

“Find anything? Sam and I got squat.” Dean asks again, only this time his tone is softer. He hates that for nineteen years, this was the only version of his sister that he’d ever known. He didn’t think she was capable of being any other way, but then she’d come back from Stanford and she’d been situationally bubbly and sharp witted. He hadn’t had the chance to realize that John drained the life from her when they were kids, but he knows now, and he hates that he can’t have everything. He can have John, but then he loses Grace. He can have Grace, but then he’s out of the only parent they have left. What Dean Winchester hates the most, is that he’d trade his father for his sister any day. 

“Oh, um, yeah. Daniel Elkins of Manning, Colorado was found mauled in his home. I know the name, I just can’t figure out from where, but it looks like the cops don’t know what to think. At first they thought it was some kind of bear attack, but now they found signs of a robbery.” Grace explains what she’d found, her voice as quiet as a whisper but she hasn’t been much louder since they’d connected with John. 

Dean rummages through his bag to find John’s journal, the name apparently sounding familiar to him too. Grace watches him intently, not because she’s interested, but because she’s been on edge for days now. “Here. Check it out.” Dean hands the journal to Grace once he’s found something relevant, and the youngest Winchester takes it into her hands with narrowed eyes. 

“It has to be the same Elkins.” Grace mumbles after a beat, looking up at Dean who nods agreeingly. 

“How can you be so sure?” Sam questions, pulling the journal into his own hands and out of his sisters. He misses the way that Grace’s eyes flicker downward with uncertainty, but Dean doesn’t, and he sighs internally. Grace hadn’t questioned her capabilities as a hunter when it had been just them out on their own. The eldest Winchester hates that someone he still needs can ruin everything good in his life just by being around. 

“It’s a Colorado area code.” She explains hesitantly, and Sam’s eyes soften when he realizes that she’d interpreted his genuine confusion as critical doubt. This had been the version of his sister that had shown up on his doorstep over a year ago. This was the version of his sister that he’d left behind without looking back. He doesn’t know how he left her so easily back then; not when he can finally see just how broken down she’d been. He misses the way she rolls her eyes whenever he questions her, and how she used to contribute to their conversations. He’d spent nineteen years not knowing that his baby sister could be somebody entirely different, but now that he knows that, now that he’s seen that version of her and had gotten to love her, he doesn’t want this. He hates this. 

“Alright. Manning, Colorado. Let's go.” Dean threw a crumpled up napkin on the table, beginning to pack away all of the books he’d pulled out from his bag. Sam doesn’t hesitate to follow his action, closing his laptop and reaching for the leather crossbody he refused to wear correctly. Grace grabs the paper she’d been reading, folding it in half before she stood up, waiting by the corner of the table for Sam before she turned to follow Dean. 

He held the door open for Grace, and the youngest Winchester whispered a soft ‘thank you’ as she passed. Dean shook his head, making eye contact with Sam before they followed their sister to the Impala. Daylight was precious and quickly fleeting, so after bags had been thrown into the trunk, all three siblings piled into the car and headed straight toward Colorado.

-

By the time they reached Manning, darkness had fallen over the town. Grace Winchester fought off a yawn as she crawled out of the backseat of the Impala, evidently not having won any measure of rest despite her prolonged silence that left the backseat quiet and still. She stumbled into Sam unintentionally, and her entire body seized with fear instinctively. Her firm-chested brother stepped away from her sadly, wondering what it was going to take to pull her out of her shell again. He hadn’t been much help the first time around. He knew too much, felt too much about her to ever think of intentionally provoking her. Jessica had been the one to breach her bubble of solitude. She’d been the one to drag Grace to parties and study groups. She’d been the one to spend hours in Grace’s room in silence, but eventually that silence became lively conversations that kept Sam awake when he was trying to get rest in before an exam. He might’ve had a little sister for the last twenty years of his life, but he doesn’t know the first thing about girls in general. 

“Gracie.” Dean calls for her quietly as he stands in front of the open trunk. He’s scrounging for weapons, but he has a flashlight already extended toward her. Grace takes it quickly, testing the battery before she nods and steps away, putting unnecessary distance between them. 

Dean throws one at Sam, not as cautious about his brother's reaction as he was about his sisters. If it was two weeks earlier, he would’ve thrown one at Grace without warning her, but it’s not two weeks ago, and his sister isn’t the same as she was then. It’s a realization that keeps hitting the Winchesters like a heavy punch, and each time it crosses their mind is as devastating as the first. 

They creep through the blanket of darkness with precision that only comes with practice. Grace is sandwiched between her brothers, the shift in attitude not enough to derail their routine. She stops behind Dean when they approach the front door of Elkin’s house. Insects chirp from all around her and her skin crawls, but at the very least she takes their presence as a sign of good things. At least it's not eerily quiet. They cross over the threshold with careful footsteps, shining their lights against surfaces in the distance. There isn’t much on show in Elkin’s property, but Grace supposes that fits the script of any hunter that she’s known. They all have a lot of things, but most of those things aren’t sentimental or personal. For a moment, Grace considers what her own home would look like if she ever found a way to have that small privilege. She thinks, at the very least, she’d display all of the childhood pictures they have. 

They creep further into the house until they find what was once Elkin’s study. Grace grimaces at the evident signs of a struggle, the sight unsettling given Daniel Elkin’s capabilities and knowledge. Something had happened here, that much was obvious. 

“Looks like the maid didn’t come today.” Dean commented sarcastically, sweeping his flashlight against the desk to his left. 

Sam peels away from his siblings to kneel by the door, his fingers trailing over whatever was thrown across the floor in a thin layer. Grace trailed farther away, shining her flashlight against the walls in the farthest corner. She craned her head when Sam called out, his voice even but laced with curiosity. “Hey, there’s salt over here, right inside the door.” 

“You mean protection-against-demon salt or ‘oops, I spilled the popcorn’ salt?” Dean didn’t even bother to glance back, too busy rifling through papers that Elkins had scattered around the place. 

“It’s clearly a ring.” Sam mused, brushing off his fingertips before he stood up, shining his light in Dean’s direction. “You think this guy Elkins was a player?” 

“Definitely.” Dean hummed with unmistakable certainty. His younger siblings frowned at his tone of voice and crept closer until they could look over his shoulder at the papers he was flipping to. They weren’t just random papers like Grace had assumed they were, but rather a spiral ring journal that held a striking resemblance to something they all knew. 

“That looks a hell of a lot like Dad’s.” Sam noted, his flashlight shining against the paper, bringing the black ink to light that was otherwise near perfectly concealed by the darkness of midnight. 

“Except this dates back to the ‘60s.” Dean informed his younger siblings of what he’d read on a page toward the front of the journal. There wasn’t time to waste. Whatever attacked Elkins could very well still be in the general area, and with that in mind, Dean grabbed the journal before he backed away from the study, crossing over the salt-lined threshold to find another area of the house. 

All of the other rooms held the same level of physical distress, which had the baby hairs at the nape of Grace’s neck standing up straight. Furniture was broken, glass was shattered, salt was scattered – it wasn’t a good sight, and all three of the Winchesters knew that. 

“Whatever attacked him, looks like there was more than one.” Dean muttered beneath his breath, creeping toward one of the far corners in the room while Sam and Grace crept toward another. “Looks like he put up a hell of a fight, too.” 

“Yeah.” Sam agreed, sounding breathless as he swept his gaze across all of the destruction that had occurred. Grace could remember what their motel room looked like at times when John got too involved in a case, and she couldn’t help but wonder if some of this had been a result of that same all-in dedication. It wasn’t the farthest fetched theory in the world, but it didn’t take away from the obvious struggle, so she kept it to herself. There was no point in sharing if what she had to say didn’t add any value to the case, John had taught her that when she was seven. 

Grace was rummaging through a pile of papers that looked like they could be leads for a case when Sam piped up a few feet behind her, his attention aimed on Dean. “Got something?” He inquired hopefully, and Grace’s head snapped to her brother immediately, her full attention on whatever it was that Dean was looking at. 

“I don’t know. Some scratches on the floor.” Dean mumbled, his fingers ghosting over the scratches that from where Grace was standing, looked to be surrounded by pools of blood. 

“Death throes maybe?” She questioned lightly, and Sam nodded in agreement, looking back at Dean who was already considering the possibility. 

“Maybe.” He agreed, but there was something beneath his eyes that had Grace looking in a different direction. She made a soft sound of understanding when Dean reached for a blank paper on the desk, grabbing a pencil and lowering it to the floorboard. She hadn’t even considered that as a possibility. Maybe she was getting dull, losing that only thing that made her valuable. “Or maybe a message.” Dean’s eyes widened as he pulled the paper away from the floor, the sliver of light that brightened the room falling against it at just the right angle. He held it out to Grace, “Look familiar?” 

The young woman reached for it curiously, familiarity crossing her features within the first handful of seconds. “Three letters, sex digits – the location and combination of a post office box. It’s a mail dorp.” She breathed the realization, her eyes wide as she trailed her gaze to the door. 

“That’s just the way Dad does it.” Dean didn’t think before he said it, but it’s as if he can see every wall his sister has let slip come right back up into place. He sighs with conflict that can’t be resolved right now, dusting off his hands as he makes his way back toward the Impala. Grace followed quickly, her footsteps falling into step with Dean’s unintentionally. Sam’s lips curved slightly at the sight. Their lives had been anything but traditional, but in his sister there was still an innocent little girl. For years she had followed Dean around everywhere, emulating his attitude, mimicking his movements. Their lives might’ve changed, but somewhere within them all were the kids they’d once been. 

-

 Grace stayed in the car when the boys ran in to retrieve whatever had been stashed at the post office box. She hadn't wanted to travel too far from the car in paranoid fear that they’d been tailed to the location, and neither Dean or Sam had been willing to fight her on the subject. It wasn’t really a three person job anyways, but as they rushed back to the Impala with a semi-crumpled envelope in hand, Dean couldn’t help but feel like something was missing; someone. He hopes whatever rut Grace had fallen into would end with time and patience, because he doesn’t know how to lead a hunt when she isn’t behind him keeping him in line. There might’ve been hunts when she was away at Stanford, but even back then he’d missed her. 

The door slammed as the eldest Winchester fell into the driver's seat of the car. Sam was hardly any different, and Grace swore her bones rattled at the force of metal meeting metal ahead of her. “J.W. – You think? John Winchester?” 

“I don’t know. Should we open it?” Dean questioned, his voice gravely with concern, but their attention was short lived as knocking on the window shattered their found sanctuary in the leather detailed car. Grace flinched into the farthest door, her eyes wide as they looked up to meet the reflection of her father. She’d known that they weren’t alone, but her heart still hammers in fear as she sweeps her gaze over the man she’s least expected to show up midway through a hunt. “Dad?” Dean called out, breathing heavily as he pulled away from the window just enough to see out of it clearly. 

John didn’t say anything, instead, he peeled open the back door and slid in right beside Grace on the leather seat. The youngest Winchester tried to remain unbothered, forcing her shoulders to drop and her hands to remain uncurled, but there was no way for her to completely rewire the instinctive reaction that happened whenever her father was close enough to touch. 

“Dad, what are you doing here? Are you all right?” Sam craned his neck to look back at John, but his green eyes found his sister instinctively. Grace was settled as close to the passenger side door as she could get without looking like she was trying to escape her fathers reach, and her shaking hands lay upright on her thighs like she’d been taught all of those years ago. He can still remember the first time John had backhanded her because she’d clenched her fingers into fists when he’d been ragging on her ‘disobedience’ and his heart lurched at the violent memory of blood dripping from her cheek after John’s ring had sliced her skin. He’d do anything to switch places with her, get her out of armshot from John, but he can’t. Instead, he can only hope that their fathers not here to antagonize her further. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” John nodded, keeping his eyes on Sam, not allowing himself to even glance at Grace. The youngest Winchester doesn’t know what to make of the situation, but she knows that it's too early to rest entirely. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d flipped at the drop of a hat with no warning. “Look, I read the news about Daniel. I got here as fast as I could. I saw you two up at his place.”

Dean’s eyes trail to Grace, her insistence that she stay at the car while they went inside making more sense now than it did only moments ago. For once, she’d had a right to be on edge, and he hates that he hadn’t trusted her instincts more, but it was hard to know when her anxiety was trustworthy. She’d spent the better portion of the last week away from John looking over her shoulder without reason. “Why didn’t you come in, Dad?” Sam frowns, pulling Dean’s attention back to the conversation at hand. 

“You know why.” John huffed, his voice even and without any care for the wellbeing of his children. “Because I had to make sure you weren’t followed… by anyone… or anything. Nice job of covering your tracks, by the way.” Grace could scoff at the excuse. They would’ve been safer had he been in there with them, even if she wants nothing to do with him, he was the one that taught them that there was safety in numbers, and yet he’s always the first to be missing from a fight. 

“Ah, that was Gracie.” Dean shook his head, knowing he’d caught John in a trap. He wouldn’t take back what he’d said, no he was far too interested in keeping his pride intact to backtrack on his words so obviously, but the sour grimace that crossed his expression said everything that he wouldn’t. Had he known that Grace was the one to cover their tracks initially, he never would’ve praised her efforts, but he’d already done it, and for once Grace Winchester was getting validation for her efforts, even if it was muddled by the disgusted expression that fell upon their fathers browline. 

Unconsciously Grace pulled at the seam line in her black leggings, her bottom lip caught between her teeth tightly as she tried not to focus on how her father was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. “Knock it off, girl.” John snapped when he became aware of the anxious movements his daughter was making to his left. The young woman, who still hadn’t even celebrated her twenty-first birthday and was really only a kid pretending to understand an adult world, stiffened at the reprimand, stilling her fingers on her thighs and straightening out her posture. 

“Wait, so you came all the way out here for this Elkins guy?” Sam frowned, and all three siblings bristled at the realization that they would never be enough for their father on their own. Something else always came before them, whether it was a hunt, or apparently a fallen friend. It shouldn’t sting anymore, they should be used to it, but Grace’s eyes still flickered to her lap in a moment of weakness. 

“Yeah.” John sighed, but there was no ounce of apology in his whispered words. “He was – he was a good man. He taught me a hell of a lot about hunting.” 

Grace frowned at that, knowing that most everyone John crossed paths with was brought up in some capacity. Whatever John learned, they learned to, and Daniel Elkins was not someone that Grace remembered from passing conversation. “You didn’t tell us about him.” Not everything had gone back to the way that it had been, because if it did, Grace never would’ve opened her mouth at all, let alone to question John’s relationship with another hunter. 

“I don’t gotta tell you shit, girl.” John’s eyes were ablaze with anger as he snapped his gaze toward his youngest child, and Grace didn’t hesitate to push herself closer to the door, her eyes wide as she stared back at her father whose short temper hadn’t gotten any better since she’d left home. “You better watch who you're talking back to. You got that?” He seethed, leaning closer until his breath fanned across her face and she was effectively pinned between the car door and his body. She wouldn’t be able to bail before his hands caught the fabric of her shirt, but her hand reached for the handle regardless. 

She nodded frantically, her breath hitching when his hand shot out to grab the fabric of her top. He pulled her closer, close enough to tell that he’d definitely had a drink sometime recently if the stench of beer on his breath was any indication of his alcoholic habits. “I said. You got that?” 

“Yes sir.” She forced the words off of her lips, hating how they felt like a mouthful of dry sand, but evidently that was enough to break through some of the anger that clouded his eyes with something dark and unwelcoming. He didn’t release the tight grip he had on her shirt however, and nervously Grace glanced down at the crumbled fabric that was one sharp tug away from tearing. 

“Dad, hey–” Dean called for John’s attention, and suddenly that anger melted away into something else, his gaze softening once it fell upon his boys. He shoved Grace away from him with more strength than what was necessary, and the young woman's head thumped against the window from the unexpected force of her fathers hand shoving her backward. She winced, but pursed her lips together to stop the audible pain from passing into the air and giving him another reason to put his hands on her. She was getting restless, anxious, her eyes were darting between all three men in the car, and whether she noticed or not, tears blurred in her waterline as her breathing hitched to something familiar and worrisome. “What happened with Elkins? Why did you never mention him?”

“We had a– we had kind of a falling out. I hadn’t seen him in years.” John’s voice softens, his eyes only on Dean as he speaks. Grace hates that even after years, he can’t even look at her without inflicting harm and pain. She doesn’t know what happened between them, can remember sparing moments when he hadn’t been horrible, but that was as far gone as Mary Winchester. It was like one day, he’d suddenly realized he hated her and had never tried to reframe his way of thinking. Even if she hated him, wanted nothing to do with him, it hurt to know that the only parent she has left doesn’t love her the way he was supposed to. “I should look at that.” He nods toward the envelope in Dean’s hand, and the eldest child doesn’t hesitate to hand it back to him. 

John peeled the envelope open carefully, unfolding the paper with a level of cation that he’d never applied to his own flesh and blood. With his gruff hands occupied, Grace raised her own to the collar of her shift, rubbing against the wrinkled fabric and where the neckline of her shirt had rubbed against sensitive skin harshly. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have fabric burns on her body, but as she presses her fingers over the reddened and irritated skin, every memory comes rushing back to her at once. “‘If you’re reading this, I’m already dead.’ That son of a bitch.” 

Dean’s eyebrows furrow, and Sam leans closer to the backseat, curiosity evident in his own green eyes. “What is it?” He questioned carefully. John had never treated him the way he’d been quick to treat Grace, but he’d taken his anger toward them out on her, and so the middle Winchester acted with caution. 

“He had it the whole time.” John shook his head, but that didn’t give any of his children anymore insight. 

“Dad, what?” Sam asked again, and Grace was already sick of them having to ask the same questions multiple times just to get some semblance of a straight answer from him. She doesn’t know why he still treats them like they’re not good enough to be involved in the hunts that he’s chasing, but with every passing second it gets on her nerves more and more. He was the one that dragged them into this life unapologetically. He was the one that had sent them coordinates and essentially led them on a wild goose chase, and yet he’s the one that keeps that an arms length away whenever they're together. 

“When you searched the place, did you see a gun–” 

Grace’s posture straightens even more, and despite everything she’s come to learn about avoiding John’s anger, she finds herself speaking up, filling in the blanks of his sentence the same way she’d fill in Dean’s. “An antique colt revolver?”

John’s gaze snapped to her, his hard eyes filled with anger and violent passion, but he didn’t comment immediately. Instead, he inclined his head, demanding more than what she’d already given; giving her permission to say more. “The gun wasn’t there, but the case was.” 

“For the love of god, girl!” He bellowed in frustration, and within seconds his hand was jutting out to make contact with her face. Grace squeaked when the stinging pain registered in her mind, her fathers handprint warm and throbbing against her cheek, but she didn’t recoil into herself like she wanted to. That would only fuel his anger more, and it seemed like in the years since she’d run away, he’d lost any kind of handle on it at all. 

“Dad, what the hell!” Sam yelled, his eyes looking straight at Grace who only shrugged off his concern. Dean’s nostrils flared with anger, his jaw locked with a protectiveness Grace remembers being more controlled, but he didn’t comment, didn't want to test the theory that John would still punish her further if they intervened in any way. They weren’t children anymore, him especially, but somehow he thinks John will always treat them like they are. 

“They have it.” John didn’t even bristle beneath the heated glares his sons were throwing at him, and realizing that harboring any ill feelings wasn’t going to get them anywhere tonight, Dean drew in a deep breath, trying to push the protective anger out from his rough exterior. 

“You mean whatever killed Elkins?” He asked calmly, but his eyes stayed on Grace, not unaware of how she was falling into a panic attack the longer John sat beside her. Her eyes that had once been so clear and green were glazed over with a dark fear that sent a chill down his spine. He still needed his father, still needed advice and direction, but he’d spend the rest of his life lingering in feelings of uncertainty if it meant keeping her safe and unharmed. 

“We got to pick up their trail.” John’s eyes flashed with urgency, and before any of the siblings could unpack the use of ‘we’ in his sentence, he was climbing out of the backseat and into the cold Colorado air. The youngest Winchester let out a sigh of relief she hadn’t even realized was collecting in her chest, deflating into the passenger side door as she finally brought her hand up to hold where her father had struck her. The skin throbbed and burned beneath her touch, and without even seeing the damage that had been done, she knew her eye would bruise from how his fingers brushed right beneath her waterline. Her lip quivers in an automatic response, but she refuses to cry in front of him – refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d just broken yet another piece of her slowly dying heart. 

“Wait.” Sam called through the open window, both him and Dean leaning toward it. “You want us to come with you?” 

“If Elkins is telling the truth, we’ve got to find this gun.” John sighed, leaning into the window so that he could see both of his sons; the only two people he even cared about just slightly. Grace was just another box to check, or at least, that’s how she felt a majority of the time as she sat in her brother's shadows. It was hardly fair. John expected perfection from her, and yet he never gave her an ounce of what he did her brothers. The odds were always stacked against her, but somehow she’d survived this long. That had to count for something. 

“The gun? Why?” Sam continued to press for information, for a reason to put his life on this line for just another weapon, but John refused to give into the valid questioning. 

“Because it’s important, that’s why.” John argued, but for once, Sam wasn’t backing down to his bullshit excuses. If Grace wasn’t terrified of being dragged out of the car and beaten into a bloody pulp on the gravel road, maybe she would’ve said something too, but the sting against her cheek kept her firmly where she already was. 

“Dad, we don’t even know what these things are yet.” Sam tried to make their hesitancy known, but John was never the kind of man to take excuses of any kind. He’d give them just enough information to assure they weren’t going in completely blind, but nothing entirely helpful. Grace thought it must be some kind of sick game to him. There was no other explanation for his secrecy. 

“They were what Danny Elkins killed best… vampires.” All three siblings visibly recoiled at their fathers words, a combination of shock and fear filling their eyes as they craned their heads to look at their father. 

Dean’s eyes widened considerably, his gaze set on John firmly. “Vampires? I thought there was no such thing.” 

“You never even mentioned them, Dad.” 

“I thought they were extinct. I thought Elkins and others had wiped them out.” John hangs his head for a second, accepting his son's disbelief and concern. Grace doesn’t even want to consider what John’s reaction would’ve been if she’d been the one to question him on this. “I was wrong.”

Grace sighed quietly to herself as she sank deeper into the backseat of the Impala, itching to grab the blanket that was crumpled into a ball on the floor, but fighting against it. Instead, she listened to John prattle on about everything that he knew about vampires, her brothers giving him the same attention. “Most vampire lore is crap. A cross won’t repel them. Sunlight won’t kill them and neither will a stake to the heart. But the bloodlust – that part’s true. They need fresh human blood to survive. They were once people, so you won’t know it’s a vampire until it’s too late.” 

He didn’t say anything else other than that he’d tail them to the motel they’d scouted out a few miles West. The thought of him spending the night with them in a cramped motel room made her skin crawl, but there was no getting out of this. This is what Dean pulled them away from Stanford to do – find John – but Grace hadn’t realized just how much she’d begin to sacrifice just to see through these endless hunts. When he was far enough away to no longer hear the way that rocks and leaves crunched beneath his boots, Dean rolled the window up, starting the car with evident irritation in his posture. 

He didn’t pull away from the post office immediately, instead he turned toward the backseat, ushering Grace to come into view where the lights shone brightly over the center console. “Come here, Gracie. Let me see you.” 

“I’m fine, D.” The youngest of the trio whispered, tears still prickling her eyes as she cradled her cheek protectively. She sounded small, scared, and Dean hated that this was his fault. He dragged her back into this, he brought her into the search for John. Even if he hadn’t been the one to strike her, it felt like he did as he sat with the guilt of being the reason she’s here at all. 

“Gracie, let me see.” He insisted, reaching out for her. He hates that she flinches, hates that her eyes that aren’t so soft anymore pinch together in fear of another strike, but eventually she caves, leaning closer until her face is illuminated by the glow of the lights inside of the car. “He got you good, huh?” His thumb strokes across the visible mark of where his fathers palm had clapped against her soft skin, and Grace sucks in a breath between clenched teeth at the sting that comes forward with the continuous prodding and poking. 

“When doesn’t he.” Grace hummed humorlessly, and both of her brothers seem to deflate at the reminder that she’s used to this. They know that she is, know that she can handle constant pain and soreness, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow when they’re essentially helpless in the situation. “I’m fine, Dean. Nothing that hasn’t happened before.” 

Dean, for once in his life, doesn’t see John as being his entire world, and softly he tries to make that known to both of his siblings, but more so Grace who seems to only be holding on by a thread. “I can tell him to get lost–” 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Grace huffs, pulling away from his touch to slouch against the backseat. Dean wants to say that she’s handling this well, that she’s coming back out of her shell now that John’s no longer in sight, but he knows that it's only the adrenaline of having to be on her a-game that’s fueling this conversation right now. He knows that the second they pull away from this gravel road, she’ll become nothing more than a shadow of herself as she tries to keep everything that wants to come falling out inside. “Just… don’t try to get between us if something happens, okay? It’s not worth it.”  

“I sat there and did nothing for nineteen years–” 

“Yeah, because the one time you did say something, he held a machete to my throat and said he’d kill me!” Grace snapped, tears falling down her face as she finally broke. “This is not about you, Dean! This isn’t about either of you! It’s about me! About how he hates me so much that he’d rather threaten to kill me than apologize for hitting me so hard he fractured my ribs! You wanted him back, well guess what, here he is. Now can we please stop acting like this isn’t normal. Like you didn’t know this is exactly what would happen when you showed up at Stanford asking for help finding him!” 

“Gracie, I didn’t–”

“Yes, you did. Don’t even try to say you didn’t think this would happen again. It’s fine, Dean. Can you just drive, please? Before he comes out here again.” Grace melted into the leather seats beneath her weight, her arms crossed over her chest as she let her tears fall silently, not possessing the energy it would take to shut out her overwhelming emotions entirely. Sam sank into the passenger seat with a sigh, his eyes trailing to Dean who held the wheel tightly, tears glimmering in his own green eyes. Truth is, he did know this would happen, at least some buried part of him did. He’d been hopeful that things wouldn’t end up like this though; been hopeful that for once he could just have his family together without violence. He was stupid to think that grudges and anger would be so easily overcome, and he hates that he pulled Grace away from something good just for her to end up where she’d started. 

The engine revs as he pulls away from the post office, tension thick in the car as neither of the siblings say anything else, nobody knowing what to say. 

-

Despite the motel that they’d rented a room at, Grace hadn’t gotten so much as a wink of sleep in the hours that had elapsed from night to early morning. She couldn’t rest knowing that her father sat only a few inches away from the end of the bed that she shared with Sam, and she knows that he knows that despite doing her best to act like she wasn’t wide awake with her eyes closed. She shifts slightly beneath the heavy blankets, curling her hands into fists beneath the pillow as she hears the faint static of the police scanner hum to life and him grab his jacket that had been thrown against the chair he pulled away from the table. She barely keeps her body from flinching when his hand bats at her ankle that's beneath the covers, apparently mistaking her body for Sam’s as he calls for her brothers to get up. 

“Sam, Dean, let’s go.” He demands, but all her brothers do is groan in response as they try to cling onto sleep. Grace doesn’t have the same privilege, and quickly she slips out of bed, putting her sock-covered feet into the tennis shoes she’s had for nearly two years. Her heart hammers in her chest when she remembers how Jessica had skipped an entire day of classes near finals just to drag her to the mall and take advantage of all the year-end sales that were going on. It had been so long ago now that the laces that were once a shade of pink, were now muddied and twinged brown. Grace would do anything to go back to a time when she could tell that they were pink. “Picked up a police call.” 

“What happened?” Sam questioned, his voice filled with exhaustion as he peered up at John. Instinctively his hand reached out to feel Grace beside her, and when he came up with only warm sheets, he sat up fully, searching for her until he found her beside the nightstand separating the two beds, reaching for one of Dean’s jackets that she’d stolen weeks ago. 

“A couple called 911. They found a body in the street. Cops got there. Everyone was missing. It’s the vampires.” John explained gruffly, his gaze trailing to Grace when her realized that she was the only one ready to go. His posture stiffened, his eyes hardened and every last piece of Grace’s heart nearly broke as she watched him throw daggers at her. She would never be able to please him, but a small part of her still tries to show up her brothers hoping for scraps of his validation.  

“How do you know?” Sam questioned, finally throwing his feet over the side of the bed, meanwhile Dean still hadn’t moved an inch, his sleep-filled eyes riddled with conflicting emotions. 

“Just follow me, okay?” John huffed, already heading towards the door. Dean groaned, swinging his legs off of the bed and standing up finally. Grace didn’t avoid his quick glance intentionally, but it still cuts Dean as he sighs to himself. 

“Vampires.” He tries to downplay his obvious hurt, chuckling beneath his breath as he stuffed his bag full without any rhyme or reason. “It’s funnier every time I hear it.”

Grace and Sam rolled their eyes, both throwing their duffles over their shoulder and heading toward the door. Grace’s cheek wasn’t as inflamed as it had  been the night prior, but beneath her eyes was a purplish bruise that ached deep in her bones. Sam grimaced as the light caught on the undertone of yellow in the wounded flesh, and comfortingly he slung as arm over her shoulder once they passed through the threshold of the motel room. 

“Get any sleep last night?” He asked her softly, aiming his words for her alone to hear and take in. 

Grace sighed, shrugging his arm off of her and stepping the slightest inch ahead of him, creating distance that only isolated her breaking heart further. Regardless, she looked over her shoulder, a smirk of indifference resting against her bitten lips. “Nope.” She threw her ponytail over her shoulder as she continued toward Baby, not willing to let her father read any kind of emotion in her appearance. 

Sam sighed, craning his head to look at Dean when he finally emerged from the hotel room. “She’s gonna be fine, right?” It felt like a cheap question, one that undermined the severity of Grace’s experience with John, but Sam was desperate to hold out hope for his little sister bouncing back the second they could cut ties with John… if they ever cut ties with John. 

“This time Sammy… I don’t know.” Dean admitted with a reluctant sigh, hanging his head as he stepped forward, leaving Sam to follow after both of his siblings who were beginning to lose themselves into the roles that John Winchester had demanded they play over a decade ago. The soldier and the shadow. Sam knew exactly where he fit into that, and nausea pooled in his stomach at the thought of ever falling into the mold that John Winchester had crafted for him. 

-

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have gone over with him.” Sam rolled his eyes as he leaned his weight against the Impala, watching their father stalk back across the dirt road after what looked like a hostile chat with the town's local officers. Grace wasn’t all that bothered by essentially being benched from the game, but she stood at full attention beside the hood regardless of her personal feelings. It didn’t matter what she wanted, only that she was perfect and quiet. 

“Oh, don’t tell me it’s already starting.” Dean rolled his eyes in the same exasperation that Sam felt, turning his back to the crime scene as he addressed his little brother and willed his gaze not to trail to Grace who still hadn’t uttered as much as a word to him; not that she’d even said more than five words since climbing into the backseat of the Impala. 

Sam furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, both hands stuffed into his pockets as he looked at Dean. “What’s starting?” 

Grace rolled her eyes with a silent huff of annoyance, knowing exactly what Dean was referencing even if Sam was otherwise clueless. Neither sibling had time to fill their brother in though, stiffening their shoulders as John approached with his hands shoved into his pockets despite how he’d always reprimanded Grace when she was trying to seek warmth in the biting cold. She can still remember how he’d sliced at the seams of her coat pockets with an army knife when she was eight, rambling on about how he’d cut her hands off if she was just going to waste their usefulness to him. He’d shoved a shotgun at her seconds later, and she could grimace at the memory of being forced to shoot her first spirit with frozen and trembling fingers. 

“What do you got?” Dean questioned, stepping just slightly in front of Grace when he turned back around to face John. It wouldn’t do much if he tried to step toward her, but it was something at the very least. 

“It was them all right. It looks like they’re heading west. We have to double back to get around that detour.” John didn’t beat around the bush, but like always, didn’t give his children anything of value to hold onto and make their own conclusions about. Grace dug her toe into the dirt, not taking her eyes off of John as she listened to more of his bullshit with an expression of neutrality. 

Sam frowned, tilting his head to the side as he tried to unmake John’s reserve. “How can you be so sure?” He pushed, not willing to back down on getting the specifics. Grace was glad at least one of them had the gall to question him, because it certainly wasn’t going to be her, but she couldn’t help but think this was only making the situation worse for them as his questions started to chip away at John’s willingness to be civil. 

“Sam–” Dean sighed, trying to stop a fight from brewing so soon, but before he could try and disarm his younger brother’s irritation, Sam was raising his voice to be heard over the interruption. It seemed that both of their brothers didn’t know how to act around their father, but she didn’t either, so the insult that was forming at the tip of her tongue stayed unmoving and half-formed and she kept herself a silent observer to the chaos. “I just want to know we’re going in the right direction.” He clapped back at Dean and not so subtly made a dig at John, something that definitely would’ve gotten Grace into hot water with their old man. She’s surprised he hasn’t called her out for something already, but she doesn’t think he’s stupid enough to get on her case with the police just a few feet away. For now, she’s safe. 

John, surprisingly, didn’t bristle beneath Sam’s weak interrogation, but a quirk in the corners of his lips told Grace all that she needed to know. He thought this was funny; though dragging them around in the dark was some kind of power move. Over a year later and he really hadn’t changed all that much, if he did at all. “We are.” He assured in an unreasonably condescending tone, and thankfully, Sam wasn’t quick to take the bait of his reassurances. Grace couldn’t stand the slowly rising tempers, or more specifically feared the consequences of rising tempers, but a small part of her was glad that somebody was finally trying to stand their ground to John Winchester.

“How do you know?” Sam fired back, his eyes hard and slitted into thin lines that didn’t hold as much malice as he thought they did. 

“I found this.” John sighed, pulling his hands out of his pockets to hand Dean what looked to be a fang. Even though she still stood behind Dean, the glimmery of something white caught in the corner of her eye, and she knew enough about the case to make an educated assumption of what had her father so certain of where their next destination should be. 

“It’s a vampire fang.” Dean frowned, looking down at the tooth that was pinched between his thumb and forefinger. 

“No fangs – teeth. The second set descends when they attack.” Grace took the words in carefully, slightly disturbed by the mental image of an entire set of teeth emerging from what was once a human's gums that second they attacked their chosen victim. She’d been in this life a long time, had grown a thick stomach to a lot of things, but that mental image was beyond what she could stomach so early in the day. “Any more questions?” He directed his gaze to Sam, who looked to the ground in defeated annoyance but didn’t say anything else, letting his silence speak for itself. 

“Let’s get out of here. We’re losing daylight.” John took control like he always did, and Grace was the first to follow that order. She shuffled to the car door quickly, placing her hand on the silver handle as John walked back toward his truck. “And, Dean, why don’t you touch up your car before you get rust? I wouldn’t have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna ruin it.” 

Grace couldn’t help but roll her eyes, wondering where her father got the nerve to think so highly of himself and so horribly of them. She didn’t say anything in Dean’s defence, but when John had his back to them, still stalking toward his truck without even inquiring to gauge Dean’s reaction to his criticism, she looked toward her eldest brother with a grimace of sympathetic understanding, silently clearing the air that had grown tense and cold between them. Dean hadn’t done a lot of things right leading up to this moment, but at the end of the day he was still beneath their fathers thumb just like she was. 

Sam, however, smirked in amusement, not quite realizing the true sentiment of John’s words and what they were armed with. He never had understood how the petty digs cut the deepest for his overlooked siblings, but Grace was simply glad that he’d never learned to question his worth based on materialistic accomplishments. She’d deal with his crooked smirk if it meant sparing him the pain of coming to terms with how you're not good enough for the one person who is supposed to love you unconditionally without something to show for it. 

John pulled out around them, his engine revving as he pulled off onto the road. Sam was on his tail within seconds, one hand resting on the wheel as the other fell beside him. This wasn’t like old times, that much rang true, but Grace couldn’t decide if it was any better than their childhood had been when they weren’t even talking to each other like they used to. She wanted to talk to them, wanted to just be with them, but the paralyzing fear of it somehow getting back to John kept her silent and anxious in the backseat – the perfect little shadow. 

The car was silent for a while before Dean piped up from the passenger seat. “Vampires nest in groups of eight to ten. Smaller packs are sent out to hunt for food. Victims are taken to the nest, where the pack keeps them alive, bleeding them for days or weeks. I wonder if that’s what happened to that 911 couple.” 

“That’s probably what Dad’s thinking.” Sam hummed critically. “Of course, it would be nice if he just told us what he thinks.” 

“So it is starting.” Dean craned his head to look at Sam, his eyebrows raised in recognition. 

“What?” Sam looked back at him, his jaw clenched as he flickered his gaze between the road and Dean’s exasperated expression.

“Sam, we’ve been looking for Dad all year. Now we’re not with him for more than a couple of hours and there’s static already.” Dean didn’t comment on the silence falling off of their sister, but nobody was going to breach that conversation when this was how it had always been. Sam considers himself lucky to have gotten to know who Grace is without John’s influence in any capacity. 

“No.” Sam denied, “Look, I’m happy he’s okay, all right, and I’m happy that we’re all working together.” He admits, his words hanging heavily in the air before Dean ruins the stretched thin silence with a petulant mumble of ‘good’ beneath his breath. Grace shifts uncomfortably in the backseat, knowing that Sam’s words are only true to an extent, but she’s still unable to shake the uncomfortable weight of knowing that her brothers are enjoying this time spent with John in any capacity no matter how small. She hates that she can’t enjoy it too, hates that she’s so filled with fear she never fully leaves fight-or-flight mode. She’d love to sit here and say that in moments where things are good, or at least tolerable, she’s happy to be a family again, but that’s not the truth for her, and it never has been. She’d be perfectly fine never seeing John Winchester again and the weight of that breaks her heart for the little girl inside of her that worshiped the ground he walked. “It’s just the way he treats us like we’re children. He barks orders at us, Dean. He expects us to follow him without question. He keeps us on some crap need-to-know deal.” 

“He does what he does for a reason.” Dean defends their father like he always does because at the end of the day, it’s the only way he knows how to keep them all safe. Grace’s heart hurts for herself, but it hurts for her older brother who has always had to carry the responsibility of making sure they all come out the other side alive and relatively unscathed. She knows how much he’s sacrificed for them, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to inflict the most unimaginable pain on him when he gets into the mode of ‘Daddy’s Soldier’. Two things can be true at once, Grace knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. 

“What reason?” Sam scoffs. 

“Our job! There’s no time to argue. There’s no margin for error, alright? It’s just the way the old man runs things.” Dean’s correct to an extent, but so is Sam, and Grace can see both sides of the battlefield as she lingers on the sidelines. She hates these fights, hates when neither of her brothers' sides are the right one to pick. Dean’s an extremist, but Sam’s too eager to find defiance. John Winchester is a horrible person, but at the end of the day he taught them everything they know, and he does know a thing or two that they haven’t ever needed to consider. 

“Yeah, well, maybe that worked when we were kids, but not anymore, alright?” Sam shook his head, his voice softening as he kept his gaze bouncing between Dean and the road ahead of them. “Not after everything we’ve been through, Dean. I mean, are you telling me you’re cool with just falling into line and letting him run the whole show?” 

“If that’s what it takes.” He admits, and even if Grace knew that he’d say that, it still hurts her to think that he considers her being slapped for something out of her control as ‘what it takes’ to complete a hunt. 

-

There hadn’t been much discussed between the siblings in the hours that had elapsed since the sun was positioned in the sky to when it had fallen beneath the trees to touch down on another piece of land somewhere far and hopefully less haunted by evil. But the silence that was becoming normal was abruptly dismantled by Dean’s phone ringing in his jacket pocket. Grace didn’t have to crane her neck to look at the caller ID to know that it was John, and with evident disinterest she sank further down in the backseat, listening to Dean’s end of the conversation. 

It was short, but her head perked up as he nodded in the passenger seat. “Yeah, Dad. Alright, got it.” He pulled the phone away from his ear, flipping it closed before he turned his head to Sam. “Pull off the next exit.” 

“Why?” Sam questioned, and this time Grace couldn’t help but sigh out loud as she let her head hit the window. 

“Cause Dad thinks we got the vampires trail.” Dean filled in the blanks, but there wasn’t really much information in the explanation. Grace understood the frustration Sam felt, but she was getting real tired of his sour attitude toward them both. 

“How?” There was a venom in Sam’s tone that Grace didn’t think Dean was blind to, but rather didn’t feel the need to play into anymore. 

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Dean shrugged, and Sam’s jaws locked as he revved the engine, speeding around the truck and jerking the wheel until both cars were stopped in the dead center of the road. Grace sighed, sinking further down into the seat as Sam charged out of the car seething with frustration that he couldn’t suffer through anymore. “Oh, crap. Here we go.” 

The car jerked with the force of her brothers slamming the door seconds after one another, and despite every instinct telling her to stay in the car, to let them hash this out on their own, she couldn’t just leave them to face their father without her, so she stepped out of the car seconds later, ensuring that distance was kept between her and John. 

“What the hell was that?!” John came storming out of the truck, his nostrils flared and chin raised as he stomped his way toward Sam who didn’t back down at the show of confidence. 

“We need to talk.” The middle-child seethed, his chin raised all the same as Johns. 

“About what?” John spit, his eyes filled with a fire that was usually directed toward Grace. The youngest Winchester took a step back instinctively, stumbling into the Impala with a near soundless thud. Dean reached out tentatively, pulling her closer by her elbow if only to offer the smallest semblance of comfort. It didn’t do much to settle Grace’s nerves, but she appreciated the sentiment of it regardless. 

“About everything.” Sam’s voice was filled with fury, and Grace can’t think of a time when she’d heard him so beyond mad. She’s always hated conflict, but there’s something about seeing her calm, always level-headed brother so worked up that has her reeling for something to ground herself to. “Where are we going, Dad? What’s the big deal about this gun?” 

“Sammy come on, we can Q&A after we kill all the vampires.” Dean stepped forward, his breath fanning across the air as it dawned on Grace how truly cold it was. The mountains didn’t care about seasons, and the near frozen temperatures only showed that fact. 

“Your brother’s right. We don’t have time for this.” 

“Last time we saw you, you said it was too dangerous to be together. Now, out of the blue, you need our help. Now obviously something big’s going down, and we want to know what!” Sam was seething with anger, his jaw clenched and every muscle in his body rigid as he refused to back down. Grace shifted on her feet, inching closer to the chaos despite every instinct in her body telling her to stay away and keep distance between herself and her fathers fists. 

“Get back in the car.” John demanded, nodding toward the Impala. 

“No.” 

“I said get back in the damn car.” John stepped closer to Sam. Maybe it was seeing her brother in the position that she’d always been in, or maybe it was just finally her breaking point. Whatever the reason, Grace found herself pushing past Dean, pulling at Sam’s arm until she could position herself between her father and her brother. 

“He said no.” She growled, adrenaline rushing through her body as her fingertips buzzed with a sudden energy she hadn’t possessed before, or ever. “You cannot keep doing this! You cannot keep treating us like children and expecting us to act like soldiers! We’re not soldiers, Dad! We’re grown adults! Adults that are only here to help you! So why don’t you get your head out of your ass for one fucking minute to tell us what the hell is going on?!” Grace flinched when John’s hand came hurtling toward her already bruised face, but in a moment of confidence, or maybe stupidity, she caught his wrist between her ice cold finger tips, her hard eyes narrowed into thin daggers that looked a lot like his. “I am not a child that you can manipulate and abuse. Not anymore.” 

Grace doesn’t know when his wrist slipped from between her fingers, but she recognizes the sting of pain before she even realizes he’s reeled back to hit her again. Her nose pulses with every beat of her racing heart in her chest, and a trail of something warm and thick dirties her upper lips. She doesn’t have to wipe at her nose to know that it’s blood, and even though every part of her wants to fall to her knees and cry about how she’s back in this position when she’d promised herself the night she ran away that she’d never come back to this, she doesn’t so much as bristle as the breeze trails past her damp face. 

“I’ve had enough of your damn mouth.” John seethed, stepping forward to strike her again as Grace becomes increasingly aware of Dean’s raised voice beside her; the ringing between her ears finally dwindled down to silence as the shock of his previous blow ebbs away. 

“That’s enough! That’s enough, Gracie.” He pulls her back by the loose fabric of his jacket around her torso, but before she can shrug his hands off of her and step up to John again, the satisfaction of finally standing up for herself an addictive sensation, Dean is slotting his body between them, his shoulders squared and rigid. “That goes for you too. And I swear, if you ever put your fucking hands on her again, it won’t be her that fights back. You hear me? Do you hear me!” He raises his voice, but John doesn’t answer. All he does is scoff and shake his head, already making his way back to the truck. 

Grace huffs, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. She barely flinches at the blood that smears across her palm and the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, retreating back to the car with pent up anger weighing her down. She slams the door behind her, grumbling beneath her breath as she leans between the seats and sets her eyes on Sam. 

“Set my nose.” She demands gruffly, her eyes glazed over with residual anger and stinging pain. She’s not fully here with them, that much Sam can tell as he searches for glimpses of sweet green in her dark eyes. He doesn’t know how to handle the situation when he’s never seen her so… Sam doesn’t even have a word to describe Grace’s attitude at the moment, but it scares him to no end to consider how after an entire lifetime of abuse, tonight was her breaking point. Pride ripples off of his shoulders – pride in her, pride in himself – but he’s otherwise frozen as he looks at the young woman who bears no resemblance to his little sister at this moment. “Sam, set my fucking nose!” 

“Come here.” Dean’s voice is gruff as it washes across his two younger siblings, and Grace snaps her gaze toward him instantaneously out of learned instinct. She hadn’t heard him get in the car, hadn’t registered the door slamming shut or his presence in the slightest, but as the seconds pass her by and the engine in the truck revs beside them, she’s beginning to fall away from the front of disassociation that had tried to save her active mind from the trauma of confronting the man who scares her more than any monster or spirit ever could. She leans her head into Dean’s hands, already knowing what lies ahead of her as she pinches her eyes shut and nods her head in acceptance of the pain that’s to come. Dean doesn’t give her a countdown, but he feels around her nose for a couple of seconds before he’s gripping both sides of it and straightening it out. She groans, recoiling backward instinctively as another stream of blood falls above her lip. “You okay?” 

“Peachy.” Grace huffs, but as Sam straightens out the car and lets John pull out in front of them on the road again, she deflates entirely, suddenly feeling the weight of her exhaustion as she rubs at her swollen eyes. “You stuck up for me.” She muses softly, pulling at the tips of her fingers with anxious uncertainty, the invincibility that had washed over her when adrenaline was coursing through her veins slowly dissipating the longer she sat with the memory of recent events playing like a highlight reel in her head. 

Dean scoffed out a breath, but he nodded his head regardless after a handful of seconds passed by. “Yeah, yeah.” He shrugs her comment off, but her eyes are burning holes into his shoulder, and he can’t avoid the conversation despite how he wants to. Dean Winchester had never been good at emotional displays, but Grace very rarely gave him the choice of backing away from them. “I meant what I said Gracie, I did think this time would be different. The way he talked about the both of you when you were at Stanford – I just thought he’d at least try to turn a new leaf. Can we cut the chick-flick shit?” 

“No, because I am a chick. That rule only applies to Sammy and you know it.” The youngest Winchester huffed, uncrossing her arms only to drop them at her sides like they weighed too much for her to carry. “You know that wasn’t the first time he broke my nose?” 

For once, Dean didn’t try to shut down the conversation. For once, all he did was try his best to actually listen to Grace as she opened up her heart to him. He craned his head to peer into the backseat, comforted by the sight of her sprawled against the leather seats. She hadn’t sat like that in weeks, she’d been keeping herself closed off and small, but a piece of Dean’s heart heals as he keeps his eyes on her now. 

“I don’t remember him ever breaking your nose before.” Sam frowned, evidently paying more attention to the conversation than either Grace or Dean had first thought. Frustration and anger was still rolling off of his shoulder in waves, but he’d always been good at keeping his feelings away from Grace. Even if she wasn’t aware, she had been both of her brother's soft spots for as long as they could remember. 

“Because you weren’t there.” Grace says softly, her eyes saddened and brimming with tears. “Whenever Dad took me on hunts… they were never as long as he told you they were. Sometimes we’d be gone a week, but the hunt itself would only take two or three days. One time–” Grace looks down, her hands beginning to tremble at the memory that plays at the forefront of her mind like it had been burned there by someone sadistic and cruel. “One time, when I had the flu, he took me out to South Dakota to kill some pissed off spirit. Shit went wrong, and he just– he just flipped; finished the hunt himself and dragged me back to Bobby’s. He must’ve hit me a few hundred times. That was when he was the worst. When he didn’t have to worry about you asking questions, when he didn’t have anyone there to stop him. At, uh, at one point he punched me so hard that I fell over, and then he just kept kicking me. I don’t remember much honestly. It’s like… glimpses, flashes. All I really remember is that he kept throwing rocks at me, telling me to get up, yelling at me to get up. I tried, but I couldn’t and I puked all over myself. That pissed him off even more, he grabbed me by my shirt, pulled me up to my feet. He, uh, he had his hand around my neck. It was one of the first times he said he’d kill me and I actually believed him. If Bobby hadn’t gotten back from his own hunt, I really think he would’ve killed me that night.” Grace, despite herself, smiles sadly at the memory. She can’t look up at her brothers. She doesn’t want to know what they look like. But, she’s not done. Somehow, there’s more to the story that isn’t really a story at all. It’s her life. The tragic and twisted existence of Grace Campbell Winchester. “Bobby brought me inside. I didn’t think anything was broken, I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn’t leave it alone. I’ve never seen Bobby so scared, so terrified for anyone. The way he looked at me… I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. He looked at me like one wrong move would be enough to finish what Dad didn’t. He set my nose back in place, but I can’t even remember how Dad broke it. If it was his fist or his foot or one of the rocks he threw, I– I don’t know. I just know that I stayed with Bobby for a couple of days after that. Dad went off to do another hunt, or I don’t know, maybe he just got wasted at a bar and got a motel room somewhere. I just– all I remember is that four days later he showed up, told me to get in the car, and we drove back to that crappy ass motel he left you at. Before we got inside he told me not to tell you, that if I said anything, he’d have no problem killing me for real and making sure it hurt.” 

“Gracie, look at me.” Dean pleaded tenderly, his voice thick with tears as he searched for the only pair of eyes that could make him question doing something stupid and reckless but she refused to look at anything besides her blood stained hands in her lap. She doesn’t know what had changed her mind about sharing that specific encounter, but she doesn’t think she feels any lighter in the aftermath of its exposure. “Look at me, sweetheart. Please.” 

Grace’s bloodshot eyes trail up to meet Dean’s after a beat of thick silence, and her bottom lip trembles as she sets her gaze on his crestfallen green gaze. The green gaze that they share. The green gaze that is so entirely Mary it almost hurts Dean to even look at his sister and see someone so broken down they're hardly even recognizable. Mary would hate what they’ve become. Hate what John simultaneously made of them and unmade of them. Sometimes, he doesn’t even feel like a person. He’s got such a misconstrued sense of his own autonomy that life or death doesn’t feel like such a weighted gamble of cards. What Dean Winchester hates the most is that the two kids he gave his own childhood up for – to raise and nurture when nobody else was around to do it –, have the same troubles embedded deeply in their instincts. “You don’t have to say anything, Dean.” Grace deflated sadly, wanting to just move on, to focus on the hunt and maintaining pleasantries with their father who is undoubtedly stewing in his wild anger only a car ahead of them.

“No, I do. I do, Gracie. I should’ve said something to both of you a long time ago.” Dean shakes his head, so often forgetting that he hadn’t willfully been a silent observer of the abuse. Grace hates that he blames so much of her suffering on himself, but she’s guilty of the same fate when there’s nothing else to keep her mind busy. “I’m not going to let him lay another finger on you, and if does, if I’m not there to stop it and shit happens, you come and find me, and I’ll deal with it. You hear me, sweetheart? He so much as grabs you too tight and I’ll handle it. I’ll finish him.” 

“You know I don’t blame you right? Either of you.” She asked softly, her voice wavering as she breathed through her mouth, her nose still throbbing at the center of her face. She’d need ice and Advil whenever they had a chance to dig through their duffles, but for now, she could live with the reminder that she’d finally stood her ground in some capacity. “The only one I blame is Dad, and it looks like we’re stuck with him for the foreseeable future, so can you stop trying to dig your own grave? And can you please stop looking like you’re going to tear his head off? This is what you wanted, and maybe it didn’t turn out the way you hoped, but we still have a job to do and I cannot be the only one thinking straight. I mean, we’re up against fucking vampires, you should be bouncing off the walls and you should be stressed beyond belief because halloween came early.” 

“Halloween did not come early.” Sam huffs, a small smile cracking his stoic expression as he threw a glare at Grace over his shoulder, his grip on the wheel loosening just slightly as he let her words wash over him. He couldn’t promise his best behavior, but he could certainly try if it meant keeping her happy. 

“We’re literally up against Dracula and his evil family, Sammy. Halloween basically came early.” Grace rolled her eyes, feeling more like herself as she taunted her brother and his eternal hatred for anything related to the tail-end of October. 

“Freaking vampires, dude!” Dean bellowed, and that was all that it took for peace to be restored amongst the siblings, John’s presence no longer so daunting now that Grace knew they had each other's back in any circumstance. 

-

Grace stood between her brothers in broad daylight, concealed by only a couple of overgrown and intertwined branches as they scooped out the vampire nest from a distance. John stood only a few inches away, his eyes memorizing the terrain that they’d stumbled across intently. Dean grumbled at her side, shaking his head as he watched two vampires engage in a rushed conversation before slipping into the abandoned barn. One lingered by the doors, sweeping his gaze across the expanse of trees and shrubbery before he disappeared too. 

“Son of a bitch.” He muttered beneath his breath, “So they’re really not afraid of the sun?”

“No, direct sunlight hurts like a nasty sunburn. The only way to kill them is by beheading them.” Grace’s nose scrunched at the violent nature of their only true weakness, and subtly she was reminded of her reset nose when an ache ran deep through her bones. She stepped just slightly to the left, her forearm brushing against Dean’s as she created distance between her fathers body and her own. She could talk a big game about carrying on with the hunt and letting the past take up residence on a back burner, but instinct was something harder to control. Dean nudged her with his elbow, nodding just slightly to convey his watchful eye. He meant what he’d said. John Winchester would never lay another hand on her if he had any say in the matter; and he’d make sure he got a say this time around. “And, yeah, they sleep during the day. It doesn’t mean they won’t wake up.” 

“So I guess walking right in’s not our best option.” Dean assumed, and Grace was inclined to agree that walking right into a vampire's nest was a dumb play, but John’s reaction insinuated the very opposite. 

“Actually, that’s the plan.” He mused, nodding toward their cars parked a few feet away in a clearing not visible to the barn doors. They followed him cautiously, stepping over twigs and branches that would give away their position if even one of the creatures heard something suspicious. 

She pulled the trunk of the Impala open, her eyes training over the stuffed bear she’d taken possession of all of those weeks ago in Kansas. A saddened warmth spread through her chest at the memory of Mary burning before her own two eyes, but she pushed it aside. Now was not the time nor place to unpack her boatload of parental traumas. 

“Dad, I’ve got an extra machete if you need one.” Dean called over his shoulder as he looked to John who had his own trunk open and was scrounging through his collection of weapons for something specific. 

“Think I’m okay. Thanks.” He replied drying, unsheathing a machete that glimmered beneath the overcast sky. Its blade was impressive, not something that Grace had seen before, and the irony that he suddenly had a weapon of that nature in a hunt like this didn’t leave her entirely. For someone who said he’d never hunted a vampire and thought all they were all extinct, he certainly had the weapons and knowledge to disprove that. 

“Wow.” Dean hummed, turning back to the trunk. Grace’s fingers were curled together in a pattern that Dean hadn’t seen since his teenage years, but a broad smile broke across his lips as he shook his head. Years ago, they’d created a silent code for the times when their father was being nothing short of an arrogant dick. It was one of the only ways that they could get anything beneath his nose, and still Dean found humor in it, even if this time his smile was drawn from the stirrings of nostalgia that blossomed in his chest. 

“So… you boys really want to know about this colt?” Grace could only roll her eyes at the fact that her father refused to acknowledge her, but she didn’t say anything. Truth was, they did want to know, and she was willing to sacrifice her pride if it meant gaining precious insight. 

“Yes sir.” Sam replied, his attention snapping to John instantaneously. 

John sighed, and for a second his eyes lingered on Grace angled between his boys so perfectly that it looked like something natural. John couldn’t remember a time when his kids had been so at ease around him, and even if their shoulders were still rigid with tension, there was something about their closeness that struck him deeply. “It’s just a story… A legend, really. Well, I thought it was. Never really believed it until I read Daniel’s letter. Back in 1835, when Halley’s comet was overhead, the same night those men died at the Alamo, they say Samuel Colt made a gun… a special gun. He made it for a hunter – a man like us, only on horseback. The story goes he made thirteen bullets. This hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him. ‘Til somehow, Daniel got his hands on it. They say– they say this gun can kill anything.”

“Kill anything like supernatural anything?” Dean questioned, astonishment laced within his tone. Grace stood straighter at the realization, her gaze falling upon that hidden corner of the trunk where she’d tucked her precious bear in between a pocket knife and the first aid kit Dean kept. 

“Like the thing that killed Mom.” Grace whispered as she trailed her gaze back to John, looking at him with so much confidence he almost didn’t have a clapback for her direct mentioning of Mary. Almost. He opened his mouth, probably to threaten her into silence, but she stepped up closer, her voice even and calm as she raised her chin. “You do not have the right to take her away from me. Maybe I don’t remember her, but she is still my Mom. The only one I’ll ever have. So why don’t you just get on with it instead of wasting any more time that we don’t have.” 

John, for once in his life, listened. “Yeah, the demon.” He licked at his lips, shifting his gaze to Sam who stood in the same state of shock as Dean. “Ever since I picked up its trail, I’ve been looking for a way to destroy that thing. Find the gun… we may have it.” 

Grace nodded, looking directly at her father, no longer afraid to so much as meet his eye without explicit permission. “Well let’s go then. I’d say it's about twenty years overdue.” 

-

Grace climbed through a window after Sam, standing on piles of hay that sank beneath her weight. Dean was right behind her, and softly he closed the boards up after he’d climbed through, drowning them in near complete darkness before their eyes adjusted to the change in light. John was ahead of them, but what else lay ahead of them was incredibly daunting. At least four vampires laid asleep in makeshift hammocks, their arms folded over their stomachs as they assumed the same near identical positions. 

She kept close to Sam, and Dean kept close to her. They had each other's backs, and that was as much comfort as Grace was going to get before they managed to secure the gun. As they stalked through the barn, it became evident that it wasn’t just four vampires that surrounded them, but over a dozen, and chills crawled up her spine as she grimaced internally. She snapped ehr gaze to Dean when teh toe of his shoe clashed against an abandoned bottle of beer, his shoulder jostling the hammock that a vampire rested in soundly. Their eyes widened, and both siblings froze to gauge the reaction that was to come, but when nothing happened and the vampire settled back into sleep, Grace breathed a silent sigh of relief. 

“Dean, Gracie.” Sam whispered for their attention, crouched beside a woman that Grace could only see half off. She crept closer, blood stains coming into view. Sam was already busy trying to untie the ropes that bound the woman, but Grace and Dean snapped their gaze to the far corner of the room when they heard a muffled sound. 

“There’s more.” Dean whispered, and Grace nodded, already back on her feet and heading in the direction that they’d heard the slightest commotion from. Dean grabbed onto a metal lever, putting both of his hands around the cold material to dampen the noise, but a clanking squeak still echoed around the barn and Grace kept careful watch of the vampires surrounding them. One of the guys shifted in his sleep, but thankfully he remained that way. 

The quiet didn’t last long, and Grace flinched into Dean when a near demonic sounding scream came from the woman bound to the pole in the center of the barn. All at once the other vampires woke, bouncing to their feet as they took in the sight of intruders around them. 

John smashed a window in the corner of the barn, his eyes wild as he looked over his shoulders to locate his children; all three of them. “Kids, run!” He threw out the order, and they listened, but Grace faltered when her eyes caught something silver in the distance. She stumbled on her feet, but didn’t go back for the gun that caught her attention. There would be another opportunity, their had to be.

When sunlight broke across her face, she squinted at the intrusion of bright light, running through the wooded area where the calls of her brother's voices created an audible path. “Gracie! Dad!” 

“I’m right here. God, I’m right here, stop fucking yelling you idiot!” She groaned, batting her hand against Dean’s shoulder when she got close enough to reach them. Dean rolled his eyes at her attitude, but stopped calling for John, realizing that he was essentially giving their covered position away. “They have the colt.” She told her brothers, confirming that they were chasing the right lead for more than just a police scanner call. 

“They won’t follow. They’ll wait till tonight. Once a vampire gets your scent, it’s for life.” John panted as he came running up to them, and Grace could only roll her eyes at the fact that he was only thinking to tell them that small detail now. 

“What the hell do we do now?” Dean threw back at their father, evidently less than impressed with that simple answer. 

“You got to find the nearest funeral home, that’s what.” Dean reared back at the cheap solution, his eyes widening for a brief moment before he schooled his features. 

-

Grace stood beneath the cover of nightfall only a few feet away from where Dean had parked the Impala. There’s a crossbow at her side, arrows from John already loaded into the weapon. She doesn’t know what they are, but she doesn’t really care. All she knows is that he’d sent her and Dean out as bait, but not without shoving the weapons into her empty hands, demanding that she prove she hasn’t lost her worth in the years that it had been since they’d seen each other. She doesn’t want to think about how his eyes had flashed with something genuine as she nodded to the instruction, but she can't help but consider that maybe she doesn’t know him as well as she’d thought. Regardless, his sudden care for her wellbeing doesn’t change her opinion of him. If anything, it only pisses her off more. She doesn’t need him anymore; doesn’t want him. She’s long since abandoned the desire to win his affection and praise. All that she cares about is doing her part in keeping her brothers alive. 

She waits for the perfect moment before she reaches for the weapon, letting the arrows cut through the darkness of night only when she’s certain that she has the perfect shot. Both arrows pierce through the hearts of the vampires, and they crane their necks to face the expanse of trees behind them. Her heart is hammering, unable to recall the last time she’d even held a crossbow, but the knowledge that after all the time that had elapsed and she was still a perfect shot had her jogging toward her brother without concern. Sam and John were right behind her, and Grace couldn’t pinpoint when they’d arrived, but she smiled cheekily at Sam over her shoulder, wiggling her eyebrows tauntingly. For a second, she was just the girl he’d started to know at Stanford, and Sam had never been so glad to see that stupid smile in his life. 

“Barely even stings.” The woman calls over her shoulder, looking straight at Grace who still holds onto the weapon of choice for the night. She can only shrug, but John has more to say.

“Give it time, sweetheart. That arrows soaked in dead man's blood. It’s like poison to you, isn’t it?” Grace’s gaze trailed down to her fingers, suddenly aware of the fact that she’d touched both arrows to lace them into the weapon. She could roll her eyes at John’s inability to ever be truly transparent, but she pockets the complaint for a later date. The woman’s eyes began to grow heavy, and in second both vampires dropped to the ground. “Load her up. I’ll take care of this one.” 

The last thing Grace saw before she turned to help her brothers was John slicing the head of the vampire off with one clean blow. 

-

“Toss this on the fire. Saffron, skunk, cabbage, and trillium – it’ll block our scent and hers until we’re ready.” John hummed, a fire burning bright beside Grace as she stood in the middle of the woods beside her brothers. 

Dean coughed, pacing the rough terrain with understandable restlessness. “Stuff stinks.” He commented, and Grace could only shake her head at his reflection. 

“Well, that’s the idea. Dust your clothes with the ashes and you’ll stand a chance of not being detected.” Grace didn’t have to be told twice, mostly because it wasn’t her jacket she was ruining by spreading ash across her chest and sleeves. She shot Dean a cheeky smile, flaunting his ash covered jacket in a silly spin that had him chuckling and shaking his head. She’d never been so light in the presence of John, had never been so light in the presence of Dean, but new leaves had been turned since he’d punched her, and fear was something she muddled through so intensely. She could only hope it lasted, but if this was all that she ever got of ‘peace’, she’d take it as a win. 

“You sure they’ll come after her?” Sam questioned, looking back at John. 

“Yeah. Vampires mate for life. She means more to the leader than the gun. But the blood sickness is gonna wear off soon, so you don’t have a lot of time.” 

“Half-hour outta do it.” Dean hummed, stepping up to the conversation with Grace on his heels. 

“And then I want you out of the area as fast as you can.” Grace frowned at the ultimatum, or, direct order. She’d been thrown enough orders in her life to know when something was optional, and John’s direction to leave town was definitely not that. 

“Woah, Dad. You can’t take care of them all yourself.” Dean fought back, but John shook his head. 

“I’ll have her and the colt.” He tried to reason, but all Grace heard was bullshit masculinity and its inability to let anyone else help. She hadn’t thought for a second that things with him would be any different, but somehow she didn’t expect this. 

“But after, we’re gonna meet up, right? Use the gun together, right?” Sam questioned, his voice laced with something that Grace couldn’t determine. His words were pointed, level and directed, but there was still something else lingering in his civil tone. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you? You still want to go after the demon alone? You know, I don’t get you. You can’t treat us like this.” 

John looked toward the fire before his gaze swept back to Sam, who’d thrown his promise to the wind, but for once, Grace was right behind him, not bristling at the conflict that was beginning to rise between them. “Like what?” 

“Like children.” Sam snaps, the same argument eating away at him each time it slips away from focus unsolved and unaddressed.

“You are my children. I’m trying to keep you safe. All of you.” John looked right at Grace, and there was that genuinity again. She stepped back instinctively, her body partially concealed by Dean as she tried to make sense of his sudden care. She hated this. Hated that she’d finally been ready to cut her ties with him and this is how he acts; like the father she’d wanted when she was seven.

“Dad, all due respect, but that’s a bunch of crap.” Dean sighed, not willing to stand out in the cold and let their father lie to their faces to save his own ass another time. He’d endured this treatment for years, but he’d finally reached his limit.  

“Excuse me?” John recoiled, and both Grace and Sam turned their gaze to him, jaws hanging slack as they watched Dean make good on his promise that wasn’t solely aimed at the youngest Winchester. He’d meant what he said about sticking his neck out; not letting history repeat itself. But, he hadn’t meant it only for Grace. He’d meant it for Sam too, but more importantly, he meant it for himself. He didn’t want to be a soldier anymore; he couldn’t be. Not when he’d finally seen what could become of him if he just acted on his own impulses every once in a while. 

“You know what Gracie and Sammy and I have been hunting. Hell, you sent us on a few hunting trips yourself. You can’t be that worried about keeping us safe. I mean, fuck Dad, you’ve never been worried about keeping Gracie safe at all. That was my job. My responsibility. So why don’t you let it stay that way.” He prattled on, and Grace could only dip her head down at the mention of her name. She knows what he gave up for her, but she desperately wished he hadn’t had to. It’s not her fault that it happened, but that doesn’t lessen the guilt she carries. 

“It’s not the same thing, Dean.” John shook his head, but that only further frustrated his children who were damn near fed up with being kept in what seemed like eternal darkness. 

“Then what is it? Why do you want us out of the big fight?” 

“This demon… It's a bad son of a bitch. I can’t make the same moves if I’m worried about keeping you alive.” He relented, but even with his spoken word, little was actually revealed to the siblings. John Winchester just had a way of being elusive without even batting an eye. 

“You mean you can’t be as reckless.” Dean snapped back, going toe-to-toe with their father, tired of just being the little boy that listened and obeyed blindly. He’d played that role for twenty-six years, he couldn’t stand to fill the shoes for another second. 

“Look, I don’t expect to make it out of this fight in one piece. Your mothers death… it almost killed me.” Dean looked away at the mention of Mary, and John shook his head, growing teary. “I can’t watch my children die, too. I won’t.” 

“What happens if you die?” Dean’s voice wavered with the slightest indication of vulnerability before it grew cold and detached, his jaw clenching as he spoke. “Dad, what happens if you die and we could have done something about it? You know, I’ve been thinking. I think maybe Sammy’s right about this one. I think we should do this together.” He was pleading at this point, begging with John to let them see this through with him. Grace couldn’t admit it, but a piece of her yearned for the same thing as her brothers. She may hate the man, may despise his presence next to her, but she couldn’t be an orphan. She still can’t even begin to handle the fact that she’s already down one parent. “We’re stronger as a family, Dad. We just are. You know it.”

“We’re running out of time.” John nodded, entirely bypassing the point that Dean had been trying to drive home. Grace deflated behind her brother, taking a step away in wild defeat and discouragement. She hates the thought of being around John, but she wants to have a hand in righting her mothers death. It’s not fair that even after all of this, John still dangles any kind of closure over her head. Every part of her knows that he’s incapable of change, but a piece of her heart breaks as she realizes that nothing about them will ever be enough to get him to stay. “You do your time, and you get out of the area. That’s an order.” 

She scoffs as she shakes her head, turning her back to her brothers and her father as she made her way back to the Impala wordlessly. She’d fought for John to love her for years, she wouldn’t let herself waste anymore time on someone that had never been what he should’ve been for her. 

The door slams behind her, and she sinks into the leather seats wearing a pout of frustration. When Sam and Dean sink into the seats up front, a beat of silence passes before the engine roars to life and Dean pulls out onto the road like a bat out of hell, the timer already running out of time. 

-

Grace crawls through the window after her brothers, silently landing on the bails of hay that are stacked up against the boarded wall. She brushes her blood stained clothes off, grimacing at the hay that still sticks to her and sends prickly sensations down her spine whenever she moves. She creeps through the hallways wordlessly, grinning beside Dean as they sweep a coin off of the desk and listen to it clank as it hits the floor. She slips into the hallway, gripping tightly to a machete that conveniently is perched against the wall of the barn. She doesn’t let herself think about the irony of this nest of vampires housing the very weapons that can kill them, focusing instead on the plan at hand. 

She holds her breath as a vampire stalks through the barn searching for the cause of the sound, and when he’s just a few steps ahead of her, Dean pops out from the sideroom, a grin on his lips as he whispers, “Boo!” The vampire didn’t even have a chance to spin on his heels and search for Grace before she was wielding the machete with practiced ease, slicing his head clean off in a second. 

“That is either the coolest thing I’ve ever done on a hunt or the most disgusting.” She grimaces as blood drips down her face and further stains her clothing. She can’t tell what’s her blood or his anymore, but the satisfaction in knowing she’d killed the evil they stumbled across eased the disgust pooling in her belly as warm blood began to cool on her skin. 

She wiped a palm down her face, wiping the blood into the fabric of her pants as she followed Dean. When he had what he was searching for, he nodded toward the window where Sam was waiting with a machete from the trunk, having taken the role of lookout reluctantly. 

“We’re going back for him, aren’t we?” Grace questions as she lands on the ground, brushing off her clothes again as dirt and hay stick to her. 

“Obviously.” Dean retorted and Grace nodded promptly, not having it in her to argue about what their next move should be. Their father couldn’t handle what was coming his way, even if he didn’t know that, Grace did, and despite herself and every self-preservation tactic she’d learned since childhood, she couldn’t get herself to be the kind of person to walk away when showing up mattered most. 

-

The headlights from John’s truck shone brightly in the expanse of darkness as Grace and her brothers rushed through the wooded area toward the gravel road. Grace wielded a crossbow with elegance, hardly bristling as she aimed for the chest of a woman and shot blankly, the poison coated arrow piercing directly through the vampire's sternum. Sam was only steps ahead of her, but before Grace could make a move to shoot the approaching vampire, he’d gained the upper hand and wrangled Sam into his grip. 

“Don’t! I’ll break his neck.” He warned dangerously, hooking his arm around Sam’s neck with a threatening tightness that had Grace lowering the crossbow just slightly. Grace’s gaze trailed to Dean as leaves rustled beside her, and she found her brother gripping at the handle of a blood soaked machete with genuine fear shining brightly behind his green eyes. “Put the blade down.” He only tightened his grip when Dean looked to contemplate the ultimatum, and Sam began to gasp for air as his windpipe was crushed ruthlessly and slowly. 

“Dean!” Grace called, shaking her head as she dropped the crossbow fully, allowing it to dangle at her side as she looked back at Sam whose cheeks were beginning to redden with the lack of oxygen. 

The vampire, a man that Grace had no interest learning the name of, stared straight at Dean as the machete clanked at the impact of thin metal meeting the rough ground. “You people. Why can’t you just leave us alone? We have as much right to live as you do.” 

“I don’t think so.” Grace hadn’t even noticed her father pick himself up from the ground, but her gaze snapped to him at the sound of a gunshot firing. The colt glistened beneath the moonlight, one of its carefully crafted bullets slicing through the air before it embedded itself in the creature's head right between his deep eyes. Grace didn’t take another moment to take in the sight of blood slowly slipping from the wound, instead, she rushed to Sam, the crossbow forgotten in the clearing of brittle grass as her sneakers padded against the ground bringing her closer to where Dean held Sam upright by his shoulders. 

Sam shrugged Grace’s concerned hands off of him as he turned to fully watch the vampire succumb to his injury. Light flickered from the hole in his head before he dropped to his knees on the gravel, groaning in pain before everything became still.

“Kate, don’t!” Another vampire called when a girl cried out in distress, attempting to rush toward her fallen leader before she was held back protectively. It was only a handful of seconds later that car doors were slamming shut and the vampires that remained sped away, their headlights shining bright in the darkness before they ebbed away. 

Grace Winchester took one look at her father before she shook her head, abandoning the fight and turning toward the direction of where the Impala was parked in the near distance but out of earshot. The leaves crunched beneath her feet, but she said nothing as she sought out escape. 

-

Grace’s hair was damp as she sifted through clothing that her brothers had somehow strewn across the room in the few hours that they’d actually occupied the motel room. She’d finally washed the blood off of her body and traded in her soiled clothes for new ones, but even with the seven minute shower she still felt heavy and out of sorts. She sighed as she threw a flannel at Dean, deciding against stealing it for herself when she noticed the grease stain smeared along the left side of the thin article. She stood in only pink pajama pants and a Stanford t-shirt when the motel door creaked open again, her father finally making his presence known. 

“So, boys…” Grace could only shake her head in exasperation when her father entirely bypassed her existence, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care that much as she continued to sift through the random garments within reach. She threw a t-shirt on top of Sam’s duffle bag, wondering how they’d created such a mess in the first place when all they’d done was steal a handful of hours of rest. 

“Yes, sir.” Dean cleared his throat, turning around to face John fully. Sam stepped up beside him, unintentionally shielding Grace from John’s sight. The youngest Winchester didn’t notice, but the eldest did, and John squared his shoulders at the realisation that he was being barred from looking at his own daughter. 

“You ignored a direct order back there.” John continued, deciding that now wasn’t the time to breach any kind of conversation pertaining to Grace. 

“Yes, sir. But we saved your ass.” Dean made sure to highlight what mattered, and Grace could only manage a smirk as she settled into the realization that it wasn’t just a one time promise. Even if it would take time to truly separate himself from everything that he’d been blindly following for years, Dean was putting the effort in where it mattered. 

“You’re right.” John relented, and Grace frowned at the simple resolution, turning around to witness the conversation as she pulled an old hoodie over her head. She can’t even remember the last time she’d seen Dean wear a hoodie, but now wasn’t the time to question why he was still holding on to the tattered thing. 

“I am?” Dean questioned skeptically, taking a step closer to Sam when he caught the slightest glimpse of Grace moving in his peripheral. All three Winchesters were on edge, knowing exactly what kind of treatment Grace would be subjected to taking had this occurred only two years ago. Dean wasn’t going to let it happen now, but still he worried about not being able to prevent it. 

“It scares the hell out of me. You…you three are all I’ve got. But I guess we are stronger as a family.” Grace bristled at the words rolling off of John’s tongue, unable to picture a reality where her father ever admitted that she was worth bringing along. She hates that this is what she’s wanted for her entire life, and now that it's falling at her feet laced with sincerity, it feels wrong and misplaced. She hates that John is willing to step up, be the man he should’ve been albeit still with faults and ridged edges, but she’s already moved on. It’s too little too late. “So… we go after this damn thing…together.” 

“Yes, sir.” Dean and Sam nodded but Grace couldn’t just let that be all that was said after years of torment and abuse; after he’d just broken her nose and backhanded her like she was just an insignificant child. He’d burned the bridge to her heart a long time ago, and there was no way to restore scattered ashes. 

“I’ll help you, because she is my mom, and this is my fight as much as it is yours, but you are not my family. You will never be my family.” She spat uncaringly, slinging her dufflebag over her shoulder and heading for the door, stepping around her father and her brothers. The light from the lamps fell upon her face, catching on the swelling around her eyes and the bruising to her cheek bone. 

John Winchester might be ready to finally accept his only daughter, but Grace Winchester has no obligation to forgive the years of anguish he’d inflicted on her.

[glimmeringwinchester]

hey !! i’m gonna try and have the next part of love was the law out tonight, but i’m currently in a hotel about to leave for a trip so if not tonight, sometime next week gracie will return !!

[glimmeringwinchester]

𝗛𝗢𝗠𝗘

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — grace winchester never had the chance to know her mother, but twenty years later, she finds herself in her childhood home facing something evil that apparently isn't alone

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) — canon typical violence, panic attacks, injury, brief description of blood, ptsd, anxiety, protective dean and sam, oc au

series: love was the law

Grace Winchester sits across from her brother at a small table beside a large window that overlooks the parking lot. Her laptop is open, pulled up onto a recent newspaper article from somewhere in Texas. She and Dean have been here for almost an hour, scouring every website they could think of to find a case to work, both of them itching to get up and moving again. They’ve never known how to be still, how to just take life as it comes instead of searching for danger, and they certainly have no interest in learning how to do that now. 

“All right. I’ve been cruising some websites. Think I found a candidate for our next gig.” Dean takes a sip of his coffee, already dressed for the day ahead of them, meanwhile Sam’s still tucked into one of the beds. Grace cranes her head to see him, smiling softly when she realizes that he must’ve just woken up, a soft flush against his cheeks insinuating that not long ago he’d been practically dead to the world tangled up in thick blankets. She’s glad that he’s seemingly able to rest without nightmares of Jessica plaguing his subconscious, but something tells her his sleep wasn’t all that terrific even without the visual of his girlfriend's burning body.  “A fishing trawler found off the coast of Cali. Its crew vanished.” 

“I’ve got some cattle mutilations in West Texas.” Grace hummed, looking over at Dean once she knew he didn’t have anymore more to add about the potential case in California. 

“Hey!” Dean called out, startling Grace who had looked away for only a second to dive back into the article she had pulled open, searching for the single line in the middle that was what led her to believe it was their kind of case to begin with. Her wide eyes found Dean’s, assuming she was the one he was raising his voice at, but she very quickly realized he was talking to Sam, who sat upright in the bed sketching frantically on a notepad. “Are we boring you with this hunting-evil stuff?” 

“No, I’m listening. Keep going.” Sam shook his head, glancing away from the notepad for only a second to prove that he was listening to Grace and Dean. The youngest Winchester rolled her eyes, reaching for her mug of hot chocolate that Dean had somehow lifted from the diner. She didn’t want to question why he’d chose to bring back two mugs instead of the take-away cups that made their lives easier, but she was more than willing to pretend like she was in some lavish hotel as she held the porcelain mug to her lips and obnoxiously slurped up what remained of her melted whipped cream.

Dean rolled his eyes at her, but he couldn’t help but shake his head laughing when she pulled the mug away and was left with a mustache of cream on her upper lip. She wiggled her eyebrows at him jestingly before she licked it away, focusing her attention back on the article in front of her. 

“And here a Sacramento man shot himself in the head..three times…” Dean held up three fingers, waving them around as if hoping to catch Sam’s attention, but his efforts were in vain. Their brother was fully engrossed in his own world, flipping through pages of the notepad despite it seeming that he was drawing the same thing over and over again. Grace frowned in contemplation, wondering what had him so tightly wound, but Dean was less concerned for Sam’s wellbeing and more aggravated that everything he was saying was going in one ear and out of the other. “Any of these things blowing up your skirt, pal?” 

Grace rolled her eyes, and if she hadn’t been sitting criss-cross applesauce on the chair, she would’ve jutted her leg out to kick his shin. She expected Sam to have a sharp response, but he remained silent, proving that he wasn’t really listening to them at all. Grace deflated, wondering what was so important that he was entirely neglecting the main focus of their entire lives, but then his eyebrows furrowed, and he grabbed a page of the notebook he’d already flipped away from, bringing it back down into view. 

“Wait, I’ve seen this.” Sam commented, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny as he tried to analyze the sketch he’d drawn still half-asleep. Grace craned her head questioningly, taking another sip of her hot chocolate despite how warm it made her feel. She shrugged her sweatshirt off, being left in only a yellow tank top that brought out the yellow in her green eyes. 

“Seen what?” Dean questioned, taking the bait that Sam dangled in front of their faces even if that wasn’t the intended purpose of his muttering. 

Sam didn’t answer him, nor did he even glance in Dean’s direction. The eldest and youngest Winchester locked eyes, both frowning in concern as they watched Sam stand from the bed and approach their bags on the other side of the room. “What are you doing, Sammy?” She questioned softly, closing her laptop to instead focus solely on her brother who was acting more than a little strange. 

He pulled John’s journal out of Dean’s duffle bag without a word, leaving both Dean and Grace in the dark as he flipped through pages until he found an old photograph tucked behind disheveled notes and coordinates. Grace knew the picture well. It was one of the only ones that had been salvaged in the fire – or at least one of the only ones she’d ever seen – and it was something that felt so foreign to look at knowing what she did now. She was being held up in John’s arms, a gummy smile on her lips as she looked straight ahead at the camera. Sam was in John’s other arm, and Mary held Dean close to them, all five of them looking like any typical and normal family outside of the house that Grace had never really known as their own. She frowned in confusion, not seeing why that picture was so important to Sam at this moment, but she didn’t outright question it, content to let him put pieces on the table at his own pace. 

“Dean, I know where we have to go next.” Sam looked up, his eyes searching Dean’s face with intent. Grace frowned, wondering what had him so rattled that he seemed to be reeling at the connection. She put her hot chocolate down, becoming uneasy as the energy in the room shifted to something heavier than it had been in a while. 

Dean inclined his head, nodding for Sam to continue. “Where?”

“Back home. Back to Kansas.” Grace’s frown deepened at that, her eyes flickering to Dean to gauge his individual reaction. She was unsurprised to find that he’d recoiled in the same surprised manor, his eyebrows raised in silent question.  

“Okay, random. Where’d that come from?” He threw back at Sam, who seemed to fumble over his thoughts trying to find a way to explain what had led him to this conclusion. 

Grace watched Sam step closer, his eyes flickering to her for only a second before he turned to address Dean entirely. Grace was no help in the matter, no matter how much easier it was to convince her than it was to convince Dean. “All right, um, this photo was taken in front of our old house, right? The house where Mom died? 

“Yeah.” Dean grabbed the picture from his outstretched hands, studying it carefully despite having almost every aspect of the print memorized. Grace leaned back in her chair, fingering pulling through her knotted locks that trapped heat at the back of her neck. 

“And it didn’t burn down completely. They rebuilt it, right?” Sam asked, voice thick with contemplation that Dean and Grace still didn’t know anything about. He was making no sense, but they’d been abused by weirder conversations. 

“I guess so, yeah. What the hell are you talking about?” Kansas was always a sensitive topic for Dean, not that he would ever admit that, but his siblings had learned to sparingly bring up Mary and the house he’d spent the first six years of his life within after one to many explosive conversations. They all had a hard time discussing the events that had led up to where they currently found themselves in life, but it was different for Dean because he could remember what it was like to only worry about monsters in a hypothetical sense. He remembers what it was like to come home from school, have an afternoon snack at the table and work on homework. He remembers what life was supposed to be for them and even if he doesn’t mind the hunter life, there’s still a little boy inside of him that yearns for what he hadn’t even had a chance to appreciate having at all. 

“Okay look, this is gonna sound crazy but the people who live in our old house, I think they might be in danger.” Sam sank into the chair next to Grace at the table, his eyes flickering to hers as he silently pleaded with her to blindly trust him on this. It never took much for Grace to do that, to put all of her trust into her brothers, but she still found herself frowning in concern as she glanced at Dean. 

“Why would you think that?” She asked hesitantly, soft eyes glancing back at her brother when it became evident that Dean wasn’t going to be the one to speak up and dig further. His eyes were glued to the picture, like he was trying to memorize every detail of Mary’s face. Grace’s heart thumped in her chest, wishing desperately that she could remember her mother in even the smallest capacity. She couldn’t. She’d never been able to. 

“Um– Just, uh– Look, just– you got to trust me on this, okay?” Sam was frantic, scrambling for anything that would turn Dean in his favor, but he didn’t say anything else, anything more. He had given them crumbs and expected them to make an entire dessert. Grace could only frown deeper, rubbing at her head as the good mood she’d woken up in began to ebb away. 

Sam stood from the table, moving toward the bags they had stacked up on top of a dresser in the far corner. Grace and Dean shared a concerned glance before the latter was rising from his spot at the table, the picture still in his grip as he addressed Sam. “Okay woah, woah, woah. Trust you?” 

“Yeah.” Sam nodded, breathless. Whatever had led him down this path had clearly shaken him, and he moved with an anxiousness that Grace hadn’t seen since he’d packed his bags for Stanford nearly three years ago. She’d been only seventeen years old, not quite prepared to lose one of her brothers, and despite how much she’d grown into herself since then, she feels that same unavoidable unease creeping up her spine as she watches Sam pack. 

“Come on man, that’s weak. You got to give me a little bit more than that.” Dean argued, standing between Sam and the door almost instinctively. He’d let him walk out the first time, there was no way in hell it was happening again when there was even less to go off of now then there was when he’d decided to follow his dream of being a lawyer. At the very least, that was practical. This was just insane. 

“I can’t really explain it is all.” Sam fired back, glancing up from his duffle bag for a second before his gaze snapped back down to what he was doing and he continued shoving clothes and weapons inside. 

Grace didn’t move from the table near the windows, but her soft voice cut through the room sharply. She’d never been the type to ask first shoot later, not when it was her brothers calling the shots at least, but something about Sam’s sudden interest in Kansas had her uneasy; like there was something far bigger going on just beneath her nose.“Sammy, you’ve gotta give us at least something to go off of.”

“Well, tough. I’m not going anywhere until you do.” Dean came back at him, both of them ignoring Grace who’d been trying to take a more level-headed approach. She rolled her eyes, wondering if they’d ever be able to settle a disagreement without raising their voices. 

For once, Sam wasn’t quick to jump on Dean, sighing beneath his breath as he strained out his posture and faced the both of them fully. “I have these nightmares.” Fell off of his lips, but there was more still forming on his tongue that Grace expected to be the main reason for his sudden interest in revisiting Lawrence. 

“I’ve noticed.” Dean nodded, though his exasperation was poorly hidden beneath his clipped tone and exaggerated hand movements. He’d been exceptionally bad at heart-to-heart moments lately, but the rekindling of old wounds had only given him a sharper edge. Grace didn’t bristle so easily, keeping ehr gaze unassuming and soft and she nodded for Sam to continue, taking a sip of her hot chocolate despite the fact that it was cooling down to a gross temperatur and she didn’t really want any more of it at all. Still she took a sip, feeling like she needed something to be doing with her hands as she waited for Sam to drop whatever bomb he’d been hiding on them. 

“And sometimes they come true.” That was not at all what either Grace or Dean expected to hear, and the book-end Winchesters had near identical reactions as they flinched away from the spoken truth, their dark eyebrows raising in confusion amidst other conflicting emotions that swirled at the forefront of their minds. 

“Come again?” Dean questioned, hoping that he’d heard Sam wrong, or at the very least had interpreted what he’d said wrong, but deep down he knew that wasn’t the case, knew he’d heard Sam correctly. 

Sam sighed, his eyes locking on Grace’s before he built up the courage to look back at Dean. Somehow, their sister was their safe person, and no matter the conflict, they looked to her for support not having to question if she’d give it. Grace managed a weak smile, nodding softly for Sam to continue. “Look, I dreamt about Jessica’s death for days before it happened.”

“Some people have weird dreams, man. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” Dean shook his head, desperately wanting to convince Sam that what he thought to be true was just odd timing. Grace wasn’t so sure that he wanted to convince Sam of that for his benefit, or for his own personal sake. Dean had a good grip on his external emotions, but she was sure that this was freaking him out because it was freaking her out; not that it took much to rattle her. She’d always been the jumpiest of the three. 

Sam shook his head, his voice wavering the more he spoke about these nightmares and their direct correlation to events in his life. He looked so far from the strong, confident man that Grace had come to know since running away to Stanford. They’d both found themselves there, had created lives that had nothing to do with monsters and hunting, but the more time they spent away from the normalcy of campus life, the more they were losing themselves to the shadows of who they’d always been before that. She didn’t like it, but there was only so much they could do to change the inevitable. “No. I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, and I didn’t do anything about it ‘cause I didn’t believe it. Now I’m dreaming about that tree, our house, and some woman inside screaming for help. I mean, that’s where it all started. This has to mean something.” 

“I don’t know.” Dean admitted weakly, sinking into the bed as he looked down at the picture in his hands again, trying hard to wrap his head around what Sam had just laid out in the open. Sure, they’d been the one to push him to open up, but neither one of them could have anticipated this being what had him so rattled and set on returning back to Kansas. 

Grace locked eyes with Sam for a second, still sat beside the window despite every nerve in her body telling her to run as far away from all of this as she could. “Even if you have these dreams, Jessica’s death isn’t on you, Sammy. It’s not your fault.” She offered weakly, and for a minute Sam’s eyes flickered with something softer, but then they hardened again and he returned his gaze to Dean. 

“What do you mean you don’t know, Dean? This woman might be in danger. I mean, this might even be the thing that killed Mom and Jessica.” His voice raised, still trembling, still vulnerable, but there was a weight beneath his words that only drove his desperation further into the thick air of the motel room. 

Dean grumbled at his younger brother's persistence, standing from where he was perched on the bed to instead pace the carpeted floors. “All right, slow down, would you?” Dean didn’t beg, but he was pretty damn close to sounding like he was as he tried to get his thoughts and the facts in order. They knew monsters existed, they’d known that for decades. They had friends and connections that were psychics, so what was to say that Sam didn’t fall into that same mysterious category. There was little to deny the possibility, but accepting the truth felt heavy, like it would change the basis of everything they’d ever known and fought for. “I mean, first you’re telling me that you’ve got The Shining…and then you tell me that I've got to go back home, especially when…” Grace looks down at her hands, squeezing her fingers into tight fists when they begin to tremble without her consent. Her chest is tightening, she’s aware of it, but she needs to keep herself together. Sam looks to be on the verge of tears, and Dean isn’t faring much better. She can’t be the one to break down, not when they need somebody to be strong, but she can’t say that this isn’t a lot for her too. Seh remembers the years when all she’d ever wanted was to know about Mary. She’d ask John about her every little detail, even when those questions got her locked in motel closets and kicked out of diners; made to wait on the curb outside until the boys were finished eating. Going to Kansas had been something she’d wanted desperately at one point in her life, but now she’s not so sure she can face what should’ve been her life. It’s not fair that she has to. 

“When what?” Sam pleads with Dean, his voice soft and breathy. His eyes are wide, desperate and vulnerable as he lays everything he has left within him out on the table for his siblings to scrutinize and unpack at their own will. 

“When I swore to myself that I would never go back there.” Dean’s voice wavers, and Grace can see the tears pooling in his eyes as he turns his back to Sam, facing the windows before his chin sinks to his chest and he draws in a shaky breath. 

“Look, Dean, we have to check this out. Just to make sure.” Sam pleads, his eyes flickering to Grace, but he doesn’t need to look at her to know that she’s with him wherever life leads. She’d follow her brothers to the ends of the earth, because they were the only people that had ever been there for her through the thick and thin of life and its hardships. 

Dean takes a second, but eventually his head nods just slightly, and he peers over his shoulder to find Sam’s eyes. His jaw is clenched, his eyebrows are furrowed, but there's determination in his features that both of his siblings can read. “I know we do.” He says, and that’s all it takes for Grace to stand from the table in the corner of the room, knowing that within the hour they’d be off and on the road toward a place she hadn’t been since she was six months old. 

-

The car is quiet, filled with adrenaline and grief. Dean’s mood hangs heavy, and Sam’s isn’t much better. They’d said little about where they were headed since bags had been packed and the keys had been pressed into the ignition, but as they pass another sign on the side of the roads where overgrown crops and bushes thrive with the turn of Springtime weather, the atmosphere shifts to something different; something that Grace can’t quite interpret. She feels a small smile tug at her lips as she reads the words ‘Welcome to Lawrence’ , unable to deny that there's a small part of her that feels healed just being in this town. Her mother had lived here. Mary Winchester had lived within these town lines, and that meant something to the youngest Winchester even if it was just another fact to her older brothers. 

“This isn’t what I expected.” Grace hums quietly, unable to take the silence any longer. She knows this is hard for both Sam and Dean, it’s hard for her, but there’s something inside of her that feels like it's been reawakened now that she’s physically seeing the streets that her mother had walked on a daily basis. Had Mary envisioned walking her down these same streets? Had she thought that at one point, she’d sign Grace up for dance class at the ballet studio they passed right beside a small pharmacy? There were endless possibilities that would never have answers, but Grace still held onto the hope of inquiring anyways. It was all she had, and so it had to mean something. 

“What did you expect?” Sam asks with a light laugh, craning his head to look into the backseat and see her fully. Her body is pressed up against the driver's side door, her eyes wide and breathtakingly bright as she takes in all of the different houses and shops along the roads. For the first time in hours, his lips curve into a soft smile, and what awaits doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. 

“I don’t know… cows, maybe? I’d always thought that there was a farm.” She hummed thoughtfully, only just realizing how stereotypically normal Lawrence, Kansas is. Grace had always thought that there would be something unordinary in the town, something that set it apart from every other midwest suburb. She didn’t know why, she’d never know what, but that assumption had made it easier to swallow the trajectory of her childhood and adolescence when she was able to grab onto it. Now, after figuring out that the only abnormal thing had been them, her family, well, her heart fell further down into her belly, something twisting up within her that she couldn’t place, but it didn’t fully dim the sparkle that twinkled beneath her green eyes. 

“Sorry to disappoint, Gracie.” Sam laughed, reaching into the backseat to pat her knee affectionately. Even if her eyes were bright with wonder, he could still recognize the traces of pain and grief etched across her expression; he could still see how hard this was for her beneath the mask of enjoyment she’d crafted near perfectly. 

As Dean slowed the car until it came to a near complete stop in front of a two-story house that was painted a welcoming shade of baby blue, her eyes narrowed with scrutiny. There was no mistaking it as their own. The tree in the front yard, though it had aged and changed with passing time, remained almost entirely the same as it had appeared in the picture John kept in the first few pages of his journal. The surrounding area had changed since 1985 when the picture had been snapped, but it wasn’t hard to establish that this is the place they were meant to be in. She was antsy to step out of the car, to firmly plant her feet on the ground where her mother had walked. She’d spent twenty years desperately longing for a maternal figure, and while there wasn’t a way to bring Mary back, this was still the closest that Grace had ever gotten to knowing who she had been at all. 

“You gonna be alright, man?” Sam braved the question that Grace didn’t have the courage to say as Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition, his eyes focused on the house he’d spent the first six years of his life in. This was hard for Grace because she’d never gotten the chance to actually know this house or her mother, but Dean fell on the complete opposite end of the spectrum. She couldn’t imagine being him in this moment. 

A beat of silence elapsed as Dean kept his eyes on the house, a million memories playing in his head, but eventually he trailed his gaze to Sam, a soft, nearly inaudible sound, falling off of his lips. “Let me get back to you on that.” He requested, and both of his younger siblings nodded curtly. They could do that, they could give him the time to figure out how he was feeling before talking about it. 

Grace waited for Dean to step out of the car first, but when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to be the one to make a move, Sam opened his door, nodding for Grace to follow him even if Dean remained in the car. He didn’t. The second Grace had her feet on the ground, he was stepping out onto the road, breathing in through his nose before he exhaled through his mouth attempting to sike himself up for whatever faced them. 

Grace shuffled toward her eldest brother somewhat desperately, wrapping an arm around his waist as she stole an awkward hug. Her soft green eyes flickered up to meet his after a moment of contemplation, and even though his lips were set into a thin expression of neutrality, he didn’t pull away from the embrace. Sam was steps ahead of them both, hardly even aware that they’d stopped at all, but Grace didn’t mind the separation between them, desperately needing this quiet minute with Dean to have any chance at finding the strength she needed to get through this, even if it didn’t turn out to be their kind of gig. His arm fell around her shoulders, pulling her tighter into his side when he finally pulled himself out of the trance-like state he’d been in before. 

“You gonna be okay, sweetheart?” He asked quietly, keeping his hushed voice away from Sam who still hadn’t realized he walked alone toward the front door. 

Grace nodded, her head resting on Dean’s shoulder as she craned her neck to meet his worried eyes. She forced a slight smile, downplaying the torrential downpour of emotions that were muddying her clarity. Regardless, she gave him an answer. “This is what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” 

Dean sighed when Grace pulled away from his touch before he could tell her that she didn’t have to be strong just because she’d always wanted to come back here. He followed after her silently, joining Sam on the front porch, though he stuck close to Grace’s side, able to see through her near-perfectly curated mask of indifference. He promised himself that for her sake, he could see this case out. 

The door creaked open seconds later, and all three Winchesters stared at the woman in front of them for a second too long for it to be a normal exchange before Dean was slipping into his chosen role; not that they’d discussed what alibi they’d be giving this woman to keep their tracks clean. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re with the Federal–” He began, but was quickly interrupted by Grace, who couldn’t lie in the face of honest truth. There was truth here, and fragile honesty, and she didn’t want to be some variant of herself that was fake and sleazy. Mary wouldn’t want that for her, for any of them, even if she’d never really known the woman, somehow Grace was sure of that fact. 

“I’m Grace Winchester, and these are my brothers Sam and Dean. We used to live here. Or, they did. I was a baby. But, I mean, I guess I lived here too. Um,” Grace fumbled over her words nervously, pulling at her knuckles as she tried to keep her eyes from peering behind the woman and inside of the house. Did it look the same? Had they kept the same layout? The same wallpapers and tile? She wouldn’t know, but the questions still came to her anyway. “We were just driving by, and we were wondering if we could see the old place.” 

Grace couldn’t stand to look at her brothers, so she kept her eyes on the woman in front of her, who smiled fondly at her rambling with a tilted head. This woman was a mother, Grace knew that the second she’d started rambling and all she’d received was a fond smile of encouragement. “That is so funny.” The woman noted, opening the door wider, giving all three of the siblings a deeper glance inside the house. “I think I found some of your things the other night. A stuffed bear and some photos. You said your name was Grace, right?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Grace nodded, her eyes tearful as she tried to keep herself together, but the longer she spent outside of the house that had been the only physical home she’d ever known, the harder it got to keep her emotions underwraps. Even if this turned out to be one of their gigs, it wasn’t just any other hunt. She couldn’t lie to herself and say that it was. 

“Come on in.” The woman smiled after a brief pause, and the invitation was all that Sam needed. He stepped over the threshold without hesitation, but Grace and Dean lingered outside. After nearly twenty years, they were back home, back at the place that had simultaneously started their lives and derailed them. 

Grace flinched when Dean laid a firm hand between her shoulder blades, but stepped over the threshold with a shaky breath. Dean closed the door behind them, his eyes sweeping across every piece of decor he could find, searching for something that Grace didn’t know about. Evidently, he came up empty, because as quickly as hope had filled his eyes, it vanished. They followed the woman into the kitchen where a little boy was kept occupied in a playpen, but he didn’t seem all that interested in the toys scattered around his feet, instead, he held onto the wooden bars, bouncing on his toes and demanding juice.

“That’s Richie. He’s kind of a juice junkie but, hey, at least he won’t get scurvy.” The woman laughed as she unlocked the refrigerator and reached for a sippy cup of what Grace could only assume was apple juice. She smiled fondly as the blonde crossed the floor and held out the cup for her son, ruffling his chestnut brown hair before she turned her attention back on the siblings. 

A young girl, no older than ten-years-old, sat at the counter filling out a sheet of homework. She wore a collared shirt beneath a sweater, her hair brushed and pulled neatly into a half-up half-down style. Grace wondered if her mother had done that. If she’d taken the time out of her morning to dress her kids in expensive clothes and style their hair to perfection. John had never done that for her. The earliest memory she has of having her hair brushed was by Dean’s hands, and he’d been less than gentle as he tugged out the knots and kept her still between his knees, stressed beyond belief as she wailed and squirmed away from the pain. Their lives had never been fair, but Grace was beyond glad that at least Sari’s seemed to be. “Sari, this is Sam, Dean, and Grace. They used to live here.”  

“Hi, Sari.” Grace greeted the girl softly, her smile warm and inviting like it always was when she didn’t have a role to slip into. It was weird, being on a case but having no cover story, though she wouldn’t say she minded the freedom to just be herself. 

“So, you just moved in?” Dean questioned, his eyes sweeping across the kitchen before they found the woman. Grace wasn’t sure if she’d even told them her name yet, but she couldn’t find the strength to ask as emotions piled up in her throat. 

“Uh, yeah, from Wichita.” 

“You got family here?” The question was innocent enough, but the woman still bristled as it fell into the air and smothered her beneath its weight. 

“No, I just, uh… um, needed a fresh start. That’s all.” She explains through thick emotions that she's obviously trying to keep away from her children. When Sari looks up, she forces a smile, breaking off into a different approach to explain how they found themselves in Lawrence. “So new town, now job – I mean, as soon as I find one– new house.” 

“So, how are you liking it so far?” Sam asks quietly when she turns to the sink, and her head snaps back to glance at them as she finds an answer to the question on her tongue. 

“Well, uh, all due respect to your childhood home – I mean, I’m sure you have lots of happy memories here – but this place has its issues.” Grace bristles at the mention of happy memories. She’s honestly not sure that she has any at all – in this house or anywhere else that she’s lived –, and the realization that even some of the ‘best’ moments of her life were still twinged with worry and pain has her glancing down at her feet, tears pricking her eyes. 

“What do you mean?” Sam questions again, his eyebrows furrowed as he runs through a mental list of any abnormalities he can think of that relate to their unique specialty. Grace doesn’t even bother trying to play the role of a hunter in this moment, taking the time to just be a twenty-year-old kid with no real connection to anything real in life outside of her brothers. 

“Well, it’s just getting old, like, the wiring, you know? We’ve got flickering lights almost hourly.” She can feel Dean stiffen at her side, and instinctively her hand reaches for his. She wants to berate herself for being so quick to an emotional response, but for once she just lets herself be, not having the energy to wage a war against her instincts when her heart is hammering in her chest to the point where she’s almost certain the insides of her ribs will bare bruises in the aftermath of this encounter. 

“Well that’s too bad. What else?” Dean, ever the stoic individual allergic to showing vulnerable emotions in the presence of others, lets her hold onto him, and softly he squeezes her hand between his fingers, reminding her that despite what they face and what stains their pasts, he’s here with her in this current moment. 

“Um… sink’s backed up. There’s rats in the basement.” She prattles on, but when Dean’s lips purse, she looks away bashfully; almost apologetically. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain.” 

“No.” Dean’s quick to brush off her apology, smiling brightly despite the pain that clutches his heart in an iron grip and refuses to loosen. “Have you seen the rats or just heard the scratching?” 

There’s a flicker of contemplation on her face before it clears, and she inclines her head just slightly to the left as she trails her gaze up to meet Dean’s eyes.“Just the scratching, actually.”

Dean’s eyes flicker to the floor in a moment of realization – both that there was something here, and Sam was right to be frantic about the sudden happenings in his subconscious – but before her can question anything further, Sari was craning to face her mother somewhat bashfully. “Mom?” Her voice was incredibly thin, and Grace didn’t miss the way her shoulders sank beneath the weight of something.

The woman – who Grace has still not retained the name of – approaches her daughter quickly, abandoning the dish rag on the edge of the countertop to address her eldest child. She bends down to meet Sari’s level, and immediately the little girl's voice slips out timidly,“Ask them if it was here when they lived here.” 

For a moment, the mother looked panicked, but there was evident concern etched across her brow as she knew immediately what her daughter was so worried about. Before she had the chance to reassure Sari, or at least try to get the Winceshers to silently pick up on the need for reassurance, Sam was inclining his head encouragingly. “What thing, Sari?” He coached.

“The thing in my closet.” Sari’s eyes flicker downward almost immediately, and she doesn’t look up until her mother crouches beside her again, shaking her head in unabashed concern; somethin John Winchester had never shown his children. Grace’s heart clenches with longing as she watches the encounter unfold. Even if John hadn’t been the way he was when she was growing up, she doesn’t think she ever would’ve had this. Dean and Sam; Grace thinks that they would’ve, at least in some manly ‘bro-code’ way. She doesn’t harp on what she’ll never know for long, because Sari’s defiance against the reassurance Sam tried to give was all too familiar. “I wasn’t dreaming. It came into my bedroom, and it was on fire.” Sari defends, and the hairs on the back of Grace’s neck rise. 

With the confirmation that something was definitely happening inside of the house, the Winchesters quickly excused themselves. Grace stepped out of the house ahead of her brothers, letting out a sigh of relief that she hadn’t even realized was blooming within her chest until she was no longer surrounded by what might’ve been relics of her past, but also could’ve been new things. 

“You hear that? A figure on fire!” Sam exclaims as he stomped down the stairs with passionate intent, his head craned in Dean’s direction as Grace remained steps ahead of them, needing to be in the car and surrounded by comfortable familiarity for at least a handful of minutes. 

“And Jenny was the woman in your dreams?” Dean double-checks, wanting to be sure that this hadn’t all been some odd one-off coincidence, not that he could really argue that case anymore, but desperately he tried to find grounds to believe it, not wanting to admit that their lives and their already askew definition of normal was becoming even more abnormal and eerie by the hour. 

“Yeah, and you hear what she was talking about – scratching, flickering light? Both signs of a malevolent spirit.” Sam doubled-down, and Grace could only sigh, continuing to listen to her brothers back and forth without contributing anything herself. 

“I’m just freaked out your weirdo visions are coming true.” Dean snapped, his jaw set tight as he picked up his pace, rushing toward the Impala with a desperate urge to just get the hell out of dodge and let what was apparently prophesied to happen, happen. He hated that he thought that at all, always the first one to defend the line of work they found themselves tangled into, but even he was beginning to feel indifferent about the case that brought them right back to where the worst night of their lives had occurred. 

Sam wasn’t as rattled as his siblings, and with fiery passion, he scoffed. “Forget about that – the thing in the house, do you think it’s the thing that killed Mom and Jessica?” 

“I don’t know!” Dean raised his voice, clearly frazzled from how many times Mary’s death had been dragged into conversation, but Sam still didn’t relent, if anything, his voice got more strained than it had been as he held his hands out at his sides. 

“I mean, has it come back or has it been there the whole time?”

“Or maybe it's something else entirely Sam. We don’t know yet!” Dean argued, for once coming across as the logical one of the two as Sam was fueled by raw emotion and terror, just not the same bone shattering emotion that his siblings felt. He was worried, panicked, sure, but Grace and Dean were terrified, and submerged in grief that had spanned across twenty years. 

“Those people are in danger Dean, we have to get them out of that house.” Sam threw back at his brother.

“And we will.” Dean assured, hoping that would be enough to sway Sam from doing anything irrational before they had all of the facts in line and a game plan, but all it did was spur him on more.

“No, I mean now.” The middle Winchester demanded, and had they still been inside the house, Grace knows his voice would’ve bounced off the walls with how loud it was. She couldn’t help but flinch away from the conflict, shrinking into herself as she watched her brothers squabble like children. 

“And how are you gonna do that? You got a story she’s gonna believe?” Dean threw his hands out in exasperation, his voice rising to match Sam’s. 

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Sam snapped, but there was evident worry shining through that hadn’t been so obvious before. He hadn’t done everything he could’ve to save Jessica, but now he had a chance to not let this woman die in the same way. Grace could sympathize with the grief and responsibility Sam undeniably felt, but acting rash and being quick to emotion was only going to get them all killed. Sam knew that once, he lived by that motto, but every day that passes in the wake of Jessica’s murder only drives him farther and farther away from the beaten path they’ve walked for years. 

“We wait, Sam! You know this!” Grace snapped, pushing herself off of the car door to stand between her brothers, aware of how her hands tremble and her voice wavers with emotions she has no control over. “Get your head out of your ass and think about those kids – that woman. You want to make up for how you handled Jessica, I get that, Dean gets that, but going in now is a sure fire way to get all of us killed, or worse, outed. So, would you please get in the fucking car already and stop acting like a toddler with no sense of impulse control?” She didn’t wait to see his reaction, she didn’t need to look at him to know that tears glimmered in his sad light eyes and his mouth hung open in startled shock. 

She slipped into the backseat without another word, pulling the door closed with unnecessary force. Dean shook his head, but in a moment of vulnerability, he pointed his words at Sam carefully. “I can’t have the both of you breaking down on this, man, and I can’t – we can’t – ask her to pretend like being here isn’t killing her. So for the love of god, start thinking about more people than just yourself, would you?” 

Sam nodded after a minute, looking past the reflection on the windows to see Grace. She has her nails between her lips, teeth gnawing away at scabbed over skin as she draws in deep breaths that don’t look to be having the desired effect as her shoulders remain tense and her back rigid. He hadn’t really seen her before, he’d been too far into his own head and worries, but he does now, and his heart hammers with guilt when he realizes that being here is the reason she’s so on edge. She’d wanted this moment for decades; had spent years grilling John about Mary and the first six months of her life only to be met with silence or explosive rage. She was finally here, finally getting to see what should’ve been her life – their lives –, and it was muddled by the very demon that had taken it all away from her. His heart hurt for Jessica, for himself, but it hurt even more for his little sister that only ever tried to find the good in the shitty cards life dealt her. 

-

“We just got to chill out, that’s all.” Dean said as he leaned against the trunk of the car, both him and Sam waiting by the pump as Grace ran inside to grab a handful of snacks to tide them over until they had a chance to grab a real bite to eat. She hadn’t said much since they’d pulled away from Jenny’s house, but she didn’t need to say anything at all for her brothers to know she was drowning. “If this was any other kind of job, what would we do?” 

Sam sighed, dropping his hands to the hood of the car as he looked around, racking his brain for the procedure they’d perfected and followed over years of trial and error. “We’d try to figure out what we were dealing with. We’d dig into the history of the house.” 

“Exactly, except this time we already know what happened.” Dean nodded, but Sam wasn’t too sure that he was right about that. 

“Yeah, but how much do we know? How much do you actually remember?” Sam sat on the trunk of the car, finally out of his head enough to address the bigger questions that he had. 

Dean sighed, “About that night, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Sam’s encouragement was blunt, but he knew better than to try and press Dean any harder than that. 

“Not much.” The eldest Winchester admitted after a moment of contemplation, “I remember that you had wet the bed so Mom put you down in Gracie’s room. I remember waking up to Mom screaming. I remember the fire… the heat. Then I carried you out the front door.” It wasn’t all that Dean remembered, but the more specific visuals didn’t need to be spoken. They weren’t important, but they flashed before Dean’s eyes anyways as he let himself remember the first night he’d ever tried to block out of his memory. 

Sam’s head inclines to the side, and he turns his gaze to settle on Dean’s. “You did?” 

“Yeah, well, you never knew that?” Dean frowned, but continued anyway. He’d spent decades holding onto these troubled memories, but being back where it had all happened, he just didn’t see the point in keeping them so close to his heart anymore. “Dad gave you to me. Told me to get outside as quickly as I could. Gracie was in their room… I think… I think Dad tried to get Mom first, but when he couldn’t, he went and got Gracie and met us outside. He got out there just before the explosion.”

“No.” Sam didn’t know what to make of that information. He’d never thought much about how he’d gotten out of the house, but now that he knew it was Dean, well something changed inside of him that he couldn’t quite place. 

“Well, you know Dad’s story as well as I do – Mom was… was on the ceiling, and whatever put her there was long gone by the time Dad found her.” 

Sam frowned, craning his head to glance at Dean before his eyes wandered to the scenery around them. “And he never had a theory about what did it?”

Dean shook his head, turning to sit beside Sam on the trunk.“If he did, he kept it to himself. God knows we asked him enough times. God knows Gracie asked him enough times.” 

Sam didn’t want to accept that as the truth, but it was all that they had to go off of, and so he found himself taking the information for what it was worth anyways. “Okay. So, if we’re gonna figure out what’s going on now, we have to figure out what happened back then, and see if it’s the same thing.” 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, his eyes squinted as the sun shone brightly overhead. “Talk to Dad’s friends, neighbors, people who were there at the time.” 

“Does this feel like just another job to you?” Sam asked, his voice solemn and quiet as he peered out at the road ahead of him. 

Dean swallowed thickly, his eyes watering as his adams apple bobbed. He didn’t answer the question, couldn’t bring himself to, and quickly he excused himself, not wanting to cry in front of Sam, and desperately not wanting Grace to choose this very moment to come back outside. “I’ll be right back. I got to go to the bathroom.” He excused, even though he knew Sam could see through the weak excuse. 

Minutes later, Grace came out of the gas station holding three bags of chips and a milkshake. The straw was pink, and on any other day she would’ve beamed at the small detail, but her eyes barely held onto their light as she sank into the trunk beside Sam, offering him the bag of doritos she’d snagged with him in mind. “I’m sorry.” She admitted quietly, glancing up to meet his eyes with nothing but sadness and regret clouding her green gaze. “I know this is a lot for both of you, not just me. I know I’ll never be able to understand how you feel about Jessica’s death. I just, I couldn’t listen to you fighting anymore. Not when– not when–” 

“Hey, hey.” Sam shook his head, cutting Grace’s tearful rambling off by throwing an arm over her shoulder, pulling her warm body into his embrace with gentle protectiveness. “I know, Gracie. It’s okay.” He pressed a kiss into the crown of her head, his eyes fluttering closed as for a minute, he let himself slip away into stillness. “Dean and I, we’re gonna canvas the area. Talk to anyone Dad might’ve had a connection to; anyone who might know more about what happened to Mom. If it’s too much, you don’t have to come. Believe me, Dean and I understand.” 

Grace shook her head, holding tighter to her milkshake that was hardly doing its job of bringing her comfort. “No. No, I need– I need to know. I want to know. You and Dean, you had Dad. Maybe he was an asshole, maybe you didn’t always see eye to eye, but he was still a guy, and in his own fucked up way he showed you he cared. I remember when he’d come back from a hunt with new hot wheels for you; when he was so fucking proud that Dean caught a bass on that fishing trip we took when he went to visit Bobby that one time. I just, Sammy, I want Mom. I’ve always just wanted a Mom. I want to know everything about her, and if this is all I’ll ever get, I have to be there to hear it myself. I just… I h-have to.” Tears fell down her cheeks, hot and salty as they pooled around the straw pinched between her teeth. 

“Okay.” Sam sighed softly, pressing another kiss into Grace’s head. “Okay. But I mean it, G. If this gets too much, if it’s not what you want to hear, or it’s too hard– Dad’s not here. You don’t have to push yourself to do this with us. Promise me… promise me that you’ll step away if you can’t do it.” 

“You know I can’t promise that.” Grace shook her head, not only because this was everything she’d ever wanted as a little girl desperately craving a maternal figure, but also because John Winchester would have a shit fit if he knew she was slacking; letting her brothers finish a hunt alone. He might not be here to see her fail, but it’s too close to home for anything she does to feel right. 

“I know.” Sam sighed, but his gaze snaps to Dean when he starts to approach the Impala, his hands in his pockets as he looks his eyes down. “She’s all ready to go.” Sam was talking about the car, about how the tank was finally filled and they could hit the road, but he was also talking about Grace. 

Dean looked his sister over, and when he didn’t find signs of unruly distress, he nodded, but not before Grace extended her arm and waved around the mint chocolate chip milkshake. “They had one of those f’real machines.” She hums quietly, silently offering him a sip. Not because she wants to share, no she’d always been territorial over her milkshakes and the boys had learned that the hard way over the years, but rather because she figured Dean could use a little pick me up, even if her offer was weak and he didn’t like milkshakes nearly as much as she did. 

The eldest Winchester managed a soft smirk, and he reached out to take the cup. He took a sip that was far too big for Grace’s liking, and the youngest Winchester pouted in disbelief. “Hey! Don’t drink it all!” She whined, reaching for the cup back before jutting her foot out to assault Dean’s shin. “Asshole.” She grumbled. 

“Get in the car, princess.” Dean knows how much his sister hates that nickname, and although Grace rolls her eyes in annoyance, she doesn’t fight it as aggressively as she would've done any other day. This isn’t any other day, and it’s definitely not any other case, and for the first time in a while she really does appreciate her brother's tendencies to annoy the living shit out of her. 

-

It was the next morning, and the Winchester siblings had an early start to the day despite none of them getting much sleep. Grace stuck close to Dean and Sam as they wandered through a mechanic garage, their eyes taking in every detail with the knowledge that once, John had not only worked here, but owned it. It feels so far-fetched to Grace. She can’t imagine a life where her father did anything but torment sorry sons of bitches (i.e., her) and hunt monsters, but apparently he’d had himself a quaint little life before everything got derailed. 

“So, you and John Winchester. You used to own this garage together?” Dean questioned, his leather jacket slung around his shoulders despite the comfortable temperature outside. Grace was in a pair of leggings and a Stanford t-shirt, one of many that she’d stolen from not only Sam, but from Jessica. She knows the one she wears currently is the womans, and it brings her just the slightest ounce of peace as she strives to keep her memory alive. 

“Yeah, we used to. A long time ago. Matter of fact, must be 20 years since John disappeared. If I’m remembering correct, his littlest one should be about your age.” The man muttered, looking at Grace, who for the time being, was playing the role of cop in training. She tried not to bristle at the mention of herself, but her fingers twitched with emotion that lucky didn’t draw eyes. “So, why are the cops interested all of a sudden?” 

“Oh, we’re reopening some of our unsolved cases, and the Winchester disappearance is one of them.” Dean nodded, looking to Sam before he trailed his eyes back to his fathers old business partner. 

“Uh-huh. Well, what do you want to know about John?” The mechanic questioned, and Grace was suddenly aware of who truly off her game she was. She knows the man introduced himself, knows that Sam and Dean both had told her who he is and what his connection to their father was, but she cannot find his name in her memory anywhere. 

“Whatever you remember. Whatever sticks out in your mind.” Dean opened the conversation up to miniscule details and major ones, knowing that they’d be able to do a lot with any information at all. 

“Well… he was a stubborn bastard. I remember that. And, uh, oh, whatever the game, he hated to lose, you know? It was that whole marine thing.” The mechanic had no idea who the three individuals in front of him really were, but somehow it wasn’t surprising for Grace to hear from an unbiased opinion that her father was a rough character and a hard man. “But, uh. Well, he sure loved Mary, and he doted on those kids.” Grace couldn’t picture a time where John had felt anything but resentment and hatred for her, but evidently there had been a small window of love because the man had no reason to be lying to them. What had changed? Sure, losing Mary had changed him, but there were still moments in the early years when he didn’t treat the boys any differently than he always had. So, it must’ve been her. There must be something so horrible about her that even her father can’t stand her simple presence. 

“But that was before the fire.” Sam noted, almost certain that he was correct, but needing verbal confirmation to fully run with whatever theories he was trying to wave together. 

“That’s right.” The man nodded, his eyes falling to the concrete floors as memories flooded his mind. 

“He ever talk about that night?” Sam continued to press, but there was an unmistakable gentleness in his tone as he flickered his eyes to Grace momentarily. 

“No, not at first. I think he was in shock.” Grace could picture that being the case. Even when John had formed a thick skin around monsters and the plethora of things that went bump in the night, there had still been cases that rattled him to a short temper and violent anger. Grace had always thought that was one of the most ironic things about the way she was raised. John allowed himself to be rattled and affected by the cases he worked and the monsters he hunted, but the second it was her that couldn’t quite carry the load of trauma and terror, she was berated and beaten until she promised to never show weakness again. 

“Right, but eventually – what did he say about it?” 

“Oh, he wasn’t thinking straight. He said, uh– he said something caused that fire and killed Mary.” The man nodded as he remembered events that happened almost twenty years ago. 

“He ever said what did it?” It was Dean’s turn to press for more, and so Grace shifted her weight, squaring her stance as she raised her chin to look at the man who had known her father before everything went downhill. 

“Nothing did it. It was an accident.” The man bristled, “An electrical short in the ceiling or walls or something. I begged him to get some help, but…” 

“But what?” Grace found herself being the one to ask, her eyes sharp and interested even though all she really wanted to do was shrink into herself and step as far away from this conversation as she could get. She wanted to know about Mary, about her mother, not listen to people try and sympathize with her lifelong abuser. 

“Oh, it just got worse and worse.” The man noted, but when Dean pressed for more, he relented easily. “Oh, he started reading these strange old books. He started going to see this palm reader in town.” 

Grace perked up at the mention of someone new for them to tail, her eyes narrowing as she inclined her head and looked up at Dean. “Palm reader? Do you have a name, sir?” 

“No.” The man chuckled, shaking his head like not having a name wasn’t the end of the world. Maybe it wasn’t to him, but Grace felt her shoulders sink in defeat. It wouldn’t be impossible to locate which one her father had visited, they’d found more with less, but still it felt like just another roadblock keeping her from the truth. 

They didn’t stick around for much longer, and when they did finally clamber into the Impala, Sam insisted that they find a phone booth and book to search for more answers about this supposed palm reader. Grace had no objections to her brother's suggestion, nodding her head quietly as she sank into the backseat and pulled her knees to her chest. Once upon a time, Dean had been adamant about a ‘no shoes on my seats’ rule, but that had lasted merely a week before he gave up and let Grace do whatever she damn well pleased. Even if the young woman didn’t realize it, she always got what she wanted when her brothers were around. 

That’s how they found themselves in a near abandoned parking lot. Sam had his nose in a phone book, and Dean and Grace leaned against the Impala, happy to take a step back for a minute to get their composure in order. “So, there are a few psychics and palm readers in town. There’s uh, there’s someone named El Divino. There’s the mysterious Mr. Fortinsky. Uh, Missouri Moseley–” Grace stood up straighter at the third name that rolled off of Sam’s lips. 

“Wait! Missouri Moseley?” She backtracked, her eyes wide as she stepped forward to read the name over Sam’s shoulder. 

“What?” Sam craned his head to look at his little sister, moving the book just slightly so that she could see the entire page, not sure what information she was after or what puzzle she was putting together in her head. 

“She’s a psychic.” The young woman breathed out in realization, immediately pulling away from Sam and stalking toward the trunk of the car, leaving her brothers to stand alone in their confusion as she unintentionally kept them in the dark. She pulled the trunk open, her movements frantic as she ripped through their duffles until she found John’s journal. “In Dad’s journal… come here, look at this!” 

She slammed the trunk closed, flipping open the worn leather cover as her eyes scanned the words scribbled in black ink. “The first page, the first sentence. I’ve always thought it was weird. Read it.” 

She pushed the book into Dean’s hands, and Sam came to stand beside their brother, his eyes scanning the page before he began to read aloud. “I went to Missouri…and I learned the truth.” 

“I always thought he meant the state.” Dean mumbled beneath his breath, but Grace had never been so blind to the intricate quirks of John’s work. The way he wrote state names and people names was different, if only just slightly. The way he’d dotted the ‘i’ like he’d been trying to signify something without outright saying it had always stumped her. Her fathers handwriting was terrible and messy, but something about Missouri had always seemed so formal and correct to her. She didn’t say anything else, just snatched the journal back and crawled into the backseat, silently telling the boys to get a move on before she melted down from anxious anticipation. 

-

The Winchester siblings sat in the foyer of Missorui Mosley’s home and practice, waiting for their turn with the psychic as they individually went over what they knew about the case. It wasn’t even a full five minutes later when they heard a woman’s voice draw near, and seconds later a black woman who Grace assumed to be the woman they were seeking a conversation with led a middle-aged man out toward the door. “All right, then. Don’t you worry about a thing. Your wife is crazy about you.” She smiles encouragingly, showing the client out, but the second she closes the door behind him her expression drops into one of pity, “Whew! Poor bastard – his woman is cold-bangin’ the gardener.” 

Grace’s lips quirk upward in tired amusement, her eyes trailing after Missouri as she steps back toward where she’d come from. “Why didn’t you tell him?” Dean questioned, a smirk splaying across his lips although Grace thinks that has more to do with the mental image rather than the actual deception at hand. 

“People don't come here for the truth. They come for good news.” The woman corrects Dean’s expectations for her service, and when it becomes clear that Grace is waiting for her brothers to make a move and neither of the Winchester men are eager to comply with the time crunch they’ve been presented with, Missouri looks back over her shoulder in exasperation. “Well? Sam and Dean, come on already. I ain’t got all day. Your sisters waiting for you.” 

Despite the emotional exhaustion that weighed Grace down, she couldn’t help but find herself smiling as she stood from the cushioned bench and followed after Missouri, looking back at her brothers with amusement as they begrudgingly followed after her, evidently not so pleased with the favoritism their sister was already being shown by the psychic. 

“Well, let me look at you.” Missouri demanded once all three Winchesters had ducked beneath her doorframe decorated in beads. Grace’s cheeks flushed bashfully as she felt the woman's eyes rake over her frame, subconsciously rubbing at the spot on her bicep where a bruise always lingered whenever John was around to drag her around like a puppet. If Missouri noticed the movement, which Grace knew that she did, she didn’t comment on it. “Oh, you boys grew up handsome. And you were one goofy looking kid, too.” She pointed to Dean specifically, and Sam’s lips quirked into a smirk as he glanced at their older brother. “And you, Miss Grace, you look just like your mother. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I was looking at her carbon copy.” 

Grace’s heart thumped heavily in her chest at the complement, her cheeks flushing pink as she glanced down at her shoes bashfully. In all of her life, she doesn’t think anyones ever compared her to Mary; not John, not her brothers. She knows Missouri’s being more kind than she is truthful – Mary had blonde hair, Grace has brown. Mary had thinner lips, Grace hates how full hers are – but it still warmed her heart and hurt her feelings nonetheless. Would Mary be proud that they looked alike? Would she float around in all of her social circles beaming about how her baby girl has the same high cheekbones and kind eyes as her? Desperately Grace hopes that would’ve been her reality. She knows that had she looked more like John, he would’ve drawn no attention to it. 

Missouri grabs onto Sam’s head, and her gaze saddens as she looks at him carefully. “Sam. Oh, honey. I’m sorry about your girlfriend, and your father…he’s missing?” All three siblings inclined their heads at the women's knowledge of their situation. Grace hadn’t doubted her abilities for a second, not when she knew John Winchester only sought out the best of the best, but it was still eerie for a supposed stranger to simply know and be aware of their hardships. 

“How’d you know all that?” Apparently Sam couldn’t blindly trust as easily as Grace, because even with the premonitions and nightmares that plagued his subconscious, he still found himself questioning Missouri’s abilities. 

“Well, you were just thinking it, just now.” Missouri fired back at him. 

Dean bristled at the mention of their father, and his eyes betrayed his composure as they bled worry and concern. “Well, where is he? Is he okay?” 

“I don’t know.” Grace knew that Dean wasn’t going to take that answer well, but before she could speak and control the nature of the conversation, Dean was narrowing his eyes, disbelief clouding his gaze. 

“Don’t know?” He questioned, shaking his head as he glanced at Sam and Grace. “You’re supposed to be a psychic, right?”

Missouri recoiled at his tone, her eyebrows furrowing. “Boy, you see me sawing some bony tramp in half? You think I’m a magician? I may be able to read thoughts and sense energies in a room, but I can’t just pull facts out of thin air. Sit. Please!” She demanded, her gaze snapping to Sam who was smirking in amusement as Dean got – rightfully – torn into. 

Grace didn’t have to be told twice, shuffling forward until she could wedge her body into the corner of the couch closest to the windows. Sam fell into the cushions beside her, his thigh brushing against hers as he adjusted his position to rest his elbows on his knees. Grace rolled her eyes, batting him away from her until a sliver of space separated their skin. She’d never understand her brother's inability to sit considerably. She was always benign squished onto someone or something. 

“Boy, you put your foot on my coffee table, I’m gonna whack you with a spoon.” Missouri interjected before Dean could even get comfortable on the couch, his weight still sinking into the well-loved cushions as her warning fell into the air. 

“I didn’t do anything.” Dean defended, his head inclined to the side as he glanced at the psychic with wide eyes and a slack jaw. 

“Well, you were thinking about it.” She clapped back at him, and once again Sam found himself laughing in amusement. Grace wasn’t so easily distracted from the case at hand, growing antsy to find any kind of answer for what they were dealing with or what Mary had been subjected to. 

Sam shifted on the couch when a beat of silence elapsed, leaning forward just slightly to address Missouri. “Okay, so. Our dad. When did you first meet him?” 

“He came for a reading a few days after the fire. I just told him what was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say I drew back the curtains for him.” Missouri explained, and conflicting emotions bombarded Grace’s heart as she looked across at the woman. She had better things to put her energy into, but still she couldn’t help but linger on the newfound knowledge that in part, this was the woman she had to blame for her life becoming what it was. It wasn’t Missouri’s fault, she couldn’t have predicted what John would do with that information once he had it, but without her helping hand, there might have been a chance at normalcy for the youngest Winchester. 

“What about the fire?” Dean questioned, evidently not phased by the deeper connections that his sister was making, but then again, he didn’t have any hard feelings about the life they lived. He’d never known anything else, and at this point, he didn’t see any way out, so there wasn’t much for him to harp on or shed tears over. “Do you know about what killed our mom?” 

“A little. Your daddy took me to your house. He was hoping I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing.” Missouri explained, but she trailed off, evidently emotional as her voice softened and ehr tone wavered just slightly. 

Sam leaned closer, eager to know what else the woman knew about Mary and that fateful night. “I don’t…” She faltered, shaking her head. 

“What was it?” Sam pressed for more, able to see that there was something Missouri was holding back from them. 

“I don’t know.” She exhaled sharply, her head shaking as she recalled the things she’d sensed all those years ago. “But it was evil.” She rose from the couch, moving her body to keep the memory from consuming her entirely. Grace knew that coping strategy well, but it wasn’t doing her a lot of good now that they’d been spending so much time trapped within the Impala. 

Eventually, Missouri collected herself, turning back to the Winchesters with concern in his dark eyes. “So, you think somethings back in that house?” 

“Definitely.” Sam nodded, speaking for both of his siblings who were more than content to let him take the lead on this. 

“I don’t understand.” Missouri mumbled, sinking back into the chair she’d been sitting at before, her eyes trailing across all three siblings. 

“What?” Sam asked, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. 

“I haven’t been back inside, but I’ve been keeping an eye on the place, and it’s been quiet. No sudden deaths, no freak accidents. Why is it acting up now?” She asked the same question that Grace had. 

“I don’t know. But Dad going missing and Jessica dying and now this house – all happening at once – it just feels like something's starting.” Sam explained thoughtfully. Grace felt goosebumps rise on her arms as she considered that very real possibility. She was raised to face danger in the face, but she wanted absolutely nothing to do with whatever supernatural storm was undoubtedly coming their way. 

“That’s a comforting thought.” Dean hummed humorlessly. 

-

After telling Missouri more about what they thought was happening in Jenny’s home, the psychic insisted on sniffing out the supposed energy herself, which is how all three Winchesters ended up back at their old house standing on the porch with her at their side. Grace stood slightly behind her brothers, her eyes taking in every minor detail of the front door as they waited for Jenny to greet them. Missouri glances at her, but Grace pretends not to notice, keeping her eyes on the house. 

Eventually, the door is pulled open and Jenny comes into view with Richie on her hip, looking slightly panicked if her grip on the toddler's overalls was any indication. “Sam, Dean, Grace, what are you doing here?” Her eyes trail across every Winchester on her doorstep curiously, although they linger on Grace for a second longer than they’d lingered on her brothers. 

“Hey, Jenny.” Sam greets hesitantly, his eyes on Richie before they shift toward the woman just slightly behind him. “Um, this is our friend Missouri.”

“If it’s not too much trouble we were hoping to show her the house, for old times sake.” Dean cut in, pulling out one of his signature charming smiles as he looked at the single mother in front of him. 

“No, you know, this isn’t a good time. I’m kind of busy.” Jenny’s eyes flicker nervously, and instinctively she steps back into the house, preparing to leave the Winchesters out on the doorstep. Grace doesn’t miss the uncertainty that’s laced within the woman’s eyes, or the way that she holds onto Richie just a little bit tighter as she steps back. 

Dean evidently doesn’t pick up on the same telling traits as Grace, because he takes a step forward, his tone becoming harsh and intent. “Listen, Jenny, it’s important – ow!” He whines, holding the back of his head as he turns his gaze to Missouri, wondering why she’d just slapped the back of his head with no warning. 

“Give the poor girl a break. Can’t you see she’s upset?” Missouri scoffed, looking at Dean with furrowed eyebrows and a judgemental frown. “Forgive this boy. He means well. He’s just not the sharpest tool in the shed. But hear me out.” 

“About what?” Jenny frowned, but turned her body toward Missouri, giving the woman her full attention. 

“About this house.” 

Jenny frowned, but there was something beneath her eyes that told Grace she already knew where this conversation was heading. “What are you talking about?” She asked regardless, not ready to admit that all of the strange feelings she’d been having were related to the house itself. 

“I think you know what I’m talking about. You think there’s something in this house, something that wants to hurt your family. Am I mistaken?” Missouri approached the conversation softly, but there's a firmness in her tone that has Jenny staring back at her in concern. Clearly Missouri had hit the nail on the head, but without knowing who the woman was or what she was capable of doing, it only further unsettled the mother of two. 

“Who are you?” Jenny questioned, emotion laced into her tone as her eyes flickered to Grace. 

The youngest Winchester stepped around her brothers to stand beside Missouri when it became evident that Jenny wanted to hear the words come from her. She doesn’t know why the woman likes her so much, but from the very first time they’d met Jenny hadn’t looked at her the same way she’d looked at the boys. “We’re people who can help you; help your kids. We can stop this thing, but I need you to trust me for that to happen. You don’t have to trust my brothers, or Missouri, but I need you to at least trust me. Can you do that?”

Jenny sighed, and for a moment Grace thought that she was going to turn around and close the door in her face, but then she inclined her head toward the entryway and stepped out of the way, nodding softly in acceptance of Grace’s terms and conditions. The youngest Winchester smiled gracefully, but that quirk in her lips slipped away as she stepped into the house, her eyes immediately wandering to the stairs. Her nursery was up there. The room that Mary had spent time decorating and perfecting for her was just right up those steps, and maybe it wasn't exactly the same anymore, but the young woman still itched to see it. 

“We’ll need to take a look upstairs. If that’s okay with you, Jenny.” Missouri explained softly, and Grace’s heart skipped a beat when she realized that whether she could handle seeing her old bedroom or not, that’s where they were going. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until they made it up the stairs and Missouri pushed the door open until all four of them could slip inside. 

“If there’s a dark energy here, this room should be the center of it.” Missouri commented, her eyes taking in the soft pink walls and white trimming. 

“Why?” Sam questioned, but Grace knew that he’d already figured out why this particular room was so important to Missouri. His eyes held crystal tears, but he refused to let them fall as he glanced around at everything he couldn’t remember. It was the room of a child undoubtedly, but he still couldn’t draw on the memories of it being a baby’s room, much less his sisters. 

“This used to be Grace’s nursery. This is where it all happened.” Missouri explained regardless of what the Winchesters already knew. 

“It looks the same.” Dean breathed beneath his breath, and Grace’s gaze snapped to him immediately. Her breath hitched, and immediately she drew her eyes to every miniscule detail. It was obvious that the room had been renovated, but she couldn’t help but think some of the paint was its original craftsmanship. A spot on the wall near the window was streaky, and very obviously not the work of a professional. Did Mary paint the room by herself? Had Dean and Sam helped her do it? The help of a toddler would explain why the coat was uneven, and it warmed her heart to think about a little five-year-old Dean helping paint what would be her room. 

She must’ve gotten lost in her head, because when she finally tuned into the conversations happening around her, Missouri had her full attention on Dean as she asked him about what item he held in his palm. “That an EMF?” 

“Yeah.” Dean nodded without even looking up at the woman, and Missouri scoffed, shaking her head. “Amateur.” She commented. 

The EMF detector buzzed to life, the lights flashing red, but Missouri wasn’t convinced that what she found was what the Winchester’s thought they were dealing with, her attention turning to the three siblings who stood in a nonuniform cluster. “I don’t know if you kids should be disappointed or relieved, but this ain’t the thing that took your mom.”

Grace’s gaze snapped to the woman, and Sam’s eyes grew wider. “Are you sure?” He questioned, not sure whether he was relieved to not be facing that demon head on, or disappointed that he was still far from getting justice for Jessica and Mary. “How do you know?”

“It isn’t the same energy I felt the last time I was here. It’s something different.” The woman noted, walking to another corner of the room, her gaze set firmly on the closet. 

“What is it?” Dean questioned, confusion etched across his features. 

“Not it…them. There’s more than one spirit in this place.” For a moment, Grace’s heart fluttered in her chest. Was it Mary? After all of these years, was she in the same space that her mother took up? No, Mary wouldn’t become a vengeful spirit. She didn’t know much about the woman, but what she did know was that her mother was kind, and sweet, and gentle. She wouldn't terrorize a little girl and go after a family that was so similar to her own. “They’re here because of what happened to your family. You see, all those years ago, real evil came to you. It walked this house. That kind of evil leaves wounds, and sometimes wounds get infected.” 

“I don’t understand.” Sam shook his head, but Grace couldn’t even find the words to voice her confusion, or any words at all for that matter. Her eyes were still trailing across every inch of the room, mesmerised by its simple beauty and wondering what it must’ve looked like when it was filled with toys and clothes and a crib. When she was little, she’d always told John that she wished motel rooms came in different colors. He’d always scoffed and called her an idiot, but that had never deterred her from wanting a pink room to spend just one night in. She’d had a pink room. This was her pink room. Somewhere inside of her a piece of that broken little girl healed just slightly. 

“This place is a magnet for paranormal energy. It’s attracted a poltergeist – a nasty one – and it won’t rest until Jenny and her babies are dead.” Missouri explained, shaking her head as she reaped more of the spirits' intentions off of the walls. 

“You said there was more than one spirit.” Sam brought her attention back to that simple point, and Missouri nodded with assurance that she’d gotten that right. 

“There is.” She walked back toward the closet, “I just can’t quite make out the second one.” 

“D-Do you think it’s our Mom? Sari– Sari said she saw a woman burning in her closet. Is there a chance– could it be her?” Grace hated how she stumbled over her words, hated that she even voiced that question to begin with, but it was falling off of her lips before she could really think about what she was saying. 

Her heart broke when Missouri shook her head, her eyes soft and caring, but even that couldn’t soften the blow of losing hope yet another time. “I don’t think so. This energy… it’s different. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” 

“Well, one thing’s for damn sure – nobody’s dying in this house ever again. So, whatever is here, how do we stop it?” Dean stepped toward Missouri, standing in front of Grace who looked like she’d just been crushed from the very core of her soul. Her green eyes glittered with tears, her lips quivered with emotions she couldn’t suppress, and no matter how many times she tried to draw in a deep breath, her shoulders shook with sobs she was desperately trying to swallow. 

“I’ll be back.” The young woman whispered to nobody in particular, stepping out of the room before either of her brothers could decide to follow her out to the car. She needed a minute. She couldn’t be the strong, unafraid hunter her father expected her to be right now. She doesn’t think she’s been that girl since before she left in the middle of the night to join Sam at Stanford when she was nineteen.

The second she was out of the house, everything that she’d been trying to keep underwraps came tumbling out of her. She stumbled to the Impala, a hand over her mouth to catch the sobs that fell off of her tongue and drew attention to her presence in the quaint little town. Her chest ached, her throat burned, and when she finally reached the Impala, she threw a weak punch at the trunk, but that didn’t quell the agonizing pain anymore than sobbing like a child did. Her mind flashed white for a second, consumed by not only the stinging pain in her knuckles, but the emotional anguish that tore her up from the very core of her body. She had a million questions: How was this happening again? Why was this happening again? Was this something bigger than what she could see?, but there weren’t any answers for her to find, not right now at least. The simple truth was that sometimes, shit happens, but that felt weak and like only half of the truth as she reminded herself of all the terrible things that had accumulated over the course of her life. Why could she never catch a break? Anytime she tried to distance herself from the life her father had built without even consulting his children, something dragged her right back into the chaos of it all. Anytime she tried to accept the life of a hunter as her own, something terrible came for them; whether that be a tough case or her fathers very own fists. Nothing she did was right. She has no sense of herself. She thought she did for a while, thought she’d finally figured out what her life could be like if she just had the chance to work for it, but even the simple dream of normalcy felt like it didn’t fit her anymore. 

The woman, who was really only a twenty-year-old kid who’d never even really had a chance at life, finally manages to collect herself, and with trembling hands she brushes the tears from her cheeks and squares her shoulders. She might not be ready to face the music and go back into the house where her mother was murdered in her bedroom, but she doesn’t have a choice. She’s never had a choice. She doesn’t let the reality of her life keep her paralyzed in pain, if there’s one consistent thing about Grace Winchester, it’s that she doesn’t back down from a fight, and especially not one that her brothers are intertwined with. 

She’s about to walk inside, face her fears, when her brothers come out with Missouri on their heels. Jenny stands in the doorway, and when her eyes meet Grace’s, she smiles a soft smile that can only be described as something entirely maternal. It nearly chokes Grace up again, but she manages to keep her composure as she smiles back, hiding her fist behind her back as she’s acutely aware of the blood running down her fingers and dripping onto the concrete beneath her feet. 

“Where are we going now?” She asks when the boys are within earshot, and she tries to ignore how Dean’s eyes soften as they memorize the pain etched across her face. Her eyes are swollen and rimmed red, and she knows her cheeks are flush with emotion that she can’t even find a name for. She’s sad, scared, filled with grief, but there’s something else that plagues her too. Maybe it’s exhaustion, or maybe it’s something different; something that she’d never been able to understand when her father expressed it, but recognizes in herself now. She’s pissed. Pissed that yet another spirit is disrupting what’s left of their childhood home. Pissed that no matter how far they run, something always pulls them right back to the start of it all. Pissed that her mothers final resting place can’t even see peace. Whatever the feeling is, it fuels her rage, and she’s learned that rage can be a powerful and helpful tool in cases like this. 

“Back to Missouri’s.” Sam tells her softly, gently pulling her hand out from behind her back. He frowns when he notices split knuckles and sticky blood caked between her fingers. Grace is a lot of things, but she’s not violent or quick to anger. He can’t even begin to know how she’s feeling, but he guesses it's overwhelming enough to come away with split knuckles.

“Did you punch my car?” Dean questions, concern laced within his green eyes. Grace doesn’t know if it’s concern for her, or concern for Baby, but it's not hard to assume that he’s more worried about the state of his precious car than her nondominant hand. 

“She’s fine.” The youngest Winchester huffs, looking back at the Impala where the only indication that she’d even touched it at all is the smear of blood along the silver trim that dries down to something copper toned the longer it’s exposed to the fresh Spring air. “And it wasn’t even a punch. Dad would make me do it again just so that I did it right.” 

Dean shakes his head sadly, evidently not so concerned about the car in this moment. Grace averts her attention at the realization that it's her he’s concerned for, and she looks down at her shoes as she begins to feel like a child that everyone needs to keep an eye on. “I’m fine, Dean.” 

“Yeah, I know.” The eldest Winchester doesn’t believe her in the slightest, but she learned that response from him, so he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he just grabs her wrist, leading her over to the trunk where he has a first aid kit buried beneath their duffle bags. 

Sam leads Missouri back to her own car, evidently talking about what the next step should be. Grace thinks he just wants to give her another minute to collect herself without an audience, and she can’t say that she’s not thankful for his thoughtfulness as she flinches away from Dean’s soft touches to her wounded skin. “It's really the same?” She asks softly, looking up at him with so much untouched innocence in her eyes that his own heart stutters in his chest. 

“Yeah, Gracie.” He sighs, taking an antiseptic wipe and bringing it over her knuckles, trying not to react to the way she takes in a sharp breath of air when the sting registers in her head. He wipes the blood from her fingers before he tosses the wipe into the trunk to be dealt with at a later date, reaching for bandages that he knows she’ll rip off in only a matter of hours, but still puts the effort into finding regardless. “Dad wanted to hire painters, but Mom wanted to do it herself. When he was at work one day, she took Sammy and I out to the store to get the paint. She had it all figured out; she always did. I remember… I remember painting with her when Sam was taking a nap. You would’ve loved her, Gracie. She was… you are… God, you’re just like her. From what I remember anyways. She never backed down from a fight, never let anything stop her. She and Dad would go at it, and then she’d just start laughing because she couldn’t take him seriously when his face got all red. She was– she was the only person that could make him laugh in the middle of a fight. But, um, yeah, the paint is the same.” 

“I always wanted a pink room. When I was little, when we first started going to different motels, and Dad started working longer cases. I always told him that I wanted to stay in a pink room, and he always got so pissed off and told me to shut up and be grateful I got to sleep anywhere at all.” She hums, and Dean remembers that vividly. He’d always laughed and ruffled her hair, always tried his best to distract her from the fact that none of the walls were ever pink. He doesn’t say anything though, he doesn’t know what to say. Nothing will make those memories go away, and nothing will give her what she never had. Grace doesn’t bristle at his chosen silence, instead, she lets it fall over her until something else crosses her mind. “Dean?” She hums as she looks down at the bandages he’s wrapping around her knuckles. 

“Yeah, Gracie?” He sighs his attentiveness, letting his eyes flicker to hers for only a moment before he’s looking back down at her hand, pinching her fingertips and ensuring that nothing is broken or sprained. 

“Do you think I look like her? Missouri said I do but…” She trails off, biting at her lip as she waits for her older brother to find the right words to answer her question. 

“When you were little, you looked just like her.” He said eventually, and Grace’s heart dropped at the implication that she didn’t look like Mary anymore. That life had aged her beyond the point of recognizable similarities. “You have her smile, her laugh. That’s how I can tell when you're bullshitting me. You don’t laugh like her when you’re just putting on this act that everything’s fine.” 

“Oh.” Grace mumbles, tears pricking her eyes as she glances down at her feet. “I wish I got to know her.”

“Me too, Gracie. Me too.” Dean sighs, pulling her into his chest for a second. He kisses the top of her head before he pulls away and closes the trunk. “Get in the car. We have work to do.” 

-

Grace and Dean are at the dining room table at Missouri’s. Sam is leaning against a chair, not much help to them, but neither sibling calls him out for simply wandering around aimlessly. Dean doesn’t have the energy to fight, and Grace is just thankful that she has something to keep herself busy with. 

“So, what is all this stuff anyway?” Dean questioned as he filled another black cloth. Grace had already filled seven, steps ahead of her older brother who had never been good at following directions. The first three he made weren’t right in the slightest, and Missouri hadn’t been afraid to make him start over while mentioning that Grace was better at this than he was. It wasn’t often the youngest Winchester was singled out for something positive, and so she’d found herself grinning bashfully before sticking her tongue out at Dean. 

“Angelica root, van van oil, crossroad dirt, a few other odds and ends.” Missouri highlighted, nodding toward the individual bowls of herbs on the table before she diverted her attention again. 

“What are we supposed to do with it?” Dean bumped Grace’s arms, nodding toward one of the farthest bowls. She honestly couldn’t decipher what was what, but that didn’t really matter when it was all going in anyways. She moved it between them, reaching for another pinch of it and spreading it inside of her unwound black cloth. 

“We’re gonna put them inside the walls in the North, South, East, West corners on each floor of the house.” Missouri explained as she grabbed a seat at the table on the opposite side from where the Winchesters sat. 

“Punching holes in the drywall – Jenny’s gonna love that.” The sarcasm dripped from Dean’s lips like honey, and Grace rolled her eyes at his takeaway. She’d get over a few holes in the wall if it meant she and her children got to keep their lives. 

“She’ll live.” Missouri pursed her lips, looking directly at Dean who very quickly diverted his attention to the task at hand. 

“And this will destroy the spirits?” Sam questioned, still leaning his weight against the back of the chair, offering his siblings no help. Grace huffed at the bandages around her hand, the bulky padding was making it hard for her to tie off the bags, and so she began to pull it off without much care for how easily wounds could become infected. Both of her brothers rolled their eyes as she peeled the bandages away and discarded them on the table in a heap, but neither commented, knowing they would’ve done the same thing a hell of a lot sooner. 

“It should.” Missouri nods. Grace is about to tie off her eight bundle when Dean taps her bicep, sprinkling a pinch of something into the palm of her hand. He raises his own fingers to his lips, tasting whatever herb he’d dipped his fingers into, and immediately pulls away when he realizes that it tastes horrible. Grace can only roll her eyes at his idiocy, dusting her hand off on her pants as she goes back to the task at hand. “It should purify the house completely. We’ll each take a floor, but we work fast. Once the spirits realize what we’re up to, things are gonna get bad.” 

“Were they ever good?” Grace chuckles dryly, shaking her head as she ties off her final bundle. She huffs when she realizes that Dean still has two left, and he’s not moving any faster despite the finish line being in sight. She nudges his arm out of the way, pulling both black rags closer to her body, and by the time she finishes them, he’s only just finished the one he’d already been working on. 

-

Nighttime falls over Lawrence like a thick blanket, and Grace has taken it upon herself to see Jenny and her kids out of the house for a couple of hours while they do what they need. The single mother of two still only had blind faith in her, and that’s not something the youngest Winchester takes lightly as she softly caresses Richie’s back. She has one hand in Sari’s, guiding her down the steps, but Richie seemed insistent that she paid him the same amount of attention too. 

“Careful.” She warns the little girl who holds onto her tightly, her tone soft and incredibly maternal as she ensures that the little girl doesn’t slip beneath the cover of darkness that blurs the stairs together. 

“You’ve asked me to trust you, and I do, but– I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving all of you alone in the house.” Jenny stumbles over her words, stopping to stand at the bottom of the stairs as Grace fixes the jacket around Sari’s shoulders. She zips it up, hoping that the thin layer is enough to keep the little girl warm. 

“Jenny,” Grace puts a comforting hand on the top of Sari’s head, wanting to keep the little girl calm though she undoubtedly has picked up on the tension that strains her mothers shoulders and had filled her house when they’d first arrived minutes ago. “I lost my mother to something evil in this house, and it still haunts me to this day. Let me make sure that your kids don’t lose you too, okay? This is my job. It’s the only thing I’m good at. Take the kids to see a movie or something, and it’ll all be over by the time you get back. Okay? Can you do that for me?” 

Jenny stalls for a minute, but eventually she nods, shifting Richie’s diaper bag higher on her shoulder as it begins to slip off. “Okay.” She relents. 

Grace gives Sari’s head once last caress, and she brushes her fingers against Richie’s cheek before she nods, turning to walk up the stairs and back into the house once she’s certain that the family of three had gotten into their car okay. 

She sighs softly, desperately hoping that she can keep her word on this. She walks into the kitchen where Dean is already searching for a weak spot in the drywall. She doesn’t linger, knowing that time is running out and if she waits any longer, her job is going to get a whole lot harder. She knows where she has to go, and there’s something bittersweet about the fact that she’s the one that'll be putting the bundles into the walls of her childhood bedroom. She might not have been able to help when bad things were happening the first time around, but there’s something liberating in the knowledge that she’ll be able to end it all now. 

She climbs the stairs two at a time, looking into the master bedroom where Sam is supposed to be depositing one of the bundles. He looks over his shoulder when the hardwood creaks beneath her weight, and he nods encouragingly before his eyes go back to the wall. Grace takes a deep breath, continuing down the hallway until she reaches the bedroom that was once a nursery. She lingers in the doorway for a minute before she’s pushing through the fear that grips her and walking into the closet. She shoves one of Sari’s rainbow dresses out of the way and gets to work at finding a weak spot in the drywall. For a minute, everything is fine, but then a hammer is hurtling her way and the only indication of its presence is the sound of the air around her whipping around. She turns just in time for the back of the hammer to break through the skin of her shoulder, penetrating her deep and painfully. She bellows out a loud cry of pain, sinking to the floor as she doesn’t know whether to rip the tool out of her shoulder or desperately cradle the area around it. For a minute, she remembers that she’s wearing Jessica’s shirt, and the pain only amplifies when she realizes that it's ruined; blood soaked and torn beneath her hands. The only things that gets her moving again is the stubbornness to not let it be in vein, and with all the effort that she can muster up, she breaks through the drywall and shoves the bag in just as the closet doors slam shut and something slides across the floor. 

Panic grips at the young woman instantly. Memories of crappy motel room closets flash before her eyes. She hates this. Hates confined spaces. Hates being trapped. She pounds at the doors with little energy, suddenly aware of all the blood she’s losing as it drips down her chest and to her belly, leaving a crimson trail on the front of the shirt as if the circular ring around her shoulder isn’t enough. Her head feels heavy as she panics, her breathing coming out short and labored as she cries out weakly. “Let me out! Please! Please let me out!” She cries, but it's futile, because if these spirits have gotten to her, they’ve definitely gotten to Missouri and her brothers. She can’t breathe, her throat feels like it's closing in and every minuscule twitch of her muscles has her shoulder aching in brutal protest. 

It’s been years since she’s seen the inside of a closet like this, years since she’s been close enough to John Winchester to even be tormented with the thought of being locked away, but no matter how much she’s healed since the last time she found herself thrown into a motel closet and locked in there for hours, it all comes rushing back to her now that she’s faced with the same fate once again. 

Grace sinks to the floor, curling herself up as much as she could manage with the literal hammer sticking out from her shoulder. She knows that you never pull something like this out, especially not by yourself, but she’s panicking as she puts her head on her knees and tries to ignore the agonizing ache and inability to breathe. She doesn’t know when she started sobbing, but she’s acutely aware of how her shoulders tremble and it only further aggravates the open wound on her body. She doesn’t hear the footsteps getting closer, or even notice the closet doors opening until Sam and Dean are both kneeling in front of her, concern filling their eyes as they take in the sight of her sobbing into her knees and rocking back and forth. Her knuckles are white from how tightly she’s holding into the fabric of her pants. When Dean’s hands frame both sides of her cheeks, guiding her face up to meet their soft and concerned eyes, she flinches back, and only then does Sam notice the hammer lodged deep within his baby sister's shoulder. 

“Fuck, Gracie.” He cusses lowly, scrambling closer to assess the physical damage while Dean tries to coax her through the emotional. He’s cradling her to his chest, reminding her to breathe with him, desperately trying to bring her back down to reality as she claws at her throat and weeps. “Hey, I need to get it out, okay? It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but you’re gonna be fine. I need you to answer me, Gracie. You’ve lost a lot of blood, I need to hear your voice.” If it was any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have been so persistent to gain her attention, but he needs to make sure that she’s okay enough for him to do this. He reaches for one of the shirts hanging in Sari’s closet while he watches her, ripping it in half like it’s the easiest thing in the world, preparing to use it as a tourniquet of sorts until they can get her back to the motel to patch her up for real. 

“Gracie girl, I need to hear you.” Dean mumbles softly, his fingers tapping at the side of her face when her eyes flutter closed. “Come on, sweetheart. Tell Sammy you’re okay.” 

“G-Get it out.” Grace pleads with as much strength as she can muster, finally feeling like she can breathe again as the panic attack slips away into something of the past. “Please Sammy, it hurts.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m gonna count to three, okay? And you’re gonna squeeze Dean’s hand as hard as you want.” Sam grips the hammer tightly, nodding at Dean that he’s ready whenever he is. He doesn't’ consult Grace, it doesn’t matter whether she’s ready or not, because he knows it's going to hurt like a bitch with or without the mental preparation. “One,” He doesn’t even get to two before he’s ripping the hammer out of her shoulder and tying the tourniquet around her. The young woman bellows in pain, her head thrown back on Dean’s shoulder while she squeezes his hand tightly. “I need you to move your arm. We need to make sure it didn’t tear a muscle.” He coaches roughly, knowing that if he was any softer with Grace she wouldn't actually register what he was saying. 

Grace does as asked, wincing and whimpering through the entire ordeal, but eventually Sam’s content, and tells her she can put her arm down. She slumps against Dean’s chest, sobbing into him as she grips at his flannel tightly. Neither of her brothers have to ask to know that she’s not crying because of the pain, but because she’d been trapped in a closet with no escape, and this time she hadn’t even done something to deserve the punishment; not that any of the times John threw her in the closet was deserved, but point still stands that this was the last thing she’d expected to be subjected to today. 

“Where’s Missouri?” Grace asked eventually, pulling herself away from Dean when she felt capable to move on and forward. She wiped at her cheeks with the hand that wasn’t connected to an injured shoulder, clearing away the tears that had fallen. 

“Downstairs.” Dean informs, clambering to his feet when he realizes that Grace wasn’t willing to take another minute to collect herself. He offers her his hand and pulls her up to her feet when she grabs it. She rolls out her shoulder, groaning in pain, but she doesn’t let it slow her down. Believe it or not, she thinks she’s finished a hunt with worse injuries not inflicted upon her by monsters and spirits. 

Grace grimaces when she sees the state of the kitchen, knowing there was no way that Jenny wouldn’t notice the damage to her kitchen table. The walls were one thing, but adding damage elsewhere was breaching unforgiving territory. She stalks over to one of the kitchen chairs, taking a seat as she feels woozy for a second. It hadn’t occurred to her how much blood she’d lost until she glanced down and found a trail of blood leading down to her fingers and even more staining the front of the shirt. Again she feels herself getting worked up, running the tip of her finger along the stark white lettering that still says Stanford, though now the letters are noticeably discolored. 

“This was Jessica’s shirt.” She frowns more to herself than anyone else but Sam hears her as he approaches with a glass of apple juice, and sadly his lips quiver into a comforting smile. “Thanks.” She mutters tiredly, reaching out for the juice that she knows will replenish her blood. Learning that little hack had saved them from too many trips to the emergency room, but it wasn’t an immediate cure, and so even after she’d chugged the contents and shoved the glass into Sam’s waiting hands, she still found it hard to keep her head up and her vision clear. 

“Are you sure this is over?” Sam questions after he’d placed the glass in the sink, coming back toward Grace with a bottle of water that he’d already cracked open. She sips it slowly, savoring the cold feeling washing across her tongue and throat. 

Missouri nodded, “I’m sure.” 

“It better be over.” Grace slurs from the kitchen chair, her head lulling to the side as her eyes become heavy. She fights to keep herself awake, taking another sip of the water and setting her eyes firmly on Sam. 

“Why? Why do you ask?” Missouri turned to face Sam, concern flooding her features. 

“No, never mind.” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “It’s nothing, I guess.” 

Missouri didn’t have a chance to press Sam any further because the lights in the hallway were flickering to life the second he’d finished speaking, and soon Jenny’s voice trailed in from the front door. “Hello? We're home.” She announced, coming into the kitchen with Sari’s hand holding hers and Richie on her hip. Grace grimaced as she looked around, taking in the absolute destruction sight that had been made out of her kitchen. “What– What happened?”

“Hi. Sorry, um, we’ll pay for all of this.” Sam insisted out of instinct, despite the fact that they did not possess the funds to pay for everything they had damaged or entirely ruined. Their credit cards may be endless with the scams that John and Dean run, but their limits were well… limited. 

“Don’t you worry. Dean’s gonna clean up this mess.” Missouri better amended the situation, and if Grace weren’t so lightheaded she would’ve laughed about how for once in his life he wasn’t being shown favoritism. “Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Get the mop. And don’t cuss at me.” 

Dean did as asked – or demanded – and cleaned up the kitchen to the best of his abilities while Sam made sure Grace didn’t pass out. By the time Dean was helping Missouri hobble down the stairs, she felt better if only the slightest amount, but she knew that a long night of sleep would be the best remedy she could find. She was looking forward to passing out in the backseat of the Impala, already longing to feel the chilled leather beneath her skin. 

She said goodbye to Missouri quickly, rushing toward the Impala once there was nothing else in her way. Grace Winchester was asleep before her brothers even got in the car. 

-

“Dean!” Grace woke up with a jolt, groaning in pain when the tension of her muscles aggravated the wound on her arm that had yet to be correctly patched up. She looked around frantically before she realized that her brothers were clambering out of the car and rushing toward the house. She didn’t think twice about following after them, sheer adrenaline fueling her body as she somehow managed to catch up with them just as Sam passed through the threshold of the house. 

“I’ll get Sari! You get Richie!” Sam yelled over the thumping of his heart, looking back at Grace who only nodded at the order. Her own heart was racing, but she pushed through the pain, taking the steps three at a time as she raced toward the little boys room. 

She found the toddler standing up in his crib, sobbing with his arms reaching out in her direction, evidently reaching for his mother if his babbled cries of ‘Mama’ were any indication of who he wanted most. Grace’s heart sank in her chest, but she pushed through the feeling, reaching out to pick the little boy up and cradle him close to her chest. 

“Shh, you’re okay, sweet boy. Everything’s okay. Nobody’s gonna hurt a hair on your little head, I promise.” She soothed the toddler to the best of her abilities, nearly crashing into Sam as he came flying out of Sari’s room. The little girl was in no better shape than her brother, but before Grace could call for her, try to be a person of clarity in the chaos, something was wrapping around her waist. “Sam! Richie! Get Richie!” She screamed as she was pulled backward, her arms letting go of the toddler with blind hope that her brother could move quick enough to catch him before he fell completely. 

Her head must’ve hit the wall as she was dragged backwards, because the next thing she knew was that she was pinned against the cupboards in the kitchen by an invisible force and Sam was right beside her in the same predicament. Before she could do anything, she was flung against the opposite wall, her body crashing to the ground before that same force lifted her up again and flung her over to where Sam was pinned. 

“Gracie! Sam!” She can hear Dean yelling, but at this point, she has no idea where the sound is coming from. Her head is throbbing, her shoulder is killing her, and every other inch of her body aches from being slammed against walls and the floor. 

She whimpers in pain when a figure walks into the room, and just like Sari had mentioned on their first day in town, it was on fire. Her eyes widened, Missouri’s doubts about her mothers spirit being in the house coming back to her. “Gracie! Sam!” Dean’s voice is getting closer, and then he’s right in front of her and Sam with his shotgun raised. Grace’s eyes widen in panic, but no words come as she stares ahead at the figure she’s entirely certain is Mary Winchester. 

“No, don’t! Don’t!” Sam, however, is able to find his voice, and he calls out to Dean frantically. 

“Why?!” Their older brother calls, evidently not connecting the pieces that Grace and Sam can see plain as day. A tear falls down Grace’s face as she squints her eyes, trying to see through the constantly burning flames. 

“Because I know who it is. I can see her now.” The flames around the figure burn brightly until they don’t burn at all, and perfectly clear can all three siblings see the spirit clearly. 

“M-Mommy?” Grace cries softly, and Dean’s hand quivers as he slowly lowers the gun, staring straight at the woman he’d made peace with never being able to see again in this lifetime. 

“Mom.” It’s not a question. He knows that this is Mary, and his heart stutters in his chest as she walks toward him with a soft smile. 

“Dean.” She hums simply, taking in all of his features. She doesn’t linger long, she doesn’t have the time to linger at all, but she can’t pass up the fleeting seconds she has to truly take in the sight of her children. “Gracie, my girl. My sweet sweet girl. Oh, my baby.” She reaches out, like she wants to caress Grace’s face and feel her skin one last time, but she pulls away before she makes contact, looking to Sam whose lips quiver as he memorizes Mary. “Sam.” She hums, “I’m sorry.” 

“F-For what?” Sam stutters, and Grace’s eyes plead with Mary to stay with them, come back to them, but the woman avoids her gaze and instead of answering, turns on her heels and walks toward the center of the room. 

“You, get out of my house. And let go of my kids.” Grace shakes her head, knowing where this is headed, but her protests are futile. Mary is engulfed by a bright flame again, but this time, the flames evaporate into the ceiling.

“Mom! Mommy!” She cries out, fighting against the invisible restraints until she falls to the floor, the force of the spirit no longer around to keep her pinned to the cabinet. She clambers to her feet, rushing to Dean. She digs her face into his chest, sobbing without constraint for the umpteenth time since driving over Kansas state lines. His hand comes to hold the back of her head while the other holds the center of her back. Her fingers curl into his jacket, holding tightly to it as she weeps. After twenty years, she can finally say she met her mother. But, she can also say she watched her mother die after she’d already been gone. Somehow, Grace thinks this hurts worse than not remembering Mary at all. 

“Now it's over.”

-

The very next morning, the Winchesters are getting ready to head out. Dean and Grace stand on the front lawn of their childhood home, finally getting a hold of those items Jenny mentioned finding when they’d first introduced themselves. Dean holds onto a stack of pictures that none of them had ever seen, but Grace holds onto a small teddy bear. Her name is embroidered on the bottom of the right foot in the sweetest pink thread, and her heart stutters as she realizes that Mary had been the one to personalize this bear for her. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of it since Jenny had come out of the house holding him by his belly, and she doesn’t think it’ll ever leave her possession. The only other thing she had from those first six months of her life was the blanket she’d been wrapped up in when John carried her out of the house. Twenty years later, it still lives in her duffle bag, though it has acquired a couple of blood stains and rips since its prime. 

“Thanks for these.” Dean looks up at Jenny once he’d gone through all of the pictures, his smile and tone sincere as he curls his fingers around the stack possessively. 

“Don’t thank me. They’re yours.” Jenny shakes her head, smiling fondly back at Dean and Grace. “Thank you.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to let anymore kids lose their mom in that house. I meant it.” Grace forced a smile, still not feeling entirely herself or even close to functioning, but that had never stopped her from completing a hunt before. She had to see this through, and the finish line was finally in sight. 

“Take care of yourselves.” Jenny patted Dean on the shoulder, giving Grace one last maternal smile before she was walking back toward the house where Sari and Richie were inside eating breakfast at the table – that still sported holes from various utensils being plunged into it. 

Grace held onto the handle of the Impala as she watched Sam get closer, having said his final goodbyes to Missouri. She doesn’t want to talk about everything that happened, and neither do the boys. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be ready to talk about what happened here. 

“Don’t you kids be strangers!” Missouri calls from the front yard, and Grace’s lips wrinkle into a weak smile. 

“We won’t.” Dean assures before they’re slipping into the Impala. She has a tight grip on her teddy bear, holding it close to her chest as she slumps against the side of the car, her eyes closing out of instinct. It’s not five minutes later that she’s sound asleep, hoping to god the next hunt doesn’t tear her apart completely.

[glimmeringwinchester]

more soft!dean is to come, i promise !! thank you so much for reading and commenting 🖤🪩

hell house

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — grace winchester has more skeletons in the closet than she and her can fight, and as they race against the clock to find their missing father, slowly but surely everything unknown comes into the light

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) — canon supernatural violence, gore, and themes. mentions of past abuse, ptsd, anxiety, indications of claustrophobia, sickness, john winchester being an absolute asshole. deans a dick (what’s new) but he’s soft with his sister, oc au

Grace Winchester rolls her eyes as she watches Dean reach across the car with a disposable spoon in hand, his smile wide and a little too mischievous as he wedges the thin plastic into their brother's slightly agape mouth. Sam is passed out in the passenger seat, his seat reclined despite the person that sits behind him, and his head is falling slack to the side as he catches up on much needed rest. The days had been long in the seven months that had played out since Dean had pulled them both away from life at Stanford, and instead back to the lives they’d lived before, though not by choice. Grace remembers how long the days used to feel when she was only a kid, but for whatever reason, the last seven months have felt excruciating. She can only sympathize with Sam as she watches him sleep, light colored eyes ghosting across the subtle motions of his breathing – the only indication he’s actually alive up there.

She would’ve found the energy to smile in wry amusement if her head didn’t feel so heavy on her shoulders. Her body is slouched against the door, her knees pulled up to her chest if only to allow Sam the space he needs to sleep, and her head cheek pressed against the window somewhat uncomfortably; though she appreciates the coolness that spreads across her flushed skin too much to adjust her position. Her eyes are glassy, bloodshot and stinging, but she blinks rapidly despite the pain, determined to keep herself awake as nausea pools in her lower belly.

She manages a weak eye roll as Dean finagles his phone into a specific position, peeling his eyes away from the road to snap a picture that will certainly be used as leverage in the next battle over music choice. She barely has the time to prepare for him cranking up the volume, an involuntary wince making her aware of the sudden soreness in her muscles as she leans away from the abrupt sound, unable to deny the way it seems to pierce through her skull like pinpricks.

Sam bolts awake, his eyes wide and panicked for a handful of seconds before he’s batting at the spoon between his lips, a grimace of utter annoyance overtaking his once relaxed expression. Dean couldn’t care less, grinning with pride in the driver's seat as he drums along to the chorus of a song Grace has heard too many times since only last week. He turns his head to Sam, eyes squinted as he beams, though Sam’s not easily amused by Dean’s clear enjoyment.

“Ha ha. Very funny.” He huffs, fixing the position of his seat with one hand while the other reaches for the stereo, turning the music down to an acceptable decibel, though Grace still thinks it's too loud as she barely conceals another involuntary wince.

“Sorry. Not a lot of scenery here in East Texas. You kinda gotta make your own.” Dean apologizes, though both of his siblings know he’s not being the slightest bit sincere. Grace wants to roll her eyes, but a deep and incessant pressure at the front of her temple prevents her from so much as looking to her left.

“Man, we’re not kids anymore, Dean. We’re not gonna start that crap up again.” Sam scoffs, his jaw clenched as he expresses his annoyance, his eyes trailing toward the backseat as he searches for signs of life from Grace, hardly reacting when he finds her curled up into a tight ball, blanket ditched around her ankles, and her eyes closed as she gnaws on her lower lip. He can see exhaustion rolling off of her body – her eyes sunken, her face flush – and so he assumes she’s annoyed, not treading any deeper into that isolated spiral of thoughts.

“Start what up?” Dean, ever the antagonistic older brother, reaches into the backseat, his palm tapping against Grace’s blanket covered ankles in a silent greeting. He can only chuckle beneath his breath when her foot kicks out at him in response, an annoyed huff rolling off of her lips as she curls further toward the seats, just out of reach from his assault should he try again.

“That prank stuff. It’s stupid, and it always escalates.” Sam groans, slapping Dean’s hand when he reaches out for Grace again, his eyes rolling when Dean only shakes his shoulder in admitted defeat, looking entirely too smug about irritating his younger siblings for his own entertainment.

“What’s the matter, Sammy? You afraid you’re gonna get a little nair in your shampoo again, huh?” Grace doesn’t even have to see her brothers to know that one quip was enough to entirely change Sam’s attitude, his ego still bruised from the epic nair prank of 1990. Grace can only wonder how boys never mature past the age of fourteen, unable to believe they’re actually considering rehashing ‘prank wars’.

“All right. Just remember, you started it.” Sam can barely conceal his smirk as he shakes his head, eyes now glancing out the window, watching as rows of lush trees blur together into evergreen flashes.

“Oh, bring it on, Baldy.” Dean smirks, though his eyes flicker to Grace in the rear view mirror, “You in, G?” He sings smugly, only able to laugh in amusement when he receives nothing more than Grace throwing the bird his way in response. She’d never wanted to be part of their prank wars as a kid either, but Dean was never so quick to relent, always effectively dragging her into them whether that be by deception, or simply pranking her anyways.

“Where are we, anyway?” Sam asks, changing the topic as he glances out at the passing scenery.

Dean glances out the window, his face a neutral expression as he assesses the road surrounding them, never able to truly be secure in the temporary safety they find between places. Grace pretends not to notice the fault in Dean’s stoic persona as she shifts in the backseat, tugging off the sweatshirt that’s only trapping in unwanted heat. “A few hours outside of Richardson. Give me the lowdown again.” Dean reaches into the backseat again, although this time his gesture isn’t so playful, but softly he catches his sister's attention as Sam rustles through their current case information. “You should get some sleep. Need you at your best.” Grace wants to remind Dean of all the sleepless nights that haunt their pasts, but instead she nods, finally finding a moment of ease where not every part of her body is aching and churning at once.

She just barely hears Sam begin his refresher when her head lulls to the side, resting just below the leather headrest as she finally submits to the exhaustion that’s been crushing her for hours.

When she wakes, the Impala is parked in front of a record store, and Sam is ruffling through his bag that’s on the floor beside her feet. Grace bats his hand away with an exasperated eye roll, ignoring the wave of simultaneous nausea and dizziness that hits her as she sits up. Her muscles ache at the change in position, and she’s vaguely aware of her shoulder cracking as she rustles through the bag instead, pulling out the worn leather wallet she knows her idiot brother was searching for. Sam offers a bashful smile, his eyebrows furrowing after a handful of seconds as he takes in her appearance, but Grace only shrugs him off, cracking her fingers as she waits for Dean to make the first move, able to grasp why they’re here without the step-by-step break down she knows Sam wants to give her.

“Let's roll, Gracie.” Dean whistles as he opens the door, only acknowledging his younger sister, aware of how Sam wants to roll his eyes in annoyance every time he’s singled out. Grace follows his motions, though unlike her brother who has entirely reframed his mannerisms by the time their doors close in tandem, it takes her a minute to gain her bearings, only managing to deflect the discomfort radiating through her body as she steps ahead of Sam, through the door he’s holding open for her with that same stupid furrow in his eyebrow.

Her eyes are immediately drawn to a vinyl on one of the farthest shelves from the door, and naturally she lets herself float towards it, aware of how Dean and Sam are trailing behind her instinctively, though Dean’s eyes are definitely wandering as he gathers his critiques.

Grace looks up as a young looking guy approaches, a beat up record in his hands that he flips with indifference, his eyes scanning the black and white labels that differentiate the slots on the shelves. She picks up the record she’d been eyeing, effortlessly playing the role of inquisitive customer. “Gentlemen, ma’am, help you with anything?” The man asks, his eyes trailing over Grace an unnecessary second time, though he seems innocent enough as he lingers on the design against her chest. She’s only vaguely aware of the fact that she’d never changed out of her Spice Girls t-shirt, and that she’s holding one of their albums in her hands; definitely a conversation starter when standing in the middle of a music store.

“Yeah. Are you Craig Thurston?” Sam asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he analyzes the employee. Grace turns the vinyl over in her hands, reading over the tracklist as she tunes into the conversation happening in front of her.

“I am.” Craig nods, reaching over the rack as he shuffles through alphabetized slots. Grace can only roll her eyes at the sight, her thought of how boys never mature past puberty coming back once again.

“Oh. Well, we’re reporters with the Dallas Morning News. I’m Dean. This is Sam. Grace.” Grace brings her eyes away from the vinyl at the mention of her name, offering Craig a polite smile as she fights to stay balanced on her feet, even the slightest movement amplifying the dizziness that’s fogging up her senses.

Craig smiles at the information, his posture relaxing as he nods along to Dean’s fabrication. “No way. Yeah, I’m a writer, too. I write for my school’s lit magazine.” Despite his earlier display of reaching over the shelves, Craig peels from his post, stalking around the shelves as he grabs a seemingly sought after vinyl, showing no indication of contemplation as he reaches for the slot and pulls one up.

“Well, good for you, Morrison.” Dean huffs out a laugh, his smile entirely insincere as she gazes down at the vinyls, batting Grace’s arm when he notices one of his favorite bands at the very front, his fascination somewhat amusing as Grace’s lips quirk into a smirk.

“Um, we’re doing an article on local haunting, and rumor has it you might know about one.” Sam sways slightly, appearing hesitant, uncertain even, but both Grace and Dean know he’s anything but. They’ve learned a thing or two in the decades they’ve been doing this job, and one of those things is people are always more inclined to help you out when they think they have an opportunity to gossip or gloat.

“You mean the Hell House?” There’s a certain tick in Craig’s eyebrow that has Grace hooked, her eyes analyzing his movements because she knows her brothers won’t focus so much on the physical. They’ve always focused more on voice inflection, but Grace has always known a thing or two about body language.

“That’s the one.” Dean nods, his smirk almost condescending as he stares Craig down, but the employee hardly bristles, a subtle glint of arrogance in his eyes as he inclines his body just the slightest inch towards Dean, like he’s fascinated, or maybe transfixed, by the things that he knows – or thinks he knows.

“I didn’t think there was anything to the story.”

“So why don’t you tell us the story?” Grace smiles sweetly, her head tilting to the side, allowing her thin hair to spill over her shoulder. She’s aware of how her voice wavered in the middle, and how it feels like hellfire’s tearing through her throat as she swallows, but she makes no indication that anything’s wrong, keeping her eyes fixed on Craig.

“Well, supposedly back in the ‘30s, this farmer, Mordechai Morduch, used to live in the house with his six daughters. It was during the depression, his crops were failing. Didn’t have enough money to even feed his own children. So I guess that’s when he went off the deep end.” Grace tries not to wince at the mention of hungry children, but the grimace that wrinkles her upper lip is a dead give away that it strikes her. Sam doesn’t notice, his interest entirely in Craig, much to her relief.

“How?”

Grace rolls her eyes as Dean sneaks up beside her, throwing his arm over her shoulder as he tugs her into his side annoyingly. She has to fight the nausea that threatens to climb up her throat at his jostling, elbowing him between the ribs as she pulls herself away.

“Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quick rather than starve to death…so he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop. But he just strung them up, one after another. And then when he was all finished, he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl who goes inside.” Craig looks entirely too fascinated with the harrowing details of the story, his eyes becoming wide as he loses himself in the details like a kid fascinated by a fairytale. Grace only barely hides her grimace as she continues to analyze his posture.

“Where’d you learn all this?” Dean inclines his head interestingly, squaring his shoulders as he stares Craig down.

“My cousin Dana told me. I don’t know where she heard it from. You gotta realize, I didn’t believe this for a second.” There’s a quip in his tone that has Sam shifting on his feet, and Grace isn’t blind to the way Craig’s fists clench in his pockets, that gleam of fascination slowly becoming a mixture of terror and uncertainty.

“But now you do?” Sam questions, his tone somewhat incredulous though there’s a hitch toward the end that keeps Craig hooked and spilling.

“Guys, I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to god, I don’t want to go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?” Grace understands the fear that becomes fascination all too well, and she offers Craig a sympathetic smile as Dean and Sam lock eyes, the elder of the two extending his appreciation toward Craig before he tapped Grace’s forearm, already beginning to lead the way back to the door.

She wobbles on her feet as she follows after him, looking over at Sam when his fingers ghost across the small of her back, reaching to catch her if she fell. She ignores the questioning look in his eyes, picking up the pace as she aims to catch up with Dean, eager to get away from Sam and his incessant questioning and analyzing.

She breathes a sigh of relief when the cool air hits her as she exits the music store, her flush face seemingly burning as its assaulted by the chilly wind around them, but all she does is deflate at the exposure, temporary relief settling in before she’s rushing into the backseat, not wanting to hold up the boys or raise anymore suspicion than she already has.

Despite how warm she feels, she reaches for the hoodie she’d thrown on the floor hours earlier, knowing Dean’ll grow suspicious if she doesn’t react to the cold soon. For men that rarely pay any attention to minor details, somehow they always pick up on the things that Grace wants to be left alone. She flips Sam off when she catches his eye in the rear view mirror, pleased when she watches his lips quirk into an amused smirk, his eyes no longer so clouded by concern. She hates that lying to them comes so easily.

Sometime later, the Winchesters are trekking through the Tennessee woods, searching for the so-called Hell House that Craig informed them of. The warmth that had once felt suffocating had fully abandoned Grace, and she shivers as she pulls the sleeves of her hoodie over her fingers, trying to keep out as much of the chill as she could manage without her jacket that’s buried in the trunk of the Impala. She looks up questioningly when Dean nudges her shoulder, but soon a grateful smile spreads across her lips as she realizes he’s extending his jacket. She slips it on eagerly, zipping it all the way up to her chin before she’s pulling the drawstrings of her hoodie even tighter, creating a barricade around her face that has Sam laughing.

“It’s not even that cold, G.” Sam rolls his eyes at her dramatics, unaware of the chills that are rolling down Grace’s spine and her arms, or that she’s fighting off a violent wave of nausea that has her practically seeing white from the discomfort.

“Do I need to remind you that women’s bodies and men's bodies interpret temperature differently because of our core temperatures?” She huffs, beyond irritable as she fights off the stinging sensation in her eyes, the burning sensation in her throat, the foggy pounding in her head, and the churning in her stomach. She’d been hopeful that those symptoms were just a result of her exhaustion, but she’s not so sure anymore, though she’s also not willing to admit that she’s sick. Definitely not willing to admit that she’s sick.

“Let’s go, nerd.” Dean only rolls his eyes at her snarky comment, nudging her forward with his shoulder. Grace stumbles on her feet, eyes becoming unfocused as her vision blurs for a second. She fights the urge to grab at her temple, instead keeping her hands in the pockets of Dean’s jacket as she steadies her balance.

Sam frowns, only steps behind her. “Dude, you okay?” He finally brings himself to ask, but all he gets in response is a huff from Grace and an indifferent shrug from Dean.

“Shark week?” The elder Winchester suggests, his expression neutral though there’s the slightest quirk in his lip that suggests he’s a little too smug about the suggestion.

Grace wants to cry in frustration, her eyes stinging with tears she refuses to let her brothers see. Her head is pounding, black spots dance in her vision if she turns her head too quickly, her stomach is in knots, but she refuses to accept that she’s sick. She refuses to even acknowledge the possibility. Instead, she scoffs, shaking her head as she moves past Dean, now being the one to lead the way through the wooded area.

“Definitely shark week.” Dean nods, to which Grace flips him off, her footsteps heavy as she quickens her pace, not sure if she’s aiming to lose them in the trees or simply express every emotion that's overwhelming her.

“Can’t say I blame the kid.” Sam comments, his eyes trailing over Grace’s frame before he turns his attention to the abandoned houses around them, an eerie feeling creeping up his spine as the miles of land around them appear barren and worn down.

“Yeah. So much for curb appeal.” Dean scoffs, finally catching up to Grace who isn’t so intent on ‘accidentally’ losing her brothers anymore. He slings an arm over her shoulder, but she shrugs him off, her glare unwavering as she looks over at him.

She sticks closer to Sam as they continue down the gravel path, annoyance rolling off of her body in thick waves that has Dean shaking his head as if he’d not been the one to agitate her. Twenty years with a little sister and he still doesn’t know how to not be a dick around women. Grace hates to think that she loses more and more hope in men every time her brothers get too comfortable with their precious masculinity.

When they come up to a specific house, she peels away from them both, her eyes squinting as she approaches the abandoned building cautiously. Neither Sam or Dean attempt to stop her, blindly following her onto the dying blades of grass, equally as curious. Sam kicks around at broken branches, but Dean hangs back, the EMF detector in hand, his fingers tapping at the small device incessantly.

“You got something?” Sam questions, walking closer to where Dean is standing, having abandoned the corner of the house where he’d initially been searching, coming up with nothing of importance to them or the case at hand.

“Yeah. The EMF’s no good.” Dean sighs, the machine buzzing in his hand. “I think that things still got a little juice in it. It’s screwing with all the readings.” His eyes glance toward the power lines, and both Grace and Sam follow the motion, looking at the wires that cross over their heads.

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” Sam agrees quietly, only looking down at Grace for a second as she comes to stand beside them, not finding anything important on her end of the house.

“Come on, let's go.” Dean nods towards the house, and both Grace and Sam follow. For an instant, Grace almost wishes that they had even the slightest bit of reluctance to be entering an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, but it's certainly not the creepiest of settings they’ve wandered into with less information than what they currently have. She’ll never understand how this became her life, but she’s too far into it to start asking questions now.

The house is somehow colder inside than it is outside, and she shivers as she steps over the threshold, pulling the leather jacket tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes sweep over the interior, noting the cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings, and insignificant piles of debris scattered around the baseboards.

“Looks like old man Murdoch was a bit of a tagger during his time.” Dean comments as they walk farther into the house, eyes scanning over the decor that’s still sitting on shelves and pinned to walls.

Sam follows Dean’s line of sight, looking straight at the reverse cross that Grace had already set her gaze on, her thoughts spiraling in every possible direction as she pulls on everything she’s ever learned about religion and its branches. “And after his time, too.”

“The reverse cross has been used by Satanists for centuries, but the sigil of sulfur–” Grace starts, looking directly at Sam, who knows exactly where she’s going with that specific train of thought. He doesn’t hesitate before jumping in, their brains attempting to unscramble the puzzle in front of them in tandem. “–didn’t show up in San Francisco until the ‘60s.” He finished, eyebroward furrowed as they shared a single glance before Sam was lifting his phone, snapping a picture of the cross.

“This is why you never get laid.” Dean scoffs, never above making a dig at Sam about his lack of sexual activity, though he seems to bristle when he realizes he’s unintentionally looped Grace into the insult, and the slightest grimace of disgust that crosses his features at the insinuation of his little sister having random hookups is enough satisfaction for the woman, not feeling it necessary to call him a pig when he’s already regretting his choice words. “What about this one? You seen this one before?” Dean nods toward the opposite wall, stepping away from Sam and Grace who are still trying to memorize the image of the cross.

“No.” Grace shakes her head, stalking closer to where Dean is standing, his head tilted like he’s trying to remember something just out of reach. She shuffles closer to him out of instinct, their arms brushing at the newfound proximity, but if Dean thinks anything of it, he doesn’t comment on it. Sam comes up on the other side of Grace, his phone already raised as he snaps a picture of the symbol on the wall.

Dean keeps his eyes on the symbol, his head turning as he further analyzes it. “I have… somewhere.”

Sam reaches out inquisitively, brushing the pads of his fingers over the markings. “It’s paint.” He notes as he pulls his fingers away, glancing at the residue that comes off on his hand. “Seems pretty fresh, too.”

“I don’t know. I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but the cops might be right about this one.” Dean sighs, turning away from the symbol on the wall as he takes in everything else in sight, Sam trailing after him as he contemplates the truth in that statement. Grace doesn’t move, her head lulling on her shoulders as fights off a sniffle, suddenly congested despite the fresh air that streams into the house from beneath window sills and door frames.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Sam agrees.

Just as the three Winchesters let their guard down, a crash comes from somewhere in the house, instantaneously raising their guards. Sam and Dean take initiative, stalking through the house until they come upon a closed door where the sound seemed to have come from. Grace stands to the side, her eyes on both of her brothers who wait a single second before nodding at her, Dean reaching for his gun just as Grace reaches for the handle and pushes it open. She’s immediately blinded by a shining light, her eyes squinting as she quietly groans and backs away. Sam pulls her behind him, equally as frazzled but ever the protective older brother.

“God!” A man choirs, his heart undoubtedly racing as he glances at the siblings in front of him. “Ugh. Cut!” He calls, posture deflating as he regains his bearing, the flashlight lowering and no longer blinding Grace who thinks the black spots in her vision have doubled now. Still, she makes no indication that she’s not at her best, keeping her chin high and her shoulders square despite how Sam’s wide frame keeps her concealed. “Just a couple humans. What are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean throws back at them, his eyes watching Grace as she steps away from Sam, though he makes no indication that he sees the way she closes her eyes tightly and masks a wince of discomfort. His theory on her odd behavior being a symptom of shark week is dwindling by the minute, but he’s not brave enough to quiz her again, still highly aware of the fact that he has to be in a car with her later on, and he does not want a pissed off little sister on his ass in confined spaces.

“Um, we belong here. We’re professionals.” The man with the camera explains like its obvious, his hands waving at his sides as he addresses Dean.

“Professional what?”

“Paranormal investigators?” Grace notes how the frames of his glasses do little to compliment his features, the blue button down he wears only another factor that aids in her analysis of his character; and whether he’s going to be a royal pain in their ass throughout the duration of the case. She’s not always so quick to judge, but nerdy men who think they have a chance at social redemption have a thing or two in common. She scoffs quickly beneath her breath when he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a card with a little too much finesse to be authentic. Her analysis is quickly proven correct, his air of false confidence already annoying her as she watches the scene unfold, not willing to help her brothers out with this one. “Here you go. Take a look at that, boys.” He entirely ignores her presence, and she can only roll her eyes. Not all men are the same, she knows and appreciates that, but most of the ones she stumbles across in this line of work do not fall very far from the same misogynistic tree.

She glances down at the card in Dean’s hands, rolling her eyes as she reads over the blocky black text. “You got to be kidding me.” Dean comments, not an ounce of humor in his tone.

“Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler, hellhoundslair.com – You guys run that website.” Sam looks up at them, disbelief in his expression though Ed and Harry take it for what it's not, pride filling their features as their shoulders square and their chins rise the slightest inch.

“Yeah.” Ed hums.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re huge fans.” Dean mumbles as he passes them, Grace following behind him, eager to find something to look at that isnt the two men who couldn’t care less about her presence. For once, she’s thankful that they have no interest in her, not sure if she’d be able to handle the high levels of masculinity that twinge the air with something almost hostile.

“And, uh, we know who you guys are, too.” There’s a stiff beat of silence that elapses as Dean and Grace lock eyes, their gazes trailing toward Ed and Harry curiously, though cautiously.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam questions, being the only one to find his voice quick enough.

Ed clears his throat, “Amatures looking for ghosts and cheap thrills.” Grace rolls her eyes, opening a cupboard on the left of her body, not so entertained by the conversation anymore. She grips at the hinges for support when a wave of dizziness crashes over her, knuckles becoming white from the intensity of her grip as she forces herself steady and coherent.

“Yeah, so, if you guys don’t mind, we’re trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here.” Harry not-so-subtly attempts to get the Winchesters to leave, his eyes trailing across Grace’s petite frame as she searches through the cabinets for something undisclosed. She’s entirely unaware, but Dean’s not, and his body quickly shields her from sight as he turns around to look at the men fully.

“Yeah? What do you got so far?” He picks up a camera, playing it cool despite the annoyance thats radiating off of him.

“Har, why don’t you tell them about EMF?” Ed looks entirely too smug, and when Sam questions it, Harry only beams with arrogance, his smirk deeply unsettling as he nods like he knows everything that the Winchesters couldn’t even dream of one day finding out. Grace really wants to punch him, but she’s aware of the fact that she’s more irritable than she usually is as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, only slightly apologetic about the action that he’s not at all aware of.

“Electromagnetic field.” He boasts, and Sam can only smile as he scratches at his head, enjoying this far too much. “Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector like this bad boy right here.” Harry pulls an EMF detector out of his duffle bag on the counter, and Grace can only roll her eyes as she moves through the space, standing beside Dean now as they watch Sam lead the conversation. “Woah, woah. It’s a 2.8 mG. It’s hot in here.”

“Wow.” Sam fakes interest, his lips curving downward into an impressed expression as he glances at Grace and Dean, amusement sparkling in his eyes that only his siblings can pick up on.

“Huh. So, have you guys ever really seen a ghost before?” Dean questions, hands vaguely gesturing around the room they’re occupying.

“Once.” Ed nods, “We were investigating this old house, and we saw a vase fall right off the table–”

“ –by itself.” Harry adds, though the statement is quickly undermined by Ed who snaps his gaze to meet his partners.

“We didn’t actually see it, but we heard it. And something like that, it– it changes you.” Grace wants to bash her head into the wall as she listens to Ed talk, his tone entirely too filled with pride for something so insignificant.

“I think I get the picture.” Dean nods, “We should go, let them get back to work.” Nothing has ever sounded better to Grace, the woman desperately craving to seek warmth from the Impala, hoping to get another few hours of rest as well, though that's not looking too promising anymore.

-

Grace Winchester is definitely sick. She grimaces at the aftertaste on her tongue as she walks down the street balancing three hot drinks. While Sam and Dean had gone off to gather more intel on the case, she’d sought out a local coffee shop, thinking it was time that they put a little something in their bodies other than dust and debris. She hadn’t expected to make a b-line for the bathroom as soon as she’d entered the quaint little shop, but she was glad her brothers weren’t around to hear her wretch over the toilet, wanting to keep her sudden illness far off their radars, although she knew she was off to a terrible start already. She sneezed for the third time in the last five minutes as she approached Dean and Sam on the corner, standing outside of the Impala waiting for her to return, though they look to be having a pretty in depth conversation as Sam grips a handful of papers and pamphlets in his hands. Grace is painfully aware of how her eyes are glassy and swollen, her cheeks flush and yet somehow also pale, but she hopes that they think nothing of it, willing to lie and say she’s simply cold if they start to ask too many questions.

“I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals.” She only hears the tail end of their conversation, and a pout forms on her lips instantaneously as she glances down at the cups of coffee in her hands for the both of them. Sam winces sympathetically, taking one from her as she steps up to him softly.

“Thanks, Gracie.” He smiles softly, but his eyes stay fixed on her face for longer than necessary, and she sighs as she anticipates his next question. “You okay?”

“Fine. Definitely inhaled too much dust.” She plays it off, though the excuse is timed perfectly with another soft sneeze, and for once Sam doesn’t question it any further, nodding as he offers a quiet bless you. She’s about to get into the car, but Sam stops her with a hand on her forearm, a smirk on his lips that tells her everything she needs to know.

“What the–” Dean startles easily when he turns the car on and a spanish song starts blaring through the speakers. Sam can only laugh, entirely unaware of how Grace flinches at the sudden noise, her eyes pinching shut as she attempts to focus on her breathing and not throw up for the second time in ten minutes.

She gets into the car when Sam opens the passenger door, handing Dean his coffee before she’s making herself comfortable in the back, her cup of hot chocolate held between her kneecaps as she curls up tight, reaching for the blanket that’s crumpled up in a heap toward the other end of the seat. She tunes out their conversation, already half asleep by the time Dean puts the gear in drive and peels away from the curb.

She’s passed out when Sam glances back at her, his eyes filled with concern. He reaches for the hot chocolate that’s still between her knees, pulling it away from her unconscious body before it has the chance to spill and burn her. He frowns when he realizes she’s hardly even taken a single sip from it, his eyes immediately trailing toward Dean who isn’t so subtly watching her through the rearview mirror. “She’s sick.” He notes.

“Knew that the second she started with her ‘womens bodies run hotter than mens’ bullshit.” Dean rolls his eyes, though there's a twinge of concern etched across his brows as he reaches for the stereo, turning the music down despite it already being practically inaudible. “Just– don’t say anything. Don’t need her slashing my tires.” He’s only partly joking, and Sam knows that, but still they both can’t help but dread the anxiety and fear that plagues Grace whenever she comes down with something. Guilt pools in Dean’s chest, his heart hammering as he questions how their lives turned out so shittily that his sister can’t even find it within herself to admit to being sick.

-

The next morning, Grace somehow feels worse than she did the day before, and it's evident in the way she winces with every move she makes, soft sneezing filling the backseat as she masks groans of discomfort every time her muscles tense. After the seventh sneeze, Sam can’t take it anymore, his eyes trailing over her frame that’s partly concealed by the thick blanket she has pulled up to her chin.

“I know that you’re sick.” He comments, not blind to the way Grace tenses with fear, her eyes wide and vulnerable as she shakes her head, attempting to deny the truth they’re all aware of.

“I’m not sick.” She denies the accusation, her voice wavering, though whether it's a result of the fear that grips at her belly and twists it into knots, or the throbbing ache in her throat that’s not quelled by any amount of honey or tea, not even Grace is certain. All that she knows is that it most definitely does not help her case, and that’s evident in the way Sam’s lips twitch with sympathy.

“Gracie–” He starts, only to cut himself off, shaking his head as Dean pulls up to the Hell House, seeing officers and squad members surrounding the abandoned foundation. “It’s okay if you are. Dean and I got this.”

“I’m not fucking sick, Sammy. Would you just get the fuck out of the car already?” There’s a clip in her tone that neither of her brothers have heard in a while, years even, and they can only sigh as they agree to her demands, straightening out their jackets before they push the Impala’s doors open and step out into the awaiting cold. Whoever said Texas was warm year round was most definitely lying through their teeth.

Despite the soreness in her muscles and the way her head begs for reprieve from the constant moving, Grace climbs out of the car after Sam, not even glancing back at her brothers for a loose game plan before she’s stalking up to one of the officers in the yard, an air of confidence surrounding her as she moves, though its not at all genuine, rather, fabricated from the deep-rooted fear that just won’t relent no matter how hard she pleads with herself to just breathe.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 1999

Grace Winchester pants for breath as she looks over at her father, her green eyes glassy and incoherent as she lays limp on damp grass. She can’t remember how she got here – sprawled out in Bobby’s yard, covered in blood and what she thinks is monster goo – nor how long she’s been here. John stands in front of the Impala, arms crossed over his chest as he seethes. It was meant to be an easy fight, a sure fire win, but when he’d handed Grace the gun, when he’d told her to shoot the thing without a single second to prepare herself, all hell broke loose for both Winchesters involved.

Grace’s chest throbs as she hyperventilates on the grass, not sure if the ache in her ribs is from the monster she’d been pit up against, or her fathers assault. It doesn’t matter why she hurts, it only matters that she can’t pull herself up and John is waiting; waiting for her to get up, to dust herself off, to put up her fists and prove that she’s worth keeping around. Grace can’t move though. She can’t even lift her hands off the ground, let alone raise her entire body. Her head is pounding, but it has been pounding for days at this point, her throat is raw, and her eyes sting so horrendously that she thinks it might just be better to keep them closed forever, but that’s not an option. It will never be an option so long as John Winchester expects obedience from her.

“Get up, girl.” He demands, and another rock is hurled in her direction. It thumps against her thigh and becomes yet another sensation for Grace to try and ignore as she continues to try and stay conscious. She knows she’s in even more trouble if she faints, but she hasn’t eaten in days, she’s thrown up every ounce of water John’s let her consume, and she’s practically numb after trying to hold her own against her own father just hours after being thrown against a wall by whatever monster she’d been tasked with ending. “I said, Get. Up.” John growls, pushing himself off of the Impala with impatience. Grace can barely even flinch as he comes closer, too close, and before she knows it, or even has time to prepare, his steel toed boots are crashing into her ribcage, and the pain that she’d been dealing with before suddenly triples.

Grace tries to stand, attempting to get her limbs working again, but just as she lifts her head up off of the rain-soaked grass, she’s throwing up all over herself and John’s shoes. It’s not just stomach acid and water anymore either, and she cringes as she feels blood drip from her lips onto the blades beside her head. She can only whimper when her father grabs her by the collar of her blood soaked t-shirt, pulling her up off the ground without a moment of hesitation. Nothing’s broken. She’d know if something was broken, but that doesn’t mean everythings right either. Her face is flush, her throat is on fire, her stomach churns and not just because she’s terrified. Three days ago, she’d come home from school sick. The flu had been going around her dusty, and very temporary, middle school, and it came as no surprise to anyone that she’d been unlucky enough to catch it. John hadn’t taken kindly to her complaining, though all Grace had done was cough into her elbow at dinner, but apparently that was enough to put her on his chopping block – not that she ever left the very top of that list. He’d dragged her out to South Dakota that very next day, something about a strange death and a monster to hunt slipping past his lips when he’d informed Dean of the case. It wasn’t often that John took Grace on a hunt without her brothers, but it wasn’t uncommon either, and with that logic in mind, neither Sam nor Dean questioned why John wanted only Grace with him, naively assuming it was to keep them away from the flu that had her practically bedridden and imobile until he’d dragged her out by her wrist.

The only thing keeping Grace on her feet is John’s hand around her neck, and when he lets go, when he finally relents and allows her to breathe, she crumbles to the ground, landing in the pile of sick that's already begun to cool. She whimpers, both in pain and disgust, and attempts to get to her feet again, but John’s hand on her shoulder keeps her where she is. She’s little, only thirteen years old and barely half the height of her youngest older brother, but that’s never stopped her father from treating her like an adult. She moans in pain when he backhands her, but headlights shine brightly in the distance, and Grace knows it's the end, at least for now.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bobby rushes out of his car, his breath visible in the air as he races to where Grace is, her blood laced vomit smeared into her hair and her clothes tattered and stained as she succumbs to darkness, finally passing out. The last thing she can hear is John saying something about her being useless, needing to teach her that even a fever doesn’t exempt her from earning her keep in the family; his family.

Present

Grace tries not to panic as she crouches behind wilting shrubbery, the jacket around her shoulders zipped all the way up, though it barely does her any good as she continues to shiver. She has a fever, she doesn’t need a thermometer to tell, but she refuses to let Sam and Dean see this through on their own. She refuses to be a waste of space and air when there’s good to be done, evil to be ganked. It’s been years since she’s seen her father, but his words still echo through her head, and his irrational anger that only increased whenever she came down with something still flashes against her eyelids whenever she lets herself rest.

Her brothers still don’t know half of what she endured at the hands of John Winchester, but with the pieces of the puzzle that they have, Sam especially, they aren’t surprised by Grace’s reaction. None of their childhoods were ideal, none of them had white picket fences and lovey-dovey moments to steal, but Grace had the shortest stick there was to draw, and neither of her brothers can – or try to – deny it. It’s a miracle that she’s even here with them at all, searching for a man that put her through hell for the first eighteen years of her life, but she’s always known a thing or two about loyalty, and Dean hates to think that she’s faithful to a fault. She’ll get herself killed doing this job before she ever lets them go off without her.

“Guess the cops don’t want anymore kids screwing around in there.” Sam notes, watching as flashlights shine bright on the expanse of land surrounding them. For a moment, Grace is back in South Dakota, she’s sprawled out on rain-soaked grass and on the cusp of unconsciousness from a fever and physical injuries, but she forces the memory away, biting down on her bottom lip to focus on something other than the trauma circling through her mind.

“Yeah, but we still got to get in there.” Dean sighs, looking out past the branches, only to snap his gaze to the side when a twig breaks in the distance, leaves crunching beneath footsteps that approach as a pair. Grace follows his line of sigh, her hand falling onto Sam’s thigh as she steadies herself. She doesn’t make a big deal out of needing Sam’s support to find balance, and thankfully, neither does he. “I don’t believe it.” Dean scoffs, all three siblings watching as Ed and Harry stumble up the hill, headlamps shining bright against the night sky.

“I got an idea.” Dean mumbles before he rises off the ground just slightly, and while he’s preoccupied with whatever master plan he's thought up, Sam forces Grace closer to his chest, one arm looping around her waist to keep her close, knowing she’ll struggle.

“Sammy, would you quit it already!” Grace seethes lowly, her voice hushed and weak as she bats at his arm, trying not to panic at the sensation of being trapped; unable to defend herself against someone bigger than herself, stronger than she will ever be. “I told you I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up!” His voice is hushed, a whisper in the night, but still loud enough for Dean to acknowledge as he scoops out the stance of the officers on the front lawn, further curating his plan of distraction, though he’s still fully tuned into the conversation Sam is trying – and failing – to have with Grace. “Dad’s not here, Gracie! You don’t have to pretend like you're not sick!”

“You don’t know what your talking about, so why don’t you just shut up and let me do my fucking job.” She snaps, elbowing him in the gut, putting distance between herself and him. Neither brother notices how she grabs at her throat, or how she seems to heave for breath like she can’t physically draw anything into her lungs. They might be looking for John Winchester, but the effects of his torment and torture have never left Grace, not even for a second.

“Who you gonna call?” Dean bellows, tapping Grace’s side as he nods toward the house. The two officers posted outside bolted toward Ed and Harry, leaving a clear point of entry open for the Winchesters to strike. Grace can only shake her head at their stupidity, but doesn’t harp on how truly terrible they are at their job, thankful that it makes her life easier for once.

The siblings rush through the cover of darkness as the two county officers further chase Ed and Harry back down the hill. Grace gets into the house first, her heart stuttering in her chest as she forces her body to keep going, keep moving, keep being worth something to her brothers. She brushes strands of hair out of her face, sighing in annoyance when she finds that the reason her hair is loose and unruly in the first place is because the elastic band around her tresses has snapped. She looks to Dean when he hits her shoulder, ready to snap, to deny the fever that’s clouding her judgement, but all he does is offer her another hairtie, not saying a single word about how her breathing comes out wheezy, or how her face is flush and she looks somewhat green even beneath the cover nightfall they’ve chosen to sneak around beneath. She doesn’t ask why he even had a hair tie around his wrist to begin with, just takes it gratefully and redoes the ponytail that swings with every crane of her head. She feels better, just slightly, but with cold air hitting the back of her neck now, she hopes that some of the fog over her senses will fall away and become a problem for later on when there aren’t innocent lives to save and monsters to put an end to.

Sam hands Dean a shotgun first, before reaching into the duffle again to hand one to Grace. She barely bristles as she cocks the gun, the metal familiar beneath her fingertips despite how much she hates these weapons. She doesn’t waste a second, because they don’t have a second to waste, before she’s approaching the wall where the unknown symbol remains, Dean’s flashlight illuminating the dried paint as well as it can.

“Where have I seen that symbol before? It’s killing me.” He grumbles, but Sam isn’t waiting around for their brother to figure it out, sneaking up beside Dean and Grace before he’s making a move of his own, peeling away from the post they’ve created beside the wall.

“Come on. We don’t have much time.” He directs them farther into the house, his flashlight illuminating corners they don’t even touch as he searches for the basement. Grace sighs as she follows her brothers, but when Sam stops in front of the staircase, shining his flashlight down the steps, she’s quick to snake her way between them, outright refusing to be the first to descend the rickety stairs or the last last. Sam looks back at her, rolling his eyes, though he’s anything but surprised. She’s always been terrified of basements, and neither Dean nor Sam know why. It’s one of the only fears that Grace can’t explain either, though she’s sure something has happened over the course of her life that would warrant such a fear, but off the top of her head, she always comes up blank.

A sneeze catches both of her brothers off guard, their flashlights temporarily blinding her as they snap their gaze in her direction, expecting to see a shadow or another idiot kid, their shoulders squared and ready for anything that may come at them. She blushes sheepishly, apologizing meekly as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket as a precaution. Growing up with two brothers that never learned how to actually be mature adults means she’s constantly worrying about having something on her face, and she knows neither of them would tell her if she did, though she holds a little bit of hope in Sammy now, but even he’s guilty of omitting the truth for a prank.

Dean’s the first to pull away from the interaction, his flashlight sweeping across the expanse of the basement before he dwells on a single shelf with mason jars of ominous liquid laid out in a neat row. He picks one up that has an off-putting orange tinge to it, a smirk curving his lips upward. “Hey, Sam, I dare you to take a swig of this.” He teases.

Grace rolls her eyes, staying silent, but Sam was never one to just ignore Dean’s wit. “The hell would I do that for?” He rebuttals, features unamused despite giving Dean exactly what he wanted in the first place, which was any kind of response at all.

“I double dare you.” Dean’s entirely too giddy about the situation, but that ends just as quickly as it began when there’s a scratching noise behind them. Instinctively, he reaches for Grace, tugging her further behind him as all three of them turn to address the sudden sound.

They stalk up to the cupboard where the sound came from with intent, shotguns raised and aimed at the cabinet as Sam ever so cautiously inches to pull it open. Grace braces herself for whatever they may face, but ultimately its not needed, rats scampering out of the cupboard the second the door is cracked open.

“I hate rats.” Dean groans, and Grace can only agree, inching backward as the rats run in all directions around her.

“You’d rather it was a ghost?” Sam questions, and Grace nods eagerly, a shriek escaping her lips when a rat tail flicks at her ankle.

“Yes.” Dean grimaces, flashlight still shining on the floor, illuminating the creatures that scamper around.

Grace is still inching backwards, away from the rats when something eerie creeps up her spine. All she has to follow is intuition, but she listens to her instincts without second thought, thankful that she did, because behind her is the shadow of a spirit, an axe held high above her head. Her gun goes off first, aimed directly at the ghost's chest. She doesn’t miss, she hardly ever misses, but even with the echoes of her brothers shooting at it too, the ghost disappears, hardly phased by the ambush.

“What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?” Sam bellows in surprise, his eyes flickering to Dean as Grace steps back into line with them, no longer wanting to be out in the open steps ahead of them. Her chest is racing, her lungs ache. She’s never been a fan of jumpscares, but it's not panic that fills her body with discomfort, it's the reminder that despite wanting to pretend like she’s at her best, there’s still a fever and nausea plaguing her.

“I don’t know! Come on, come on, come on!” Dean chirps with efficiency, all three siblings keeping their shotguns cocked as they peel away from the corner of the basement, rushing toward the stairs, hoping to escape the spirit to regroup the information that they have – which isn’t much of anything – but before they can climb the steps, the shelves are being smashed, and something knocks Grace on the ground, her head bashing against the banister as she falls.

She hardly manages to get to her feet before Dean’s grabbing the back of her jacket and pulling her with him. There’s blood dripping down her head, sticky and warm as it coats her eyebrow and drips farther down her face. She can only grimace as she runs, both hands on her shotgun ready to aim at whatever comes at them. Dean barrels through the front door still holding onto Grace’s jacket, and the both of them tumble to the ground as she loses her footing on the stairs and Dean trips over himself. They’re back up on their feet in seconds, Dean shoving past Harry and Ed who are stupidly holding up cameras that won’t do them any good.

They’re heading to the Impala, the cold air hitting Grace as she races past her brothers and toward the car, desperate for a minute to breathe without fearing for her life. She wipes at the blood dripping down her face, grimacing at the familiar feeling beneath her fingertips and the stain to her white long sleeved shirt but that's the least of her worries as the throbbing in her head only grows, and the wave of nausea intensifies. Somehow she gets into the car without losing any of the lunch she’d barely been able to stomach, and she’s practically dead to the world when Sam and Dean climb in, peeling away from the scene like a bat out of hell, the engine revving as Dean books it back to the motel.

“You okay back there, G?” Dean calls once they are a safe distance away, adrenaline no longer coursing through their veins so intently. Grace can’t say she’s thankful for that, because without the fight or flight instincts taking the reins, she’s aware of how tired she is.

“Peachy.” She chokes out, grimacing as the strain in her throat. “Give me that.” She leans forward, stealing a rag from the passenger seat that Sam had been using to polish his knives. She doesn’t care about what chemicals have touched the rag, or that it’s been trampled on by both her shoes and Sam’s. All she wants is for the blood to stop pouring down her face, not sure how much more she can take before she’s thrown head first into a panic attack that neither of her brothers should need to deal with. “Fucking hell.” She winces, pressing the rag to the cut on her temple. It’s not nearly deep enough for stitches, she’s beyond grateful for that, but it's still deep enough to be a pain in the ass as she puts pressure on the wound. “My brain better not have a fucking splinter.”

-

Grace moans as she slumps against the wall in the bathroom, the porcelain of the toilet seat cold beneath her cheek as he heaves over the bowl once more. She’s been bent over the toilet for the last twelve minutes, not that she was counting, throwing up everything that she’d consumed that day. Her head is pounding, and tears blur in her vision as the breakdown she’d been desperately trying to ignore overcomes her in a moment of weakness. She bashes her fist against the wall, but even the pain in her fingers can’t distract her from the panic attack that’s climbing up her throat. A dry sob falls off her lips, tears falling down her cheeks, mixing with the blood that still smeared across her face.

A knock on the door sends her scrambling back against the wall, swallowing the bile that’s raising in her throat as she stares at the door with wide, terrified eyes. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, or better yet, who she’s expecting, but when Dean jiggles the handle, finding it unlocked, she can only sob in terror that’s wildly misplaced. He has a cup of hot tea in his hands, but quickly he sets it on the sink, crouching in front of Grace who shrinks away from him in fear, her breathes wheezy and shallow as she shakes her head, fingers tangling into her hair as she pulls and pulls at her tangled locks.

“No! No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m fine! I promise!” She mumbles, eyes pleading with Dean to believe her, to spare her anymore pain. She’s not seeing Dean, not in the slightest. The fevers made her delirious, the panic’s turned reality to old memories. She’s in a bathroom, a crappy motel bathroom, but its not the one she shares alone with her brothers. It’s one that her father rented.

West Reading, Pennsylvania. 1997

Grace heaves over the toilet bowl, coughing and spluttering as she expells everything she had at lunch that day. John isn’t with them, but he’s coming back soon, Dean told her as much when she came home early with a fever. It’s not the first time she’s gotten sick at school, not the first time she’s picked up a virus or a bug from hanging around kids her own age. It’s not her fault, not really. All of her classmates get the vaccines and the boosters, all of her classmates are exposed to illness and viruses year round as they socialize and develop their personalities based on the small towns they occupy. Grace has never had the luxury. Grace isn’t even sure she’s ever had the flu shot.

The last time she was sick, John had told her not to let it happen again. That she was already weak enough without a fever and vomiting; that she was no good to any of them if she was hunched over a toilet. He’d told her the only reason he keeps her around at all is to have an extra set of hands, and what good are her hands if she can’t even lift her head up. Grace knows the kids at her school don’t have to worry about their father killing them if they come home with a cough, but she can’t help but think that this may be the reason she dies. She doesn’t want to believe that John will kill her over a stomach bug, but she can’t deny the possibility. Not when he’s hurt her for less. Not when he told her the next time she gets sick, they’ll be a bullet between her eyes before she can even plead for her life.

Her fingers tighten around the seat of the toilet as she retches, the motel door slamming as John comes back. She knows it's him because of the way his boots echo despite the carpeted floors. She knows its him because Dean is sputtering excuses, practically begging John to take him to the diner, claiming he needs a beer. Dean’s not even old enough to drink, Sam’s not even old enough to drive, and Grace is definitely not old enough to be panicking over whether this is the last thing she’ll ever do; throw up in a shitty motel bathroom.

The bathroom door wasn’t locked. It’s never locked. Not when Grace uses it at least. She wishes she locked it when the door knob slams into the wall, almost hard enough to dent it, but it's like John’s showing restraint, not wanting to be questioned at check out if somebody happens to notice the damage before he can peel away from the parking lot. She whimpers, eyes staring straight back at her father who looms over her like a predator. Her friends at school don’t see their dad’s as the enemy. Well, Carrie does, but that’s only because he took away her favorite body spray after her brother tried to start a fire after learning about chemicals in his high school science class. Grace knows this isn’t normal. She understands that now. But understanding something doesn’t mean that it’ll stop, only that it becomes a best kept secret.

“What the hell did I tell you, girl!” John bellows, backhanding her without remorse. Her head slams into the wall, and she starts to vomit again, but this time it falls onto her chest, and she whimpers in humiliation as she stares up at her father with glassy eyes. Sam and Dean stand in the center of the room between the two beds that all four of them share. Dean watches silently, his hand on Sam’s wrist keeping him from getting between John and Grace. Nothing good happens when they do that; when they protect her, but still Sammy always tries anyways.

John doesn’t say anything else as he grabs a fistful of Grace’s hair, pulling her in close to the toilet that she hasn’t had the chance to flush. She doesn’t know where this is going, doesn’t know what to brace herself for, but when her father forces her head into the toilet, into the contaminated water that’s not just water anymore, she desperately tries to get herself free. Dean winces as he watches, Sam flinches. There’s nothing they can do. If they so much as ask him to stop, he’ll only go on longer. If Sam tries to get in the middle, tries to help his baby sister that’s drowning in her own sick, John’ll only hit her harder. They’re trapped. Forced to watch as their father that devotes his life to killing monsters, turns into one any time his youngest child so much as breathes too loud.

The toilet flushes with Grace’s head still in the bowl, her hair wet now as it falls into the water. John only relents when Grace can’t struggle anymore, but he doesn’t give her the chance to catch her breath before he’s pulling her to her feet by the handful of hair that he has. She knows where this is going. Sam and Dean know where this is going. Both brothers watch as their little sister is dragged to the closet, her body, already weak and barely functioning, thrown into it with a venomous force. She’s coughing up water, desperately wiping at her face that is covered in her own sick. She doesn’t have the strength to plead with John, but Dean knows that she wants to; that she would’ve had there not been water in her lungs she’s continuously coughing up. The door slams and the lock clicks, and it's silent for a handful of minutes before John nods toward the door, suddenly interested in that beer Dean suggested.

“Wh-What if she gets sick again? S-She’ll– Dad, she could die if she chokes on it.” Sam glances back at the closet as John demands that he steps outside and comes with them. He knows his little sister is in a ball on the floor, panicking and probably puking, but he knows if he reaches for the handle, if he opens the door now, John’ll only shove Grace right back in and force him outside and on a hunt. He knows that if either he or Dean open that closet before at least a handful of hours have elapsed, it’ll only be worse for Grace.

“You disobeying me, boy?” John narrows his eyes, Dean silently pleading with Sam to drop the subject and get moving, knowing the quicker they leave, the quicker they grab dinner and drinks at the local diner, the quicker they’ll be able to come back and let Grace out. John never has any objections when they let her out after they’ve come back from somewhere. They just need to get through the hour or so they’ll be away first.

“No, sir.” Sam sighs, glancing at the closet one last time before he’s following after his brother, fear pooling in his belly as he tries not to think about what’s happening in the closet, or if his little sister will still be alive when they come back.

Present

“Hey, hey. Hey, Gracie girl.” Dean’s tone is unbelievably soft as he steps closer to his sister, his hands extended toward her, though he doesn’t think he’s really seeing him at all. Her face is flush, her eyes are glassy and rimmed red, swollen from crying and the minutes she’s spent hunched over the toilet. He can still remember that night in Pennsylvania. He can still remember how John held her head in the toilet for what felt like hours, and his heart hammers with guilt for not being able to protect her then, but he can do something about it now, even if it is years too late. “You’re okay. Gonna be sick again?” He’s always been soft with her, always been kind and gentle, but it only shows itself in moments like these. Moments when they’re not hunters, just siblings that have only ever had each other to look out for and count on. Grace might be twenty, she might not be this little girl who doesn’t know how to defend herself anymore, but she’s still his baby sister. She’s still the only piece of Mary that he and Sammy have left.

Grace shakes her head, swallowing thickly. She’s out of it, the fever she’s been ignoring finally getting the best of her. She whimpers when he steps closer, when he brushes hair out of her face that’s damp from the pearls of sweat that drip down her neck. She thinks he’s going for her hair, thinks he’s going to pull her up to her feet and force her into a closet, and she whimpers, flinching away. Dean’s strong, he always has been, he doesn’t care to show emotion, doesn’t care to express his feelings, but he can’t help the frown the pulls at his lips as he finally realizes why his sisters so scared right now. It’s not that he forgot, he could never forget, but when it was all happening, when John was still around and Grace hadn’t yet bailed to find peace with Sam at Stanford, he’d been partly blinded by his fathers dysfunctional style of discipline. He’d always known that the way John treated Grace was abusive, he wasn’t that easily manipulated, but until now, until John wasn’t here to chastise and terrorize her anymore, he’d never realized just how much it had all affected her, and unfortunately, he’s no longer blinded by the false hope that when John pulled her away form them for solo hunts, he wasn’t doing his absolute worse.

“Okay, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed then.” He helps her to her feet, guiding her out of the bathroom, trying not to wince when her head falls onto his shoulder and he can feel the heat radiating off of her forehead. She’s burning up, and he can only sympathize. She’s always been the one to catch an illness, and although he was only six when Mary died, he vaguely remembers how his mother would always fret over her health. John used to worry too, used to tell the boys to wash their hands and never touch her face, always tell them that because she was born so early, her little body couldn’t fight illnesses as well as theirs. He doesn’t know when his father stopped caring. Doesn’t know when Grace became the person he hates most, when she was once his favorite child, but he hates it. He hates that his sister is the sweetest, kindnessest, most trusting and loving person he knows, and their father could never recognize that. He hates that after nineteen years of torture and pain, Grace still has her heart. She’s one of the best damn hunters Dean has ever crossed paths with, but at the end of the day, she’s just a woman with a whole lot of love to give, and somehow she always ends up hurt.

“I need– I need to h-help. Need to– to be worth keeping ‘round.” She wheezes, allowing Dean to lay her down in his bed. He’s a real bitch whenever they get into their motel rooms, always claiming a bed to himself, never willing to share. Usually that means Sam and Grace are bunked together, or on the rare hunts when they can splurge for a bigger room, Sam takes the couch. Grace barely even recognizes that she’s being laid down in Dean’s bed, her fever taking the reins of her consciousness despite how hard she’s trying to fight it.

“You’re worth keeping around, Gracie girl.” That nickname, something so soft, so sweet and slightly abnormal, isn’t one that she hears a lot, but in moments like this, moments when she’s just Dean’s baby sister and not a hunter with near perfect aim, it slips out. “Just take these, and get some sleep, yeah? Sammy and I’ll finish this thing up. We just need you resting.”

He hands her three different pills, and Grace takes them without fuss, not coherent enough to really fight him anyway. She’s only getting hotter by the second, her complexion pale and gauntly as she sinks into the mattress. She’s asleep within seconds, and Sam can only shake his head.

“What are we doing man? Dragging her back into this– I mean, I know she can handle this. The hunts, the monsters… but Dean, you didn’t see her when she turned up to my place at Stanford. She barely left her room for the first month, terrified that Dad would find her, drag her back to some crappy motel and beat the shit out of her for trying to leave. Are we really just going to walk her back into his life?” Sam pulls a hand down her face, and for a moment Dean falters, torn between wanting to find out what happened to their father, and keeping Grace far from him. They don’t have time to sit here and discuss the trauma that still affects their sister who isn’t so far off from still being a kid.

“It’ll be different this time.” Is all Dean says before he’s out the door, and Sam can only follow him, stealing one last glance at Grace before he’s closing the motel door, desperately hoping that Dean’s right, that this time really is different.

It's hours later when they return, and despite expecting to see Grace still asleep in bed, she’s sitting up against the wall, a takeaway container of chicken tenders in her lap. The sun is just beginning to rise again, though the sky is unwilling to let light fan across the endless expanse just yet.

“Hey.” She greets them, holding the box out for Dean, grinning when he doesn’t hesitate to grab a fry and throw it into his mouth.

“Hey. You look better.” Sam comments, already starting to pack his shit up, both him and Dean eager to get the hell out of town and hit the road to somewhere new.

“Took a nap, a shower, went out for some actual meds… and there’s nothing chicken fingers can’t fix. Had to bribe the chef at the dinner to make me some.” She’d be lying if she said her head didn’t still throb, but everything else seems to have faded now that she’s medicated, rested, and actually eating something that’s not a twix bar Dean lifted from a gas station.

“Of course you did.” Dean rolls his eyes, reaching for another fry before he’s scrambling to get his own shit together, not that any of them brought much inside, but there’s still precious items they wouldn't’ dream of just abandoning scattered around the room. “Everything’s good. Dude was a freaking Tulpa.”

Grace nods, but there’s an edge in her eyes that tells Dean he’s on his sister's chopping block. “Next time you leave me here to finish a hunt, I’ll cut your balls off.”

“What were you gonna do, puke on the spirits' feet?” Dean can only laugh when a chicken finger is thrown at his head, Grace huffing as she stands to start packing her own shit, though she’s considerably less disorganized than her brothers who are scrounging around every corner of the room for things.

“Asshole.” Grace mutters beneath her breath, though she’s just glad the world has finally stopped spinning.

[glimmeringwinchester]

she's such a sweetheart, i can't wait to explore more of her personality and character !! she tries so hard everyday to deal with her trauma instead of letting it define her, but boy is it not easy. more is coming soon, i promise !! currently writing s1e9 and lets just say... she's angsty and emotional !!

thank you so much for reading and for the feedback !! 🖤🪩

𝐁𝐔𝐆𝐒

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — grace winchester remembers the very first night her father showed his true colors, and she’s confronted with the memories when she and her brothers take on a case in oklahoma

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) — implied/referenced child abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, canon-typical violence, dean winchester is an asshole but he does care about his little sister, sam winchester just wants dean to realize he was hurt too, oc au

Palm Springs, California. 1991. 

Rain came down heavy in Palm Springs, cold droplets splashing against asphalt and concrete with a rhythmic pattering that fought to quell festering anxiety. Tiny hands batted at the doors of a sleek black car, pleading to be let inside, to be allowed to escape the frigid rain and late summer mosquitos. Brown hair is drenched, weighed down by the rain shower that started just after sunrise. The wooded area still smells of flesh and gasoline, and salt residue gathers beneath untrimmed fingernails that are jagged and uneven. The smokes cleared, the fires burnt out, but John Winchester remains at the scene of the burning, his jaw set into a tight line as he watches his youngest child – his only daughter – pound against the windows, fear etched across her features as she stands out in the rain. Every couple of seconds she shrieks, slapping at her skin whenever a mosquito lands on her body, and sickeningly the father of three can only laugh as he watches her panic. 

“Daddy!” The little girl no older than five years old, though she’ll very proudly tell anybody who asks that she’s almost six, pleads with her father, having not yet learned that begging is futile. She doesn’t know what she did wrong. Maybe he’s angry that she slipped in the mud on the way to burn the bones of a pissed off spirit, maybe he’s finally punishing her for breaking Dean’s fishing pole that hardly ever got used anyways, or maybe he just feels like being mean. He’d felt like being mean a lot lately. She jumps away from the car when a spider crawls near her hand, the tiny insect fighting to find shelter from the storm, but no matter how innocent its presence was in the moment, Grace Winchester was not a fan of anything with more than four legs and two eyes, and she knows for a fact that spiders have eight eyes, they just learned about it in school. 

The rain continues to patter against the dense woods, and as the humidity in California increases, it only draws more mosquitos out of hiding. The little girl sobs when she realizes a spider is crawling up her arm, and she flails dramatically to get it off of her. She thinks it's never going to end – the storm; the assault of mosquitos – but then the doors click, and John begrudgingly inclines his head toward the backseat, the only indication that she’s allowed to escape the downpour. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t apologize for locking her out, doesn’t affirm that she’s safe from bugs now, merely huffs through his nose and speeds away, leaving the pile of charred bones behind him. 

Present  

Grace Winchester lays against the hood of the Impala, her eyes wide and full of wonder as she gazes up at the sky, an endless expanse of stars just out of reach above her head and speckled across the abyss of darkness like splattered paint. The air is twinged with something warm and inviting, Springtime in full swing across the states, though the temperature fluctuations with every border she and her brothers cross over.  She doesn’t mind the slight chill and promise of something warmer once the sun rises over the horizon, taking a minute to appreciate how the breeze feels as it brushes against her arms and legs. Unlike her brothers, who never seem to adjust their wardrobe for the seasons, Grace leans into the annual change of climate, and looks forward to the warmer months and the promise of lighter layers and bright colors. She’s a sore thumb standing between Dean and Sam, their dark and broody exteriors softened by the splashes of color and patterns on her clothing, but they’ve long since stopped trying to indoctrinate her into flannels and deep neutrals. Even if Dean’ll never admit to it, he doesn’t mind the cotton shorts and frilly tops that take up space in his trunk. It’s a refreshing sight when everything else in their lives is so heavy and serious. 

Sam leans against the hood, his broad frame accentuated by the jacket around his shoulders. He doesn’t know how Grace is unphased in only a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt, subconsciously shivering whenever the breeze rolls past him. Unlike the youngest Winchester, whose only priority is trying to locate the big dipper, he’s nose deep in the local paper, scouring for a case to work while Dean does whatever he intended to do inside of the bar he’d spontaneously pulled up to nearly an hour ago. Grace has a good idea of how their older brother is wasting time inside the dive bar, but she can’t bring herself to care about the nitty gritty details of his scamming as she loses herself to relaxation for the first time in a while. 

She turns her head to the side when footsteps draw near, her brothers laugh projected over the lively atmosphere of music and distant chatter. She rolls her eyes at the wad of money Dean holds up with evident pride, entirely missing the fact that in his other hand is a paper cup with a bendy straw that hasn’t yet been mended into an arch. Sam trails his gaze over to Dean seconds later, and his reaction is almost identical.

“You know, we could get day jobs every once in a while.” Sam scoffs, lowering the news paper that he’d been very intently skimming for leads. Grace sits up on the hood, pulling her knees into her chest as she looks at her eldest brother, analyzing the short lived exasperation that crosses his features at Sam’s comment. 

“Huntings our day job and the pay is crap.” Dean hands the cup to Grace, saying nothing about what it is, though the youngest Winchester has a pretty good idea and instantly perks up, reaching for the take-away cup that she only just noticed. She hums in satisfaction when creamy vanilla washes against her taste buds, the cup cold between her hands but she hardly bristles at the temperature, more than content to sip away at the milkshake like it's warmer than it really is. 

“Yeah, but hustling pool, credit card scams?” Sam drops the paper even more, his shoulder crashing into Grace’s shin as he adjusts his stance, “It’s not the most honest thing in the world, Dean.” 

“Well, let’s see, honest, fun and easy.” He holds out his hands, pretending to weigh the options that he’s never even really considered. Grace likes to think that in another life, he would’ve owned his own mechanic company, but Dean has never known freedom nor normalcy enough to even recognize that as something he’d be remotely interested in. “It’s no contest.” She can only scoff at his stupid expression, both of his eyebrows raised as he inclines his head to the side. “Besides, we’re good at it. It’s what we were raised to do.” 

Sam’s quick to rebuttal, the moonlight glistening against his eyes. “Yeah, well, how we were raised was jacked.” 

“Yeah, says you.” Dean doesn’t hear what’s actually being said, and his response comes quick and without thought. “We got a new gig or what?” 

“Maybe. Oasis Plains, Oklahoma. Not far from here. Gas company employee, Dustin Burwash supposedly died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob.” Sam slips off the hood with purpose, laying the paper down on the black surface, just barely skimming the words as he tells Dean about the potential case. Grace furrows her eyebrows at the medical term she doesn’t understand, but Dean makes a noise of confusion before she can swallow her mouthful of milkshake to ask herself. “Human mad cow disease.” He clarifies, his eyes flickering to Grace for a second. He can only laugh at the sight of her only half paying attention as she bends the striped straw into a loop. 

“Mad cow? Wasn’t that on Oprah?” Dean leans forward, hands bracing on the hood of the car as he inspects the paper for any details Sam left out, his interest peaked far more than Grace’s. 

“You watch Oprah?” Grace could only roll her eyes at what Sam chose to focus on, but a smirk of amusement pulled at the corners of her lips as she took another sip of the cold treat between her hands. 

As if he’s only just realized that he’s unintentionally outed himself, Dean bristles at the question for a second before he’s moving on, clearly wanting to avoid any further teasing. “So this guy eats a bad burger, why’s it our kind of thing?” 

“Mad cow disease causes massive brain degeneration. It takes months, even years for the damage to appear but this guy Dustin, sounds like his brain disintegrated in about an hour, maybe less.” Grace listens closely to what Sam rambles off, but she makes no indication of being interested in any way. Dean however, inclines his head, having to agree that the conditions around Dustin’s death seem strange enough without any further details to support the claim Sam initially presented. “Now it could be a disease or it could be something much nastier.” 

It takes no further convincing, and with a curt nod of acceptance, Dean stands, clapping his hands together before he reaches out to pat Grace’s ankle. “Alright, Oklahoma. Man, work, work, work. No time to spend my money.” 

Grace rolls her eyes, sliding off of the hood as she follows her brother's movements. She ducks under Sam’s arm when he opens the back passenger door for her before she has the chance, crawling into the backseat with a careful grip on her milkshake. She reaches for a blanket that's thrown onto the floor instinctively, pulling it up around her body as she snuggles into the door as Dean starts the car. It’s not even a full minute later that the Impala is peeling away from the parking lot, heading straight for Oklahoma. 

-

Hours later, the sky is bright with daylight, but the clouds that hang overhead keep the Springtime heat from fully settling over the small town. A sweatshirt is pulled over her body, but the hem of her pink shorts is visible as she climbs out of the car after Dean, eager to stretch her legs after falling asleep in a tight ball in the backseat. She pulls her hair up into a ponytail as they approach a man loading his truck outside of Oklahoma Gas and Power, smiling sadly at the man as Dean swings his keys into his palm, also playing up the act they’ve discussed in detail on the drive over. 

“Travis Weaver?” Sam questions as they approach, straightening out his jacket that had gotten bunched up from his position in the car. 

“Yeah, that’s right.” The man, Travis, answers, turning to look at the siblings that have the same light eyes in various shades of green. 

“Are you the Travis who worked with Uncle Dusty?” Dean asked, wanting to be sure they were talking to the right person while not-so-subtly dropping their connection to Dustin. It was almost disgusting to consider how good they had become at slipping into lives that weren’t their own, but that ability to disappear into someone else had come from years of practice and failure. Grace can’t remember the first time she’d been told to ‘just go with it’ but she can definitively assume she was more than a little skeptical. Now, she hardly bristles at the prospect of lying through her teeth. 

“Dustin never mentioned having nephews or a niece.” Travis frowned, taking in the appearance of the siblings, his eyes raking across Grace’s body as he took in the sight of her dressed so differently from the men on either side of her. 

“Really? Well, he sure mentioned you. He said you were the greatest.” Dean kept up the act, his smile entirely fake as he looked down at Travis. 

“Oh, he did? Huh.” Grace could’ve cringed at how flattered Travis looked if she wasn’t so focused on getting the information they needed. It was sickening to think that something so small could make someone stricken with grief so happy, and it was even more sickening to think that it was all a lie and most of the people they encountered never even knew. Maybe it gave them peace; Grace hopes that it does, otherwise she’d feel horrible. 

“Listen, we wanted to ask you, uh what exactly happened out there?” Grace’s lips trembled, her sad smile sinking into a grimace as she looked to Travis for information, hardly aware of how she played the part of a grieving niece almost too well. Sam had always been amazed at how naturally she could become somebody else, fitting whatever roll they wore like she was a trained expert. That was definitely an area where she far surpassed his level of expertise. 

Travis shook his eyes, his eyes twinged with pain that spoke volumes about his awareness of the situation; not that anyone could blame him for not immediately questioning the circumstances of Dustin’s death. The average person didn’t immediately consider that something supernatural had been at hand. “I’m not sure. He fell in the sinkhole. I went to the truck to get some rope, and, uh, by the time I got back…”

“What’d you see?” Grace allowed her voice to waver just slightly, desperation bleeding into her tone as she set her eyes on Travis firmly. Dean had to hide his amused smile behind a wrinkled grin of matching desperation, though his tone remained far more even than Grace’s. 

“Nothing. Just Dustin.” All of the siblings could tell that was far from the truth, but Travis didn’t seem to question the nature of the injuries he’d seen. They’d probably all been explained away by detectives and medical examiners who were always so desperate to find scientific evidence over logical reasoning. 

“Well, he was bleeding from his eyes and his ears and his nose, that’s it.” Travis shrugged, and Grace nodded gratefully, taking in the information and simultaneously trying to piece together what had happened with the information they already knew. 

Dean tilted his head to the side, his lips pressed into a thin line as he pressed for more. “So do you think it could be this whole mad cow thing?”

“I don’t know that’s what the doctors are saying.” Travis was hardly phased, having no reason to doubt the medical examination or the facts that the doctors had disclosed to him and the public. 

“But if it was, he would have acted strange beforehand like dementia, loss of motor control. You ever notice anything like that?” Sam pressed this time, but his tone was even, unassuming. 

Travis shook his head again, “Yeah, but then again, if it wasn’t some disease what the hell was it?” 

“That’s a good question.” Dean hummed his agreement. 

“You know, can you tell us where this happened?” Sam questioned, knowing that they’ve gotten everything out of Travis that they possibly could, and they’d need to do more digging elsewhere if they were going to learn anything of use. 

-

Oasis Plains Estates was exactly how Grace had pictured it would be, and as the engine revved, she glanced out of the back window, taking in the sights of large and lavish homes steadily being constructed by teams of men in orange hard hats. These were the kinds of neighborhoods she’d always been fascinated by, but there was something off-putting and eerie about knowing that a man had lost his life here – still, she thinks a neighborhood like this would be better than crappy motel rooms any day. 

She’d changed since they peeled away from the construction company’s headquarters, and as she climbed out of the car before Dean had even gotten the gear in park, she adjusted the waistband of her jeans, already annoyed by how thick denim cut into her hip bones. 

“Huh. What do you think?” Dean hummed as they crossed the street, approaching caution tape and the sinkhole that Dustin had fallen into. Nothing about the location in particular had her feeling any type of way, and so she only shrugged indifferently in Dean’s direction, brushing hair out of her face when the wind blew just enough to rustle her thin locks. 

“I don’t know, but if that guy Travis was right it happened pretty damn fast.” Sam noted, ducking beneath the caution tape with Dean, but he turned to hold it up for Grace, laughing quietly when Dean scoffed in annoyance about not receiving the same treatment. 

“So what? Some sort of creature chewed on his brain?” Grace grimaced at the visual, batting a hand against Dean’s bicep as she rolled her eyes at his unnecessarily vivid imagery. 

Sam wasn’t so phased, shaking his head as he peered into the sinkhole where roots grew and intertwined chaotically. “No, there’d be an entry wound. Sounds like this thing worked from the inside.

All three of the siblings squatted down, peering into the hole in the ground with equal disinterest. Sam’s nose wrinkled as he watched Dean shine a light on the sinkhole, and Dean, ever the observant individual, noted that there was only room for one of them down there. “You wanna flip a coin?” He questioned, ducking under the caution tape once again. 

“Oh yeah, let’s go down there when we have no idea what the hell happened to begin with.” Grace scoffed, shaking her head as she and Sam exchanged equally bewildered expressions before turning back to their older brother. 

“Alright, I’ll go if you’re scared.” Dean grabbed a hose from the ground, his tone laced with jesting arrogance that he knew would get under Sam’s skin. Grace wasn’t so easily roped into his shenanigans, and thus, entirely ignored the antagonizing comment. “You scared?” He only further egged Sam on. 

“Flip the damn coin.” Sam caved and Dean chuckled with amusement, reaching into his pocket for a coin upon the rebutted request. 

“Alright, call it in the air, chicken.” The coin toss was futile, because the second Dean flipped the nickel, Sam snatched it out of the air, declaring that he was going to be the one to go down. Despite not knowing what awaited him in the sinkhole, Grace wasn’t going to argue, just glad that she wasn’t being sacrificed with the bullshit excuse of ‘you’re smaller’. Dean, however, continued to tease, claiming that he said he would go down as if they all didn’t know he was bluffing just to do the opposite. 

Sam tied the hose around his waist, but his hands were quickly batted out of the way by Grace who stepped in to tie the knot the second she realized Sam had no idea what he was doing. She knew the second he bore any weight on the knot he originally created, it would’ve slipped right out and he would’ve fell however many feet it was to the bottom. She really did question if they’d still be alive without her constant supervision. 

“Don’t drop me.” Sam huffed, looking more toward Dean than Grace. Dean only rolled his eyes in response, gesturing for Sam to get on with it already, not wanting to draw any suspicion toward them when the up and coming development was crawling with construction workers still on the job. 

Sam lowered himself into the sinkhole, and Dean grabbed onto the hose, batting Grace away when she stepped up to help him. She rolled her eyes at him, but didn’t object, stepping away from the hole in the ground with the assurance that her brothers had it handled. Sam wasn’t down there for any more than thirty seconds before he was calling for Dean to pull him back up, one of his hands cradling something cautiously while the other clawed at the dirt around him. 

When he was on his own two feet again, he wiggled out of the hose, nodding toward the car without any further comment. Grace rolled her eyes, and Dean did the same, but the both of them followed Sam regardless of their attitudes towards his newfound silence. Once they were situated in the Impala, Sam opened his palm, revealing a very dead beetle with the most disgusting antennas at the top of its head. Grace flinched, shrinking into herself as she put as much distance between herself and the bug as she could manage. 

“So you found some beetles in a hole in the ground. That’s shocking, Sam.” Dean hummed not even three minutes later, his eyes glancing at the insect that Sam hadn’t stopped messing with before he refocused on the road ahead of him, one hand on the wheel while the other gripped the gear stick. 

Sam only shrugged, not giving into the sarcasm this time around, apparently able to pick and choose when he wanted to fall victim to Dean’s antagonizing. “There were no tunnels, no tracks, no evidence of any other kind of creature down there. You know, some beetles do eat meat. Now it’s usually dead meat, but–”

“How many did you find down there?” Dean cut him off, not interested in hearing all of the oddly specific beetle facts that Sam undoubtedly knew off the top of his head. Grace was more than glad about that, though she still shivered in disgust at the fact that her brother was holding onto a dead beetle somewhat protectively, poking and prodding at it like it wasn’t once a live insect that probably carried a few million diseases. 

“Ten.” Sam sounded proud of the development, meanwhile Grace scrunched her nose up in disgust, very glad that she hadn’t been the one to stumble upon ten beetles. 

“It would take a whole lot more than that to eat some dude’s brain.” Dean shook his head, rightfully skeptical about the premise of only ten beetles eating a man's brain in a matter of minutes. 

“Well, maybe there were more.” Sam rebutted, wrapping his fingers around the beetle as he tried to sway Dean’s opinion. Grace was just glad she couldn’t see the black insect anymore, still beyond disgusted that it was even in the car with her to begin with. 

“I don’t know. Sounds like a stretch to me.”

“Well, we need more information on the area, the neighborhood. Whether something like this has ever happened before.” Sam prattled on, but Dean’s attention was quickly misplaced as he analyzed red balloons on the side of the road, tied to a post just inches away from an open house sign. 

“I know a good place to start.” He commented smugly, his eyes scanning the surrounding area until they found yet another sign that advertised a community barbeque in a backyard. “Kind of hungry for a little barbeque. How about you?” Sam rolled his eyes, and Grace did the same, hardly surprised that Dean was interested in free food and conversing with townspeople. “What, we can’t talk to the locals?” 

“And the free food’s got nothing to do with it?” Sam teased, his smirk only growing when Grace laughed softly, bating at the back of Dean’s seat. 

“Of course not. I’m a professional.” 

“Swear to god, Dean. If you puke this time, I’m going to kick you.” Grace threatened as Dean pulled up to a house on the left hand side, her mind flashing back to the last barbeque they’d stumbled into somewhere deep in Ohio. He’d entered a hot dog eating contest like an asshole, and after losing (which he still won’t admit to, claiming the guy who won cheated by not eating the buns) he’d puked inches away from her brand new running shoes that hadn’t even acquired a spec of dirt yet. 

Dean only rolled his eyes at her comment, turning the engine off before he climbed out of the car, Sam and Grace following his lead begrudgingly. They glanced at the houses, taking in the large driveways and abstract roofs as they ventured down the sidewalk. “Growing up in a place like this would freak me out.” Dean commented, which had both Grace and Sma frowning in confusion. 

“Why?” Grace questioned, looking at the houses that were more or less finished. They weren’t exactly her style, a little too flashy and big for what she figured her taste was, but something about it still felt safe and oddly romanticized. This was the kind of neighborhood that threw block parties in the middle of the street, and where everybody knew everybody even if they secretly hated everything about the town and its community. 

“The manicured laws, how-was-your-day-honey? I’d blow my brains out.” Dean scoffed, still heavily critiquing the development. 

“I think it’d be nice. You’re just allergic to normal.” Grace commented, Sam nodding his head in agreement as he stepped toward the left, giving her more room to walk between them instead of lingering awkwardly behind their broad frames like she’d found herself doing. 

“I’d take our family over normal any day.” Dean scoffed, eyeing a sign in the front yard as they stumbled up the driveway. 

“Normal and our family don’t have to be antonyms, you know. We could be normal.” Grace hummed, already getting lost in the hypothetical image of growing up without crappy motel rooms and a dead mom that she can’t even remember. She knows that had they had white-picket fences and parent teacher conferences, they most likely wouldn’t have had the relationship that they do now, but she thinks she’d be okay with stereotypical annoying older brothers that have their own lives outside of her own instead of the trauma and constant fear that’s rooted in the reality they did actually grow up within. 

She pushes past Sam to be the one to knock on the door, a cheeky smile on her lips as she turns to tease him. Sam pushes her head away from his, but he laughs quietly beneath his breath regardless of the annoyed display he puts on. There are very few moments where he gets to see his sister for who she actually is, but as he watches her pound her fist against the textured glass, it’s clear as day that beneath the hunter exterior she always puts up, she’s just a twenty-year-old kid that still has so much joy tethered to her spirit. He wishes that she’d drop the act more often, she’d finally stopped putting it on at all in the last few months that they spent together at Stanford, but he knows what happens when she slips up, and he knows that despite their father not being around physically, she’s still terrified of word getting back to him that she was anything less than perfect. 

The door swings open seconds later, and Grace’s mask comes right back up. Her contagious excitement that had both Sam and Dean grinning was quickly shoved aside, replaced with a stoic expression that only conveyed what it absolutely needed to. “Welcome.” 

“This the barbeque?” Dean questioned, a smirk splaying across his lips as he inhaled the aroma of smoked meat and charcoal. 

“Yeah, not the best weather, but…” The man glanced at the sky, the overcast weather not uncommon for early Spring, but definitely a damper on his plans for a sunny-day barbeque. “I’m, uh, Larry Pike, the developer here, and you are?” 

“Dean, this is Sam, Grace.” Dean introduced them at the same time that Sam and Grace introduced themselves. Larry could only chuckle softly, his lips curving into a grin as he nodded. 

“Sam, Dean, Grace, good to meet you.” Larry exchanged formalities, “So you three are interested in Oasis Plains?” 

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded his head, inclining his chin just slightly to the right as he agreed, but Grace could tell he was itching to be let inside and shown to the food. She had to stifle the scoff that threatened to fall off of her lips, the days she’d been spending with her brothers breaking all of the habits she’d spent decades perfectly curating to avoid her fathers rage. It was both liberating and terrifying, because she knew that they would find him eventually, and she’d have to deal with the repercussions of letting herself be comfortable in her own skin for a change.

“Let me just say, we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color or… sexual orientation.” Grace and Sam couldn’t contain their smirks of amusement, meanwhile Dean looked deeply distributed by the insinuation that his connection to either of them was anything more than familial. 

“These are my brothers.” Grace smiled politely, fighting back her giggles as Dean tried his best not to start rambling about how Larry's analysis of their relationship was beyond off and disturbing.

“Big brothers.” Dean clarified, and Grace could only roll her eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. 

“Our father is getting on in years and we’re just looking for a place for him.” Sam cut in before Dean could derail the conversation anymore than it already had been. 

Larry hardly even bristled at the wrong assumption, inclining his head like a stereotypical businessman solely seeking out successes in his career. “Great, great. Well, seniors are welcome to. Come on in.”

The siblings followed Larry through the house, looking around at the furniture choices and style as they were guided out to the backyard where more people gathered. Some had red solo cups in hand, while others simply mingled, lively chatter filling the space easily. 

“You said you were the developer?” Dean questioned as Larry stepped outside, a smile on his lips as he proudly showed off his accomplishments. 

“A few months ago I was walking this valley with my survey team. There was nothing here but scrub brush and squirrels. And you know what, we built such a nice place to live that I actually bought into it myself. This is our house. We’re the first family in Oasis Plains.” Larry walked backwards as he explained the last few months of his life and developments, a smile on his lips as he peered over his shoulder, approaching a woman in a baby pink blouse. “This is my wife, Joanie.” 

“Hi there.” Joanie smiled, shaking Dean’s hand before she shook Sam’s. Grace only smiled, Joanie nodding her head fondly at her. 

“Sam, Dean and Grace.” Larry introduced them, and Sam was quick to mention that he was Sam, not wanting to be confused for Dean which had Grace shaking her head just slightly as she stepped back to let her brothers guide the conversation. She had no interest in baseless conversations, and so far, there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary that piqued her interest enough to pretend like she wanted to engage in a mindless conversation. 

“Tell them how much you love the place, honey. And lie if you have to because I need to sell some houses.” Larry faux whispered, and Grace had to fight the eye roll at his obnoxious attitude. She hated men that sought out nothing but personal gain, and while she could respect an honest hustle for business, something about Larry himself just rubbed her the wrong way. First impressions were hardly ever misleading, and so all she put her energy into was appearing polite enough. 

Her brothers, however, laughed in polite amusement, Sam’s lips curving into a smile as he nodded along.

“Boys, Grace, if you’ll excuse me.” Larry quickly saw himself out of the conversation, and Joanie was quick to step up, although Grace found her energy far more enticing than this. 

“Don’t let his salesman routine scare you.” Joanie brushed Larry off, more for Grace’s benefit than Sam or Dean, but still the men nodded anyway. “This really is a great place to live.”

“Hi, I’m Lynda Bloom, head of sales.” Another woman approached, and Joanie was quick to welcome her into the conversation, jutting a hand out in Lynda’s direction with a sweet smile on her lips as light refracted off of her necklace, something Grace was sure her brothers didn’t notice in the slightest, but she appreciated. 

“And Lynda was second to move in. She’s a very noisy neighbor though.” Grace found herself smirking at Joanie’s comment before the woman peeled away, leaving only Lynda to converse with. 

“She’s kidding, of course. I take it you three are interested in becoming homeowners.” The woman stepped the slightest bit closer, and instinctively, Grace stepped back, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Sam or Dean, though her brothers were hardly phased and thoroughly amused. They’d grown up with Grace rambling about how girls can read each other easily, and they’d always found it humorous, clearly that hadn’t changed as Dean’s hand jutted out to slap at her side. 

“Yeah, yeah, well..” Sam trailed off, but Lynda cut in before he could finish, not that he knew what to say in the slightest. 

“Well, let me just say that we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color or… sexual orientation.” Lynda gave the same rehearsed spiel, and this time neither Sam or Grace found it as funny as they did the first time, both fighting grimaces as they wondered why these people were so intent with analyzing their behavior beneath a romantic lens. In Grace’s opinion, they were basically the poster children for typical American siblings. 

“I’m gonna go talk to Larry, alright honey?” Dean played into it, and Grace honestly wasn’t sure whether he was addressing her or Sam, but that question was very quickly answered when he turned on his heels and began walking back toward the house, but not without reaching out to tap Sam’s butt on his way. 

Grace had to turn her face away to get her laughter under control, meanwhile Sam snapped his head back to glare at Dean’s retreating frame. It didn’t take any further prompting for Lynda to lead them over toward a tented area, talking their ears off about the customizations and amenities that Oasis Plains had to offer. Grace wanted to beat her head against the wooden fence, and every time she glanced over at Sam, she was certain that he was thinking the same thing, his eyes practically dead as he forced small smiles and head nods every few seconds just to appease Lynda. Grace was doing the same, but her boredom wasn’t so discreet as she drummed her fingers against the table to her right, wondering where the hell Dena had escaped to and inquiring about whether he was undergoing the same torment. She was only half paying attention when Sam stepped around Lynda and braced his hands on her shoulders, softly guiding her away from the table without any further explanation. Grace frowned curiously, but when her eyes followed his sharp motions, her breath caught in her throat as she realized a tarantula was mere centimeters away from where her hands had been. Immediately shivers crawled up her spine and she flinched in disgust, looking antsy as she glanced between Sam and the house. 

“I need to go wash my hands.” She announced quietly, making a quick b-line for the house, leaving Sam and the tarantula behind, although she was almost certain that she could feel it crawling up her arms despite not even actually touching her skin. She shivered in disgust at the thought of it brushing against her without her even realizing, suddenly desperate to scrub her hands until they were raw and bleeding. 

She stumbled into Dean on her haste to enter the house again, her shoulder bumping into his chest as she brushed through the crowd. She hadn’t even noticed him coming out of the house with Larry, but as she snapped her head to the left, she realized that he’d been one of the people she’d pushed past in an anxious hurry. Dean furrowed his eyebrows at her, a hand holding onto her wrist as he kept her in place. “What’s up?” He inquired, taking note of the unsettled gleam in her soft eyes. 

Grace shook her head, practically trembling as her voice came out rushed and whispered, “Fucking tarantula like an inch away from my hand. Oh my god, I think we need to cut my hands off. I can feel it crawling on me.” 

Dean rolled his eyes in fond exasperation, completely ignoring her dramatics as he pulled her along with him to Sam. “You’ll be fine.” He coaxed half-heartedly, accepting that her fear of bugs was very real, but not knowing the root, and therefore not recognizing the fact that she was seconds away from a panic attack – the memory of a late night in Palm Springs playing at the forefront of her mind despite all efforts to stay grounded in the present. His eyes fell onto her features when her fingers latched onto the sleeve of his jacket, and finally he took note of how her eyes were glazed over and far from the current moment, and the tough exterior he put on melted away quickly, replaced by soft understanding that he very rarely let show. “Hey, you’re okay, sweetheart. We’ll find Sammy and get out of here, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Grace agreed easily, but her grip on his sleeve didn’t falter, and although Dean was beyond confused, he didn’t push for anymore information, just continued on toward where Sam stood beneath a tent in front of a teenage boy. They got to him just as Larry began dragging the kid away, and Sam’s eyes lingered for a second before he looked to Dean and Grace. 

“Remind you of somebody?” Sam smirked, his eyes trailing over where Larry was not-so-subtly reprimanding his son beside the back door. Grace shivered, knowing exactly what Sam was referencing, but Dean remained unphased by the taunting, apparently not recognizing the similarities between Larry and John. “Dad?” 

“Dad never treated us like that.” Dean frowned, beyond confused. 

Sam scoffed, his eyes trailing over Grace who was hardly paying attention to the conversation at all, subconsciously picking at her cuticles with the hand that wasn’t tightly holding onto Dean’s leather sleeve. “Well, dad never treated you like that. You were perfect. He was all over my case.” 

John Winchester definitely had favorites, and very rarely (literally never) was Grace above her brothers. But, even though Sam was never thrown to the ground by his own hands, or locked outside of the car in a bug infested wooded area at five-years-old in the pouring rain, he didn’t avoid John’s gruff scrutiny so easily either. “You don’t remember?” Sam scoffed. 

“Well, maybe he had to raise his voice but sometimes you were out of line.” Dean wouldn't touch any conversation about Grace’s relationship with John with a ten foot pole, but he would touch Sam’s, and the frustration that the middle Winchester felt was only piling up by the day, incapable of comprehending how his brother could openly admit that John was a dick, while also being his biggest supporter. Grace could understand it, but she wasn’t in the mood to unpack the trauma response of surviving at whatever costs necessary. 

Sam rolled his eyes, not willing to abandon the topic just yet, despite how desperately Grace wished they’d stop talking about John all together. Her fingers twitched as she held onto Dean’s sleeve, but before he could react, she pulled her hands away entirely, intertwining her fingers in front of her body as she rocked on her feet. “Right. Right, like when I said I’d rather play soccer than learn bowhunting.” Sam rolled his eyes, his gaze trailing over Grace once more, but his sister still didn’t seem to be paying any more attention than she had been before, her eyes glazed over as she glanced back to where Larry and his son had once stood, but now both were gone. 

“Bowhuntings an important skill.” Dean rebutted, and if Grace wasn’t so dazed from lingering panic, she would’ve frowned at how normalized all of this was for Dean. She’d gotten the chance to spend almost an entire year out from beneath her fathers thumb, but Dean never had, and when she’d been healing, finding herself and establishing connections in the real world, he’d been subjected to it all alone. Maybe Dean had never been beaten until he passed out, maybe he’d never been taunted with cynical punishments, but he was just as equally manipulated by the mind games that John Winchester thrived on playing with his own children; he just hadn’t realized it yet. Grace could be patient, she could wait for him to realize how much of his life and adolescence had been tarnished by John’s attitude on his own terms. Sam however, didn't seem to be able to extend the same thoughtfulness. 

“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes, not in the mood to have his feelings belittled and trampled over. “How was your tour?” 

“Oh, it was excellent. I’m ready to buy.” Dean quipped, a sarcastic smile on his face before it fell, his tone dropping as he grew serious. “So you might be onto something. Looks like Dustin Burwash wasn’t the first strange death around here.” Grace frowned, looking up at Dean at the information, finally coming out of her own head enough to be fully engaged in the conversation at hand. 

“What happened?” She questioned, angling her body so that Larry couldn’t watch them talk, not that he’d be able to hear them from across the patio, but she didn’t want to take any chances and raise any more red flags than necessary. 

“About a year ago before they broke ground one of Larry’s surveyors dropped dead while on the job. Get this. Severe allergic reaction to bee stings.” 

“More bugs.” Sam concluded, and Dean nodded, repeating the realization. 

“Fucking great. Yippee.” Grace shivered, her brothers glancing down sympathetically, although amusement shone bright in both of their light eyes. If only they knew why she was so afraid, there wouldn’t be an ounce of amusement glistening through their green stares, but she wasn’t ready to disclose hidden moments of the past just yet, and they weren’t ready to hear it. 

-

Another handful of hours later, all three siblings were once again crammed into the car, although this time Sam was behind the wheel and Dean was nose deep in a book in the passenger seat. Grace was curled up in the backseat, forcing herself to go through a million different breathing exercises as her brothers discussed insects and creepy crawlies at distributing lengths. Her hair was dry, her clothes weren’t damp in the slightest, but she swore she could feel rain pelting her skin and turning her bones to frozen ice as she sat in the backseat, her mind half present and half far away in the first memory of her father being truly cruel and unforgiving. He’d raised his voice at her before that moment. He’d grabbed her wrist too hard, tied her braids too tight, but never had he done something like lock her out of the car in the middle of the woods. She can still remember the way her little heart had lept in her chest with overwhelming fear as spiders crawled over her clothes, and mosquitos leeched onto any part of her body that they could draw blood from. After that hunt, she’d been covered in at least thirty mosquito bites that had bled for weeks before they healed. Dean and Sam never knew how she got them, and John had made sure they never had the chance to ask. 

“You know, I’ve heard of killer bees, but killer beetles? What is it that could make different bugs attack?” Dean questioned, flipping to another page in the book, although Grace is certain that he’s already read the same pages three times over, but she doesn’t comment on it, more than content to let the boys take the lead on this case while she focuses on not succumbing to violent memories at the forefront of her mind. 

“Well, haunting sometimes includes bug manifestations.” Sam suggested, but Dean didn’t even let that sit in the air for a second before he was arguing its legitimacy, his eyes scanning the pages between his fingers intently. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t see any evidence of ghost activity.” He explained, and with pursed lips Sam agreed, effectively sending them both back to the drawing board. “Maybe they’re being controlled somehow you know, but something or someone.” 

Sam frowned, looking over at Dean, his eyes flickering to Grace for only a second before he was focusing back on the road, the Impala’s headlights shining bright in the expanse of darkness that surrounded them. “You mean like Willard?”

“Yeah. Bugs instead of rats.” Grace would be more than okay if it were rats that they were questioning right now, even if she desperately despised those creatures too. Nothing was worse than bugs. She’d been scared of them before that night in Palm Springs, but now all they do is stir wild anxiety in her belly. John Winchester hated her weaknesses, but he’d been the one to give her most of them. 

“There are cases of psychic connections between people and animals. Elementals, telepaths.” Sam explained away what he could, ideas bouncing off of Dean who took them in with only mild scrutiny. 

“Yeah, the whole Timmy-Lassie thing.” Dean hummed thoughtfully before he found a connection, his right hand jutting outward in a motion of understanding as he craned his head to glance at both Grace and Sam. “Larry’s kid. Got bugs for pets.” 

“Matt?” Sam questioned, nodding in agreement with Dean as he recalled the events of the barbeque. “He did try to scare Gracie and the realtor with a tarantula.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Grace shivered, grabbing at the silver chain around her neck instinctively, clutching the cold pendant between her warm palms, desperately trying to keep herself from overthinking how close the spider had been to her hand. Dean reaches back, patting her knee affectionately though he said nothing to ease her discomfort, not-so-subtly enjoying the way she squirmed in her seat like a terrified child. 

“Think he’s our Willard?” 

Sam sighed, both hands on the wheel now. “I don’t know. Anything’s possible, I guess.” 

Dean inclined his head in contemplation, but quickly pointed out a house on the side of the road, his finger tapping against the window as he directed Sam to slow down. “Oh, hey, pull over here.” 

Grace frowned in confusion, and Sam shared the same expression as he pulled into the driveway of the house. “What are we doing here?” He questioned, craning his head to glance out the window as Dean began to peel himself out of the car wordlessly. 

Grace crawled into the front seat when Dean reached for the garage door handle, “It’s too late to talk to anybody else.” His only defense as he began to pull the door open, revealing an empty garage. 

“We’re gonna squat in an empty house?” Sam called out in disbelief, but it wasn’t the most insane thing they’d done while seeking shelter on an active case, so Grace remained silent, emotionally drained from the long day behind her now. 

“I wanna try the steam shower. Come on.” Dean encouraged, but Sam remained unconvinced, simply staring at him through the open window. Grace, however, smiled in amusement, always the one to make the most out of whatever cards they were dealt, and spending a night in a bed of her own – a real bed, on top of everything else – well that didn’t seem so bad at all. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had her own space to sleep in, certain that if it had happened at all, it had been years ago. “Come on!” 

Grace batted her hand against Sam’s bicep, silently encouraging him to pull the car into the garage before anybody still lingering around the development could notice them. Sam rolled his eyes but obliged by the request, smirking in fond amusement when the side mirror crashed into Dean’s hand, their brother wincing in pain before he pulled the garage door down and into place, concealing the Impala for the night. 

She climbed out of the car eagerly, brushing strands of hair off of her shoulders before she was heading to the back of the car in search of her own duffle bag. Dean already had the trunk open, her navy blue duffle over his shoulder and his own black bag held up on the other one. Sam rolled his eyes when he realized that Dean had no intention of grabbing his bag, and shoved his older brother out of the way so that he could retrieve it himself. 

“Better sleep with one eye open, Gracie. Wouldn’t want any spiders in your bed, would you?” Dean taunted, his smirk electric and jesting, but it fell away quickly when Grace tensed at his side, her eyes widening with fear that was more than just irrational. Her breath caught, her lips beginning to tremble before teeth sank into soft skin, willing them to remain unmoving and neutral, though everything about her expression seeped genuine terror.  

Her eyes refused to meet Deans, but weakly she pleaded with him to ease up on the jokes. “Can you not? Please?” She grabbed her duffle off of his shoulder, stalking past both him and Sam before either one of them could say anything to either remedy the situation or make it worse. It wasn’t the first time Dean had threatened her with bugs, he was the stereotypical annoying older brother that exploited any lighthearted weakness his siblings expressed, but all of the times when he’d teased her about spiders in the past had been out of pocket. Now, there were actual bugs that were potentially killing people, and Grace was in no condition to just let the joke roll off of her shoulders like she’d always done before. 

Dean frowned in confusion as he watched her walk away and enter the house, Sam standing right beside him wearing the same expression of uncertainty. “She’s being weird, right?” 

“She’s scared of bugs, dude. I think she has every right to be a little on edge.” Sam defended, but even he was skeptical. 

Dean shook his head, and for a moment, Sam could see the genuine concern in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide at any given moment. “No. The way she held onto my sleeve at the barbeque… she’s not telling us something.” 

“Think it has to do with Dad?” Sam questioned as he closed the trunk, not without grabbing a blanket from the back that he knew Grace wouldn’t be able to sleep without. She was always cold at night, and he doubted that the house would have the best heat circulation – or any at all – with only the necessary furniture piled into it. 

“When doesn’t it with her?” Dean sighed sadly, nodding toward the door, desperate to leave the day behind and turn in for at least a couple hours of rest. Sam didn’t argue, following after his older brother and stepping past the threshold. For a moment, he wondered what their lives would’ve turned out to be if they’d never left Lawrence, but there was no point dwelling on what would never be known, so as quickly as he considered it, he moved on, just wanting to turn in for the night. 

-

The next morning, Grace was already up and ready for whatever challenges they faced while trying to uncover the mysteries of Oasis Plains. The sun had risen over the development, and with the birds chirping outside, all of the siblings were gathering themselves in preparation, although Dean had skewed priorities. 

Grace was sitting in the hallway, her back against the wall, and her knees pulled up to her chin as she waited around for her brothers to get a move on. She was in no rush to get back into bug infested territory, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t going restless. She’d never been good at keeping still, always in search of something to keep her mind alert and her hands busy, but there was absolutely nothing to do in a house that only had the basic necessities. The refrigerator wasn’t even plugged in downstairs, still covered in plastic that protected the stainless steel from scratches. 

Sam knocked on the bathroom door minutes later, annoyance set into his jaw as he heard the water still running. “You ever coming out of there?” He asked, only receiving a grumbled ‘What’ in response as Dean stayed beneath the stream of hot water. Grace had already showered, and her hair was still slightly damp as it fell over her left shoulder in a loose braid. “Dean, a police call came in on the scanner. Someone was found dead three blocks from here. Come on.” 

“More bugs?” Grace questioned from the floor, her light eyes revealing vulnerability that she just didn’t have the energy to conceal anymore. She’d hardly gotten even an hour of sleep, unable to move on from the phantom sensation of bugs crawling up her skin enough to actually rest, and that was evident in her dim eyes and timid demeanor. 

“Looks like it.” Sam smiled sympathetically, knowing that even if he suggested Grace stay here instead of join them out in the town and upcoming development, she’d never agree to those conditions. He wouldn’t either. Not when the both of them grew up being expected to perform under any conditions and restraints. 

The door cracked open, and Dean grinned widely. “This shower is awesome.” He concluded, a towel wrapped around his hair as steam slipped out from the crack in the door. Grace could only scoff her amusement, rolling her eyes at his fascination with simple pleasantries. 

“Come on.” Sam rolled his eyes, strutting away from the bathroom door in exasperation. Dean had an amusing way of always getting beneath his skin. He played the same tricks every time, but somehow Sam never learned to just ignore him. If Grace didn’t know any better, she’d suggest that Sam likes being annoyed by Dean. It certainly makes her day interesting. 

She stood up from her spot in the hallway, following Sam down the stairs. She’d already explored every inch of the house, but her eyes still scanned the layout as she descended the staircase, making note of all the subtle details and elements that further exonerated the vibe of the house. It wasn’t anything elaborate despite the size and favorable amenities, and she quite liked how nonchalant it felt to walk the halls in a pair of black leggings and a sweatshirt. It felt comfortable, easy. If she had been given the chance, she would’ve loved to grow up in a house like this.  

“Gracie?” Sam questioned as the youngest Wincheter came to stand in the kitchen. Grace hummed her attention, soft eyes trailing over Sam as she inspected his body for injuries. “Yesterday–” He began, trailing off as he scratched at his chin, unsure of how to broach the topic without upsetting his sister who notoriously wanted nothing to do with conversations about their fathers behavior. “You’re scared of bugs because of Dad, aren’t you?” He decided that blunt was the best option, but immediately regretted it when Grace reeled back like she’d been physically struck, her eyes widening for only a second before she masked the expression like she’d always had to do whenever John was around. 

“You don’t want to go there, Sammy. Just leave it alone.” That was answer enough, and Sam nodded, knowing that he wasn’t going to get anymore information out of Grace without further prying, and that wasn’t something he was interested in or ever wanted to do. Dean was the one who pushed them to open up, who fought to know every secret they kept close to their hearts. Sam and Grace, however, had the mutual understanding that they’d share when they were ready, and it was okay if they never were. 

“Right.” He hummed, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he accepted the end of the conversion; not that it had even started to begin with. He wasn’t trying to get more information out of her, more than willing to leave it alone, but Grace still softened at the sight of him so caught up in his head, and her shoulders deflated as she leaned against the granite countertop. 

“You were seven. I was five. We were in Palm Springs chasing that spirit that killed the two girls. Dad took me out to burn the bones, told you and Dean that we’d be back by sunrise with breakfast from that dumbass diner with the dinosaur in the parking lot. We came back soaked, and Dean was pissed off that Dad let me stand in the rain, because he got in trouble for going out during a storm the week before. Dad just agreed, let him think that I wanted to be out there with him, but he– god, that’s not even close to what happened. I tripped over a branch, fell in the mud. Dad was pissed that the new shirt I’d gotten from Bobby was already ruined. After he made me salt the bones, he told me to stay where I was, to make sure that the bones actually burned. He went back to the car, I thought he was coming back, but then he didn’t. It was the middle of spring, and humid, and it just started pouring out of nowhere. I came back covered in mosquito bites and you were mad that they kept bleeding onto the bed sheets. Dad told you I got bit while we burned the bones, and I mean, yeah I guess I probably did, but he didn’t tell you that he locked me out of the car for two hours as a punishment for ‘fucking things up like always’. At one point, there was a spider on me. I freaked out, I mean, I hated bugs to begin with, but being out in the rain, in the middle of the night, still able to smell the gasoline from the fire– I don’t know. It sounds stupid. Honestly, it is stupid. But that was when he really started to change. When the little comments he made turned into being backhanded, when any minor mistake was suddenly reason enough to hit me until I couldn’t get up without help. There is so much you don’t know, Sammy, and I’m not ready to talk about it. And, as much as you think you’re ready to hear it, you’re not. So yes, I’m scared of bugs because of Dad, but just… drop it, okay? I’ll be fine. I’ve always been fine.” Grace wasn’t even aware of the fact that she was rambling, anxiously pulling at her fingers as she disclosed the first night John Winchester had ever shown her his true colors. She’d idolized him at the time; been able to overlook the comments he made and the ways in which he treated her differently than the boys. She’d loved him, even afterwards, but now, now she’s not so sure whether she hates him with a burning passion, or still wants to try and impress him even slightly. 

Grace could see the gears turning in Sam’s head. She could see him piecing together snippets of the past that had made no sense at the time, but now had a different meaning. “You let Dean and I torment you with bugs for years…” He trailed off, an unspoken apology in his saddened eyes that Grace only shrugged off, harboring no hard feelings for her brother's actions. 

“You didn’t know, and I’m pretty sure most little girls hate bugs, Sammy. You were kids, acting like kids. It’s not your fault I was never allowed to be one too.” 

-

Despite the fear of bugs that came from that night out in Palm Springs, Grace Winchester still adored the rain, and how it gave whatever streets it fell upon a chance to start fresh when the clouds cleared. Droplets of cold rainwater pelted the ground beneath the Impala, the wipers working fast to clear away the drops that pattered against the windshield without a rhythm. She had stolen one of Dean’s sweatshirts for a change, wanting something heavier than her own clothes, and the material threatened to drown her frame as she shoved her hands into the front pocket, pulling at her fingers as she coached herself into bravery, wanting to prove to herself more than anyone else that she was capable of still doing her job even when fear ran down to the very center of her bones. 

Lights glimmered in the distance, an ambulance and squad cars pulled up to the house where Lynda Bloome had mysteriously died hours earlier. Sam was behind the wheel once again, Dean in the backseat for a change, not that he’d had any choice in the matter. Sam and Grace had already been in the car when he’d finally come out of the bathroom, and as if he could sense that something of importance had been discussed without him present, he’d slid into the backseat with only a huff of annoyance. Grace had craned her head to grin at him as Sam backed out of the garage, and all Dean had done was roll her eyes and mumble something about how she was a ‘princess’ beneath his breath. 

She stepped out of the car in time with Sam, pulling the hood of the sweatshirt over her hair and sticking close to Dean, not wanting to drag yet another umbrella out of the trunk. Dean didn’t mind, holding the pole just slightly at an angle, letting it cover her entirely. Rain pelted his shoulder, but if he cared, he didn’t even grimace as the leather of his jacket became slick with tracks. They walked up to Larry who was on the phone, an umbrella in his hands that was similar to their own. His eyebrows raised in surprise as he noticed them, shoving the phone into his pocket before giving over his attention. 

“Hello, you’re, uh, back early.” He commented, clearly frazzled by their unexpected appearance. At the end of the day, it wasn’t the death of Lynda that bothered him, it was the fact that he could lose business over it. Grace had to resist rolling her eyes at his attitude, wondering how somebody could become so detached from reality that they prioritized a sales deal over real relationships. Twenty years working a job like this, and even she still shed tears over the victims they couldn’t save. 

“Yeah, we, uh, just drove in. Wanted to take another look at the neighborhood.” Dean explained away their sudden appearance, his eyes scanning over the houses that filled the block. 

“What’s going on?” Sam questioned. 

Larry sighed, his eyes darting in the direction of the house that Lynda had passed within before they found the siblings again. He looked straight at Sam, hardly even acknowledging Grace. “You guys met, uh, Lynda Bloome at the barbecue?” He questioned, glancing at the body bag that was being placed into the back of an ambulance just a few feet away. 

“The realtor.” Sam nodded, establishing that the connection had been made. 

“Well, she, uh, passed away last night.” Larry explained, and for the first time, Grace saw a wrinkle of despair in his expression, proving that beneath the businessman persona, Larry did have a heart in some capacity. 

“What happened?” She asked softly, eyes saddened and understanding as she fit into her role of concerned young woman well. It wasn’t all a fabrication however, because at the end of the day, that was the true question that remained unanswered across all of their books. 

“I’m still trying to find out.” Larry shrugged, his voice wavering as he glanced back at the house for a third time. “Identified the body for the police. Look, I’m– I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time.” 

Grace shook her head, waving Larry’s apology off with a soft smile that conveyed her understanding. “It’s okay.” She assured, watching as he nodded before excusing himself, stalking up to the front door where an officer loomed, in the process of roping off the entry points. 

“You know what we have to do, right?” Dean questioned, turning to look at Sam. 

“Yeah, get in that house.” Sam sighed, already mapping out possible entry points that excluded the front door. Grace’s eyes lingered on the wooden fence, knowing that they’ve scaled more challenging fences in their past, and that it would certainly be easy enough if they could catch a minute without bustling crowds of law enforcement watching. 

“See if we got a bug problem.” Dean prattled off, his hand that wasn’t wrapped around the pole of the umbrella jutting out toward the center of Grace’s back. She nearly jumped out of her skin when his fingers crawled up her cotton covered body, her eyes wide and full of fear as she flinched away from the sensation. 

“Dean!” She hissed, her heart racing as she shivered involuntarily. She’d only just stopped feeling like there were beetles and spiders all over her body, but now that feeling was back tenfold, and her face flushed with anxiety as she tried to quell the brewing storm of memories as the rain seemed to splash harder against the ground beneath her feet. 

Sam shook his head, pulling Grace into his side, his arm slinking around her shoulders protectively as his fingers brushed against her comfortingly. “Not cool man.” He directed the comment at Dean, his jaw set as he watched Grace swim within her own head, her pupils dilated with fear that he now knew wasn’t as baseless and irrational as he’d previously thought. How many times had they triggered her without knowing? How many times had she brushed off and forgiven their jokes when it stirred nothing but panic and fear inside of her? Sam hated to think about what those answers would be if he asked. 

“It’s fine, Sammy.” She brushed it off, not wanting to dwell on the situation when Dean had no reason to think that his jokes were beyond insensitive and triggering. Her attempt to derail the conversation was futile though, because he’d already begun to figure that something was going on, and his jaw clenched with annoyance as he glanced between Grace and Sam. 

“What’s going on with you two?” He questioned, but Grace only brushed him off. 

“Nothing.” She excused. “Once some of these idiots leave, we can definitely scale that fence and go in through the window. Place like this, it’s definitely unlocked.” She explained, nodding toward the corner of the street. Sam agreed, saying nothing further, and for once, Dean let the topic drop without arguing. 

They retreated back toward the car, Grace climbing into the backseat without even acknowledging Dean, who was ready and willing to take that seat for himself again. She only smiled softly when he glanced back at her questioningly, and for a second, his eyes softened and he smiled back. “Figure these idiots’ll be out here for at least another hour. There’s a diner up the road, you hungry?” 

“I could eat.” Sam shrugged, leaving the decision up to Grace, who nodded in the affirmative. 

-

An hour later, all three siblings were standing outside of Lynda’s house with full bellies. Grace had ordered a mac n cheese from the kids menu after deciding she wasn’t hungry enough to finish anything bigger, and Dean hadn’t let her hear the end of it since the waiter served her her food on a small plate with a fond smile; equally amused herself. As they stood on the sidewalk, assessing the best plan of action for how they were going to get into the window, he was still snickering quietly to himself, and both Sam and Grace had had enough. 

“Shut up!” She groaned, slapping her palm against his head, rolling her eyes when he recoiled in mock offense. “Not everyone lives off of cheeseburgers, asshole. And don’t think I didn’t realize you stole I bite when I went to pee!” 

“I had to make sure you weren’t being poisoned!” Dean rebutted, his eyes glimmering with amusement that had Grace breaking into a smile as well, the anxiety that had gripped her in the earlier hours of the morning no longer so heavy and paralyzing. “Alright, Sammy goes in first. You follow, and I’ll be right behind you. Got it?” 

Both Sam and Grace nodded, accepting the game plan without complaint. Sam leapt up onto the fence, making it look far easier than it actually was as he shoved his foot into one of the holes and reached for the shutters on the side of the house, holding on with one hand while his other pried open the window. Grace, who’d temporarily been referred to as monkey when she was three and climbed anything in sight, had no trouble following his movements, even daring to laugh as she stumbled through the window and into Sam who steadied her with fond amusement etched across his green stare. 

“Remember that time you and Jess scaled the fire escape at that frat house?” Sam laughed, recalling a night that felt like years ago, but was really only a couple of months ago as they waited for Dean to climb up the fence and join them in the bathroom. 

“Oh my god, yeah!” Grace laughed softly, shaking her head at the memory she’d more or less buried since leaving Stanford behind, “She kept freaking out about falling. I was sure she was going to pass out.” She continued on, but her smile wilted as she and Sam connected eyes, both suddenly sobered up from their momentary bout of nostalgia as reality came crashing in on them once more. “I miss her too, you know.” 

“I know.” Sam sighed, patting Grace’s shoulder before he pulled away from the embrace looking toward the window as Dean stumbled in. Sam was quick to turn around and pull the window closed, all three of them focusing on the crime scene beneath their feet now. The black tape on the floor in the shape of an unconscious body was eerie, but a definite sign that they were in the right place. 

“This looks like the right place.” Dean affirmed what they’d already gathered, and began to lead the way into the bathroom, leaning down to pick up a rag that was crumpled on the floor. Grace stepped just over the threshold separating the bedroom and bathroom, moving just slightly to the side so that Sam could see as well, not willing to get any closer than she absolutely had to to what she desperately hoped wasn’t a pile of dead beetles. Her face paled when Dean picked the rag up and dead spiders fell onto the floor, their lifeless bodies shriveled up in odd positions that sent shivers down Grace’s spine. “Spiders. From spider boy?” Dean questioned, turning to look at Sam and Grace, the washcloth still between his grasp. 

“Matt.” Sam corrected, adamant that Dean refer to the kid by his name, but his efforts were beginning to prove that they only lead to even more taunting. “Maybe.” He reluctantly agreed, sighing heavily as he stared down at the pile of spiders, desperately wanting to be wrong about even considering Matt’s involvement. 

Grace had begun to slowly pull away from where Dean was crouched down on the blood stained tile, hardly noticing that she was stumbling backwards at all until her back hit the wall. Her breath hitched just slightly, eyes trained to the pile of arthropods that she could swear was moving toward her. She nearly jumped out of her skin when something thudded against her shoulder, and she definitely did when she glanced down, finding a spider just slightly caught within wild strands of her braid. 

“Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!” Her entire body was frozen in fear, eyes wide and pleading as they flickered between both of her brothers, although she wasn’t really seeing them at all. Her hands flailed frantically at her sides, breath hitching as she became hyper aware of every minor sensation happening against her skin, almost certain that she could feel something crawling up her calf despite her pants being tight around her ankles. 

Suddenly something was pressing against either side of her face, gentle but gruff against her skin that felt disgustingly clammy as the circulating air brushed through the room. Her unfocused eyes eventually focused again, becoming less glassy as she recognized Sam’s face in front of hers, blocking her sight from the spiders on the floor. His voice felt like it was years away, but she could make out the rushed words nonetheless.“Hey, hey. You’re good. It’s good. It’s gone. It’s gone.” 

Grace shoved him away from her panickedly, batting against his chest with her palm when he hardly even budged, looking down at her with concerned confusion. He eventually got the hint and backed out of her way, just in time for her hands to seek out the ledge of the sink and expel everything she’d managed to eat at lunch. She groaned after a minute, reaching for the faucet with trembling hands, letting the water run until the bowl cleared and she could reach in and cup a handful, bringing it to her mouth quickly. When she spat it out, she didn’t look up right away, keeping her head craned above the sink and her eyes pinched shut, forcing herself to remember that she wasn’t stranded in the woods, nor was John even around to see her break like this at all. 

When her chest didn’t feel so tight anymore, she stood up fully, reaching for the faucet and turning it off. She pulled Dean’s sleeve over her hand, wiping at her mouth. “You good?” Her eyes trailed to find Dean, his voice the one that had called out for her attention. His eyes were clouded with mixed emotions, his cluelessness conflicting with his natural response which was amusement. Grace could tell he was getting suspicious, connecting dots that had been in front of his face the entire time, but wasn’t entirely sure how the picture he had all the pieces to was supposed to look. 

“I really fucking hate spiders.” She groaned, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, attempting to relieve some of the pressure that was building at the front of her head. “I need to get out of here.” She didn’t wait for her brothers to agree, stepping past Sam and heading for the window without so much as a glance back. 

-

Grace woke up to someone tapping her shoulder with gentle urgency, and instinctively she leaned away from the disruption, her green eyes squinting open as she attempted to avoid the blinding brightness beyond the Impala’s backseat. She groaned quietly in exhaustion, but took in her surroundings just enough to recognize that the car was parked on a busy street corner directly beside a high school, and it was Dean who was standing in front of the car door, attempting to rouse her from sleep. 

She shrugged off his hand, straightening her posture as she furrowed her eyebrows. She’d fallen asleep shortly after climbing into the backseat back at Oasis Plains, but more than a few hours had passed since then and the dirt caked beneath Dean’s fingernails insinuated that something had happened whilst she was essentially dead to the world. In any other case, she would’ve been pissed that they didn’t wake her, but she wasn’t too perturbed about missing out on even more conversations about killer insects. 

“Hey, switch with me.” Dean inclined his head toward the high school, stepping out of the way so that Grace could climb out of the car. She didn’t question why he wanted to switch, figuring that whatever the reason was, it wasn’t a topic for others to overhear, let alone adolescent children getting out of school. 

She slid into the passenger seat, pulling it forward so he wasn’t as crammed, and only then did she notice that Sam was on the other side of the car, putting a box down on the leather seats beside Dean. Curiously, she leaned over to peak inside, immediately regretting that decision when she found a bunch of dirt covered skeletons and worms. She groaned, pulling her head away and instead focusing on the road in front of her, beyond ready to finish this case and get moving onto the next, even if that meant they were just one step closer to locating John. 

“Do I even want to know what I missed?” Grace questioned, pulling her legs together as she sat criss-cross applesauce in the passenger seat, something her brothers couldn’t even imagine being able to do. Even with the seat pushed up as far as it could be without Grace practically eating the dashboard, Dean’s knees hit the back of the chair and he shifted slightly in an attempt to find a comfortable position. 

“Uh, not really.” Sam grimaced as he closed the drivers side door, starting the engine and peeling away from the curb. “Moral of the story is we think these bones are what’s attracting all the bugs.” 

“And the kid? Matt?” Grace turned to look at Sam, having figured that they were at the high school he attended, and they’d most likely talked to him at some point. 

“Not connected. Smart, though. Figured out something was going on, just didn’t know what.” Grace hummed as she nodded, accepting that her brothers had a good grip on the case without her help. “You okay now?” Sam asked after a beat of silence, his eyes shining with concern that made Grace’s chest clench. She hates when she’s the reason they’re worried; hates that half of what they worry about isn’t even in her control at all. 

She nods her head, but the way she bites at her nails tells both of her brothers that she’s lying. “I mean, this case isn’t all sunshine and rainbows to begin with, Sammy. Given the circumstances, I’m as good as I can be.” 

“Yeah, and what are those circumstances?” Dean calls from the backseat, finally having had enough of the apparent secrecy that was happening between his two youngest siblings. Grace sighs softly, soft eyes flickering to Dean in the rearview mirror, but Sam’s jack locks, and he shakes his head. 

“Nothing, dude.” He defends, but Grace just shakes her head, knowing that Dean’s not going to relent until they tell him something believable. 

“No, it’s not nothing. You two have been weird all day. I mean, really, what’s going on?” There was an edge to Dean’s tone that had Grace inching closer to the passenger door, a thickness in the air between Sam and Dean that she didn’t want to be included in at all. She sighed again, green eyes falling shut as she drew in a deep breath. 

“Why can you never drop anything, dude?” Sam continues to try and go at Dean, but Grace puts her hand up, ending their arguing before it could really begin. 

“It’s fine, Sammy.” She shrugged off his glance, craning her head to look back at Dean who was sitting in the middle of the leather row, his jaw locked, impatience etched across his features. “You remember the hunt in Palm Springs something like fourteen years ago? The spirit that killed those two girls? Dad took me out to salt the bones for the first time?”  

“Yeah, and? What about it?” Dean questioned, evidently still annoyed as he barely even glanced at Grace. She bristled at the clip in his tone, sighing softly as she turned her gaze back to the road. The rain had stopped at some point, but the ground still glistened as the Impala’s headlights reflected off of puddles. 

“Why do you even care if you’re just going to be an asshole about it?” She huffed, sinking down into the seat, suddenly not so willing to share moments of her troubled past with him. Dean sighed regretfully, letting his shoulders drop as he glanced at Grace softly, but the damage had already been done. The woman in the front of the car had dealt with irrational anger being directed at her for the entirety of her life, and although she still had trouble asserting her own personal boundaries, she wasn’t about to deal with Dean’s anger when whatever his problem was had to do with Sam and not her. “Just forget it. Where are we going?” 

“Somehow, whatever’s happening here is connected to these bones. Figured we should probably find out where they came from.” Sam flicked the left blinker on, turning down a street that evidently led to a college campus if the swarms of young adults with backpacks walking around was any indication. 

“Right.” Grace hummed, climbing out of the car when Sam pulled over, pulling the keys out of the ignition without saying anything more. Dean caught her wrist before she could follow Sam, keeping her on the sidewalk as he basically pleaded with her to forgive his earlier attitude. “Not now.” She pulled her arm free from his grasp, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over her hands as she caught up with Sam. 

“So a bunch of skeletons in an unmarked grave, maybe it is a haunting?” Grace questioned as they trekked toward the anthropology department. “I mean, pissed off spirits, not a far fetch to say at least one of them has some unfinished business.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Question is, why bugs?” Sam nodded at the suggestion, fixing his jacket over the box, not wanting to draw attention to the bones he carted around with effortless nonchalance like they were only a collection of old textbooks. “And why now?” 

“Uh, that’s two questions.” Dean muttered, something clearly on his mind as he matched Grace and Sam’s pace but contributed nothing to their back and forth. “Hey, so with that kid back there how could you tell him to just ditch his family like that?” 

“Just, uh, I know what the kid’s going through.” Sam explained, not seeing where Dean was going with his line of questioning, although Grace figured that they’d already butted heads about the topic while she’d been asleep in the car. Dean’s aggravation made a lot more sense now, but she still didn’t feel like divulging pieces of her past even if his temperament was called for. He’d burned that bridge and she didn’t know when she’d ever be ready to rebuild it. 

“How about telling him to respect his old man? How’s that for advice?” Dean kept pushing, kept trying to make his opinion of Sam’s decision known, though it wasn’t like neither he nor Grace ever even had a chance to forget about his feelings toward Stanford when almost every conversation led back to the topic in some capacity. Grace understood both of their perspectives, probably more than either of her brothers realized, but Dean’s unwilting loyalty to John was even too much for her to be okay with. She’d give him her patience, allow him to unmake every memory of childhood at his own pace, but pushing his own experiences onto Sam was far more than she could tolerate. One day, Dean would have to accept and understand that all three of them were treated differently by John, and for that they were each entitled to their own feelings about him. 

“Dean, come on. This isn’t about his old man. You think I didn’t respect dad. That’s what this is about.” Sam fought, stopping right in front of the department building, his jaw tight as he glanced down at their older brother. 

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “Just forget it, okay? Sorry I brought it up.” 

“I respected him. Even when he beat the shit out of Gracie. Even when he bailed on us for a fight he wasn’t even sure he could win. But no matter what I did, it was never good enough.” Grace hates that she respected him too, hates that maybe she still does. He was the first person to show her how cruel the world could be to someone smaller, weaker, kinder, but he’s also the man that raised her. The man that raised her brothers, and despite everything, kept a rough over their heads; even if it was an ever changing one. She hates that after everything, the smallest part of her heart still yearns to win over his pride. 

“So what are you saying, that dad was disappointed in you?” Dean asks, stopping a few feet ahead. 

“Was?” Sam scoffs, a perturbed smile crossing his lips as he shakes his head. “Is. Always has been.” 

“Why would you think that?” He genuinely doesn’t understand where Sam’s coming from, because even if he hates John Winchester for how he treated his only daughter, just like Grace, there are pieces of him that only want to remember the good. And, there was good. Not for Grace, never for her, but for him and Sam, there had been undeniable good mixed into the unavoidable bad. 

“Because I didn’t wanna bowhunt or hustle pool because I wanted to go to school and live my life which, to our whacked-out family, made me the freak.” Sam defended, his palm slapping against his thigh as he tried to keep his frustration at bay, but with each quip from Dean, his reserve was breaking more and more. 

“Yeah, you were kind of like that blonde chick in The Munsters.” Dean’s smile only further annoys Sam, and Grace can only roll her eyes at her eldest brother's inability to ever have a serious conversation about Sam’s very real resentment towards John. There was only black and white in Dean’s world, but Sam had long ago discovered that life was more gray than anything else. 

“Dean, you know what most dads are when their kids score a full ride? Proud.” Sam sighs, his voice softening as he begins to break, not possessing the energy to keep having the same conversation over and over again with little to no understanding from their brother. Grace frowns, knowing how much it had hurt Sam that John couldn’t have cared less about his scholarship. She’d been proud, unbelievably so, but she understands that her pride would never be enough to fill the hole in his heart that John had left empty. “Most dads don’t toss their kids out of the house.”

“I remember that fight. In fact, I seem to recall a few choice phrases coming out of your mouth.” Dean rebutted, and Grace wanted to facepalm at that moment. Dean’s perception of family dynamics was so beyond tainted that even years later, he couldn’t even begin to recognize that it wasn’t Sam’s job to keep the peace between himself and John. She couldn’t blame Dean, he’d never known anything other than this life and surviving by whatever means necessary, but she wouldn’t agree with him either. 

“You know, truth is, when we finally do find dad I don’t know if he’s even gonna want to see me.” Sam admits, and Grace has to refrain from drawing in a heavy breath at the mention of reconnecting with John. Ultimately, that was the goal, the reason they were even working this case – or any case – at all, but it was easy to forget about the pending reunion when every lead they followed came back empty. She didn’t know if she’d make it out alive once she was back beneath his thumb, but that wasn’t what she needed to put her energy into right now. 

Dean bristles, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Grace, who frowns at his conflicted expression. Where she could see both of her brothers' sides in the argument, neither of them could ever seem to meet eyes on their own opinions; both of them too stubborn and fueled by trauma to recognize that all they’d ever been trying to do was survive by whatever means necessary, with whatever cards they were given. Grace knew that Dean had it harder than Sam, she recognized that, but Sam just couldn’t grasp how much Dean had sacrificed to practically raise them on his own whenever John was working a case. He followed orders because it kept them safe. He defended Dad because he desperately wanted them to feel like their lives weren’t so unorthodox and out of control. He didn’t know how to stop fighting the battle because the battle was all he’d ever known.  “Sam, dad was never disappointed in you. Never.” Dean shook his head, and Grace could hear the sincerity in his tone, but Sam couldn’t – he didn’t want to, not yet anyways. That was the problem with them. Everything had to be at their own pace, in their own time. “He was scared,”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head as he cut Dean off, who for once was being painfully genuine and transparent. “What are you talking about?” 

“He’s afraid of what could’ve happened to you if he wasn’t around.” Dean filled in the blanks, and Grace’s heart thumped in her chest. “But even when you two weren’t talking he used to swing by Stanford whenever he could. Keep an eye on you. Make sure you were safe.” 

“What?” Grace froze, eyes wide as she looked at Dean for answers. Nausea pools in her belly, her chest tightening as she realizes that she had never fully been out from beneath her fathers thumb. She’d been with Sam for almost a year. It had taken her months to feel like she could be whoever she wanted without word traveling back to John, but now she was confronted with the fact that he’d always been there, always lurking, watching. Maybe he was there for Sam, maybe he never hid within the shadows to check up on her specifically, but he’d still been there. He’d still been there as she did all of the things he’d always told her she couldn’t do. Would he be pissed off when they found him? Would he punish her tenfold because not only had she left him behind in the middle of the night, but she’d gone and made a mockery of their family name? Her mind flashes to moments when she’d been less than perfect. When Jessica had dared her to do shots at a party, and she’d ended up so drunk that she puked in the bushes on the walk back to the apartment. When Sam had dragged her out to the fountain in the middle of the night, and they’d jumped in still in their clothes, claiming that it was a rite of passage at Stanford. Had he been there in those moments? Had he watched as she shed layers of scar tissue to instead embrace freedom and comfortability? Was she ever going to fully be free of his presence, or was she cursed to always be looking over her shoulder? 

“Why didn’t he tell me any of that?” Sam craned his head, eyes flickering to Grace for only a moment before his attention fell back to Dean, needing to know why John had never tried to reach out to him when he was apparently worried enough to drive out to Stanford. 

“Well, it’s a two way street dude. You could have picked up the phone.” Dean answered, and Grace wanted to scoff at the excuse, but she was frozen in fear, her mind racing a million miles an hour as she overanalyzed all of the times when she’d felt like somebody was watching her but had chalked it up to (valid) paranoia. They may be adults now, but it was never going to be their job to fix the relationships they had with John. “Come on, we're going to be late to our appointment.” He inclined his head toward the doors, stepping forward to keep moving, but Grace remained frozen, her eyes blurred with tears that stung and threatened to fall as she blinked. “Gracie, come on.” 

“Um, I’ll, uh, meet you at the car. I need– I’m gonna go find food.”  Grace could barely get the words past her lips, but by the time that she had constructed the sentence, she was turning on her heels, putting distance between herself and her brothers without even waiting to see their responses. 

She’d spent eleven months and seven days – yes, she counted every last one – at Stanford with Sam. It had taken her a month to even leave the apartment for the first time after showing up on his doorstep in tears, and three months to stop looking over her shoulder every time she did. She’d put in the effort to reinvent herself however felt authentic and right, and there had been something sacred built on the promise that John Winchester would never know who she had become without his influence and restrictions. She’d never had a lot of things in life, but she’d at least had the chance to live her own way. But, now she was finding out that it wasn’t really her own at all. The nights she’d walked home from the part time job she’d gotten at the diner in town, and she’d clutched her bag tighter out of instinct when it had felt like eyes watched her closely. The days when she’d be out with Jessica, laughing and talking like her spirit had never been weighed down by fear, only to shrink into herself when the memories came back and learned instincts took over. Wherever she went, John Winchester followed her. She’d known that, but Sam had promised she was free of his control. She doubted that, but she’d trusted him anyway. Sam was wrong. She was naive. No matter how far she ran. No matter how hidden she made herself. She would never be unpinned. 

Her chest tightened as she glanced around the campus square. Was he here now? Had it become something of a game to him? How were they to know if he lurked in the shadows? Suddenly Grace couldn’t breath, and she stumbled her way to a bench across from the department building. Her body crumbled onto the wooden boards, feeling heavy and tense as her vision blurred. For a moment, the sounds around her faded, but then they all came rushing back seemingly louder than they’d been before. She wheezed, blunt nails digging into the wood beneath her, clawing at any chance of finding solid ground to focus on. 

Minutes later, the bench shifted beneath additional weight, and Grace’s gaze snapped to the right. She half expected to see her father glaring back at her, but instead, she met the eyes of a student who was probably her age, if not just a few years older. His face was kind, but tired, and his shoulders slumped to accommodate the heavy weight of his backpack. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya.” He apologized, having clearly noticed the way her grip tightened on the wooden boards beneath her thighs. 

“No, you’re okay. Just got lost for a minute there.” She brushed him off weakly, her voice hoarse as a result of the emotions that had accumulated in her chest within such a short span of time. 

“What classes are you taking?” The student questioned, expecting Grace’s stress to be related to coursework, which wasn’t the farthest fetched conclusion given they were in the heart of a lively campus. 

“Oh, I’m not a student here. I’m not even from Oklahoma.” She laughed softly, the tightness in her chest ebbing away as she focused her energy on the casual conversation at hand, glad to be talking about something mindless and surface level for a change. She was getting really tired of long emotionally demanding conversations. 

“Okay, I’ll bite. Where are you from?” Grace hadn’t meant for her earlier remark to come across any kind of way, but she can’t help but smile regardless. Something tells her the boy beside her knows a thing or two about fishing for conversations, and she can’t say she minds using him as a distraction. 

“Kansas. But, I’ve lived practically everywhere. New York’s probably my favorite.” She doesn’t remember the last time she’s gotten to talk about something like this; probably months ago when Jessica was still around, but the sentiment remains. There was no need to have these conversations with her brothers, they’d all been there when moments happened, they all knew each other enough to just know these things based on body language, but it was nice to feel like someone was seeing her for a change. It got to be draining when all you ever were to anybody was a brush of wind in the night. Their lives were meaningful, she knew that, but that didn’t mean it was easy never having anyone around that cared about who you were as a person, not just an asset or an ally. 

She doesn’t know how much time elapsed on that bench, but she knows that Sam and Dean came back far too quickly for her liking. She stood when Sam came into her line of sight, offering Weston an apologetic smile as she pulled at the hem of her hoodie, preparing to join the boys at the car. Weston, who had turned out to be a third year communications major from a town not even twenty minutes north, waved as she turned to leave, laughing beneath his breath when she stumbled over her untied laces and tried to play the entire thing off with nonchalance. 

She gave him one last glance before she dunked into the backseat, sighing softly as she closed the door behind her, not even getting the chance to consider putting her seatbelt on before she sped away. 

“Gracie–” Dean started, but she shook her head. 

“If it’s about Dad, or a bullshit apology for being an asshole earlier, I really don’t care. What did you find out?” She questioned, not in the mood to have another conversation tethered to their father in some capacity. This case was enough without Dean’s remarks. 

“The bones are Native American. There’s a Euchee tribe in Sapulpa that might know more.” He sighed, backing down from what was originally going to be his point of conversation. Grace nodded, saying nothing more as she crossed her legs, looking out the window as the scenery blurred together. 

-

They walked into the diner after asking around, and immediately Dean led the way toward a man at a table, laying out playing cards. “Joe Whitetree?” He asked, receiving the slightest nod of confirmation from the long haired man. 

“We’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright?” Sam tucked his hands into his pockets, keeping his voice even and unarmed as he approached. Grace stood between them, a kind and welcoming expression on her face despite how utterly done with the case she was. She wanted something different, something that was more guns blazing and literature. She hated when all there was to do was flounder around until they found something that stuck. And, she especially hated that everything they stumbled upon related back to their father as if the very premise of the case wasn’t enough for her wounded heart. 

“We’re students from the university.” Dean began, but Joe was quick to dismantle that lie. Dean bristled at the confrontation, beginning again with another lie he’d thought up, but Joe didn’t take the bait for even a second. 

“You know who starts sentence with truth is? Liars.” Grace couldn’t help but smirk a little at the man’s persistence for the truth, and instinctively she stepped out from behind Dean, facing Joe with a soft smile. 

“Mr. Whitetree, have you heard of Oasis Plains?” She asked softly, glancing down at his playing cards for only a second before she was searching his eyes again. “It’s a housing development near the Atoka Valley.” 

Whitetree’s eyes met hers with fondness, and his lips curved into a jesting smirk as he flicked his gaze to Dean’s. “I like her. She’s not a liar.” Grace only smiled more, a soft laugh falling off of her lips as she glanced at Dean to see him pull a palm down his face, clearly exasperated. “I know the area.” 

“Is there anything you can tell us about the history there?” She asked cautiously, preparing for this to be dangerous water with the older man, but he only inclined his head curiously. 

“Why do you want to know?” He fired back at her, though there was no defensiveness in his tone, and for that Grace was grateful. She couldn’t handle another hostile man on this case. 

“Somethings happening there, and well, I think it might have something to do with some old bones we found down there.” She answered, being honest with the man, but still keeping the full truth closer to their inner circle. “The bones… they’re Native American.” 

“I’ll tell you what my grandfather told me, what his grandfather told him. Two hundred years ago a band of my ancestors lived in that valley. One day, the American cavalry came to relocate them. They were resistant. Cavalry, impatient. As my grandfather put it, on a night the moon and the sun shared the sky as equals the cavalry first raided our village. They murdered, raped. The next day, the cavalry came again and the next and the next. And on the sixth night, the cavalry came one last time and by the time the sun rose every man, woman and child still in the village was dead.” Grace didn’t break her stare with Whitetree, but she was highly aware of her brothers connecting eyes behind her, and with their attention diverted, she tried not to draw attention to the way her body tightened at the details of the retelling of events. Enough secrets had slipped into the air already, there were just some that didn’t need to see the light of day along with the others. “They say on the sixth night as the chief of the village lay dying he whispered to the heavens that no white man would ever tarnish this land again. Nature would rise up and protect the valley and it would bring as many days of misery and death to the white man as the cavalry had brought upon his people.” 

“Insects. Sounds like nature to me.” Dean muttered to Sam, before looking back at Whitetree, who had finally allowed his gaze to leave Grace’s. “Six days?” He double checked, earning a nod from Joe. 

“And on the night of the sixth day none would survive.” Joe reaffirmed what he’d already mentioned, and the siblings nodded acceptingly. 

“Thank you, Mr. Whitetree.” Grace smiled appreciatively before she followed her brothers out of the small diner, their minds reeling as they pieced together the information they’d just learned and what they already knew. 

“When did the gas company man die?” Sam questioned as they stepped outside, heading back to the Impala to hopefully finish all of this once and for all. 

“Friday.” Grace hummed, not even having to think about it. She was good with dates, she always had been. It was one of the few strengths that John Winchester saw in her. 

“March 20th. That’s the Spring Equinox.” Sam pieced together the information that had been staring them in the face since the start. Grace wanted to bash her head into the wall for not considering the connection beforehand. 

“The night the sun and the moon share the sky as equals.” Dean hummed, and Sam nodded, confirming that he was correct. 

“So every year about this time anybody in Oasis Plains is in danger. Larry built this neighborhood on cursed land.” 

“Uh, the sixth night would be tonight.” Grace piped up, looking at Sam with evident concern in her eyes. 

“If we don’t do something, Larry's family will be dead by sunrise. So how do we break the curse?” Sam questioned, standing at the passenger side door of the Impala, not in the mood to be the one to drive. Grace didn’t even try to claim the position, just following him along to the left side of the car, waiting for Dean to unlock the latches so that she could slip into the backseat. 

“You don’t break a curse. You get out of its way.” Dean shook his head, unlocking the car and beginning to sink into the driver's seat, but not without voicing the urgency that they all knew they faced. “We gotta get those people out now.” 

-

Hours later, they were still on the way back to Oasis Plains, but Dean wasn’t taking his chances with the family. As headlights reflected off of damp roads, he held his phone up to his ear. “Yes Mr. Pike there’s a gas leak in your neighborhood.” He explained, but without the call being switched to speaker phone, neither Grace nor Sam could hear what Larry was saying on the other end. They simply waited with baited breath to hear Dean’s responses, desperately hoping that Larry didn’t prove hard to convince. “Well, it’s fairly extensive. I don’t wanna alarm you, but, uh, we need your family out of the vicinity for at least twelve hours or so just to be safe.” By the way Dean was answering questions, Grace knew that they weren’t going to stand a chance with convincing Larry to leave Oasis Plains behind. “Travis Weaver. I work for Oklahoma Gas and Power.” There was a beat of silence before Dean stuttered, pulling the device away from his ear and flipping it closed in frustration. 

Grace sank back against the backseat, sighing in exasperation for headstrong men that didn’t know how to help themselves any. She watched as Sam reached for the phone next, hurriedly typing numbers into the keypad. “Matt, it’s Sam. Matt, just listen, you have to get your family out of that house right now, okay?” There was undeniable urgency in Sam’s tone, and Grace could only hope that it didn’t freak the teenager out to a point where he became less than helpful. “Because something’s coming.” 

Grace looked out the window, watching the world pass by in the form of blurred together hues and shades. Dean was going as fast as he could, but even that was proving to not be enough as the night dragged on later and later and there was still distance to cover before they got to the Pike’s residence. 

“You gotta make him listen, okay?” Sam stressed, but that wasn’t enough for Dean, who reached for the device, pulling it up to his ear as his voice hardened. 

“Matt, under no circumstances are you to tell the truth. He’ll just think you’re nuts. Tell him you have a sharp pain in your right side and you gotta go to the hospital, okay?” Dean barked his orders sharply, and for a minute, all Grace saw was John telling her and the boys how to weasel their way into a case as children and young teenagers. Once they’d been embraced into the hunting world, John had no shame in using his children as bait. She couldn’t even recall how many times he’d told her to approach random strangers and get them talking, nor how many times he disregarded her safety to pull information out of a case. She knew Dean had good intentions, knew that this was for Matt’s benefit, but she couldn’t help but think that all of this had started for them as little white lies constructed by their father. 

Evidently, Matt agreed because Dean slapped the phone closed for a second time and turned his attention to Sam. “Make him listen? What are you thinking?” 

Grace rolled her eyes, not bothering to tune into their bickering. She’d had enough of the squabbling for a day, and so instead of paying attention to the way Sam clapped back defensively, she pressed her head against the window, watching the trees blur together as they passed. 

When they eventually pulled up to Oasis Plains, making a sharp left before they approached the Pike household, all three of them sighed at the front lights turned on and cars still in the driveway. “Damn it, they’re still here. Come on.” They got out of the car with efficiency, and for the first time ever, Grace desperately wished that this was one of those hunts that could be handled with a gun. She was a near perfect shot, but that wouldn’t do her any good against what they were facing, and she felt entirely too vulnerable going in with only her senses. 

As they approached the front door, Larry came storming out, his finger jutted out in their direction threateningly. “Get off my property before I call the cops!” He demanded. 

“Mr. Pike, listen.” 

“Dad, they’re just trying to help.” Matt interjected from the front porch, but Larry swung to address him quickly, his tone still raised and sharp as he turned his wagging finger to his song. 

“Get in the house!” He demanded, and Grace couldn’t help but bristle at the sharpness of his order, her chin dropping to her chest as she recalled the many times John had yelled that same command at her before she’d been met with a world of pain from his bare hands. 

“S-Sorry. I told him the truth.” The kid said apologetically, and suddenly Larry’s anger made a lot more sense. Grace sighed, but she couldn’t blame him either. Dean had been asking a lot of him and hadn’t even considered how Matt would feel about lying to the person that only ever saw his worst assets. 

“We had a plan, Matt. What happened to the plan?” Dean snapped, his frustration bubbling over and being directed at the first person it could be. Unfortunately, that was Matt. Grace smiled softly at the boy, hoping that she could ease the guilt pooling in his stomach even slightly with the simple expression. 

“Look, it’s twelve am. They are coming any minute now. You need to get your family and go before it’s too late.” Sam continued to try and plead, but Larry wanted to hear none of it. Grace hated that she couldn’t blame him for being defensive and critical, but it was in moments like this where she wished people had more blind faith in others. 

“Oh, yeah, you mean before the biblical swarm.” The man rolled his eyes, and Dean had finally had enough. 

“Larry, what do you think really happened to that realtor, huh? And the gas company guy? You don’t think something weird's going on around here?” He laid out the facts as blandly as he could, not having the time to stand there and hold Larry’s hand as he fought to prove the legitimacy of their claims. 

“Look, I don’t know who you are but you’re crazy. You come near my boy or my family again, we’re gonna have a problem.” The man threatened, but it wasn’t anything that the siblings hadn’t heard a few hundred times already when they were working cases that involved real people and families. 

“Well, I hate to be a downer, but we got a problem right now.” Dean fought back, his tone level as he tried to break through the man's strong reserve. 

“Dad, they’re right. We’re in danger.” Matt tried again, persistent in his efforts to sway Larry’s decision to remain in Oasis Plains. Grace could only appreciate his courage, especially when Larry turned to yell at him again, and he didn’t even bristle in the face of confrontation. She knows that she would’ve backed down and scampered away the second John so much as turned his head to look at her. She could face monsters and things that went bump in the night, but put her in a room with her father and she was nothing more than a terrified little girl just wanting to avoid any additional pain and torment. “Why won’t you listen to me?” His voice raised, trembling as he finally broke, not able to act like Larry’s constant shoving aside and berating didn’t bother him. 

“Because this is crazy! It doesn’t make any sense!” 

“Look, this land is cursed! People have died here! Now are you gonna really take that risk with your family?” Sam raised his voice, but Grace wasn’t focused on the fight at hand, rather the distinct buzzing that was happening on all sides of her. Her chest tightened as she realized they were too late; that the insects were already here. 

“Wait!” She called out, voice trembling despite every nerve in her body screaming to keep it together. “Do you hear it?” 

Larry snapped his head toward the bug catcher on the porch, his eyes squinting as he took in the sound of audible buzzing, noticing that the electric trap zapped more frequently than it had been all night. “What the hell.” He commented, reality finally beginning to sink in as he snapped his gaze back to the siblings.

“Alright, it’s time to go. Larry, get your wife. Sam.” Dean turned to address his siblings, but he was cut off by Matt calling for their attention, his head craned toward the sky as they watched a swarm of insects rise over the treetops and make their way toward the house.

Grace felt her chest tightened even more, her hands beginning to shake at her sides as she realized that she was out in the open, vulnerable to whatever assault would come. For a moment she was frozen, her gaze turned toward the sky as her breathing became uneven and labored, but then something was grabbing her hand, and before she could really recognize what was happening, she was being dragged up the porch steps and into the house. 

“No, no, no.” She mumbled on a loop, her hands tangling into her hair as she pulled at the roots, pacing back and forth as commotion ensued around her. She didn’t pay it any attention, she couldn’t, not with the way her mind was going blank and all she could think of was that night in Palm Springs when everything had changed. She wished she could go back to then, to hours before she’d ever gotten in the car with her father and headed off toward the woods. Things hadn’t been good, but they hadn’t been terrible either. That day in 1991 was the last time that Grace Winchester had ever really been a kid, and she could feel herself slipping into the vulnerable defenselessness that she felt then as she forced herself to remember that there was nothing they could do about the fate they’d found themselves tangled into. All that there was to do was wait and hope for the best, but the best had never found her easily or at all. 

“Gracie, hey! Hey, come on! Now’s not the time, okay, sweetheart? I need you with me right now. I need you here.” Dean held her face in his hands tenderly, but unrelentingly. He pulled her hands away from her hair, his eyes filled with determined urgency that only just barely managed to sober her up from her state of panic. Adrenaline rushed through her veins as she nodded, breathless as she raced alongside him to where Larry and Joanie kept their spare towels and linens. 

She grabbed a towel from his hands with numb fingers, forcing it beneath the gap in the front door as efficiently as she could with the trembling in her knuckles that just wouldn't stop. Her body was moving, but there weren’t any thoughts in her head besides survival. She knew that the Pikes were yelling, that frantic conversations were being had, but it was all static noise in her head as she tried to keep her breathing even and her senses as alert as they could be. She didn’t even register the fact that Sam had come downstairs or that Dean had grabbed a can of bug spray from the kitchen until there was an incessant rattling coming from the fireplace and in seconds a swarm of bees rushed in. Every breathing exercise that she’d even known failed her in that moment, and the composure she’d managed to grab onto left within seconds. She whimpered pathetically, stuttering over soft cries as she panicked, right back in those California woods.  

“Come on, Gracie! Come on!” Sam grabbed her hand, dragging her up the stairs with efficiency. She could follow him, that was what she could do, but her feet thudded on the steps as she climbed them and her chest only tightened as she tried to draw in even a single breath. 

Somehow she made it up into the attic, and the second Sam’s hand left hers, she was falling to the floor with a thud, scooting back until her back hit a wall. She curled up into herself, her head between her knees as she rocked back and forth, muttering desperate pleas and frantic apologies beneath her breath that were drowned out by the frantic yelling of the Pikes. Somewhere between the first swarm of termites chewing through the wood and the second, she’d passed out, slumping against the boards of the house in a useless pile on the floor. In a single moment of distraction, Sam shrugged his jacket off, throwing it over her exposed face before he went back to trying to find a solution with Dean. Every instinct in his body told him to go over and check on her, rouse her back to consciousness, but that wouldn’t do any good if they were dead by morning anyways. Instead, all he could do was hope that the insects had a harder time getting to exposed inches of her vulnerable body. 

It was minutes later when she roused, and the swarm of termites was still attempting to cleanse the land of their presence. She glanced to her left, scrambling into the corner of the attic where her brothers were crouched desperately. She threw herself at whoever was closest, letting out heartbreaking and raspy sobs as she dug her face into their neck, the hood of the hood pulled over her face just enough to keep the bugs from bouncing off of her skin, but she could still feel the thud of their dense bodies hit the fabric on her body. And then, it stopped. She didn’t move, didn’t loosen her hold, but eventually it became clear that the swarm had left, and her chin was guided upward by gruff hands that she knew to be Deans. 

“You’re okay, Gracie. It’s okay.” Dean coaxed softly, holding the back of her head as he analyzed her face for any bites or injuries. He frowned softly when he noticed three red blotches on her cheek and another on her forehead, but considering the circumstances, she’d come out relatively unscathed. “It’s over. It's done.” 

-

The very next morning, when the Impala pulled up to the Pike residence, there was a moving truck parked at the curb and Larry was standing beside the bed, packing up the little belongings that they’d moved into the house. She climbed out of the car with her brothers, walking up to where he stood in casual attire as opposed to the suits she’d typically seen him wearing during the daytime.  

“What? No goodbye?” Dean called out sarcastically, catching Larry’s attention. 

“Good timing. Another hour and we’d have been gone.” Larry hummed, reaching out to shake Dean’s hand in silent thanks. 

“For good?” Sam questioned, shaking Larry’s hand next. Grace could only offer a small smile, still reeling from the events from the early morning hours. Her chest still ached, her breathing was still wheezy, and every time she closed her eyes she constructed a scene of Palm Springs that looked eerily similar to the night's endeavors. 

“Yeah. The, uh, developments been put on hold while the government investigates those bones you found. But I’m gonna make damn sure no one lives here again.” Larry explained, and the Winchesters nodded understandingly. 

“You don’t seem too upset about it.” Sam noted. 

“Well, this has been the biggest financial disaster of my career, but…somehow…I really don’t care.” Larry’s gaze flickered to Matt, and Grace couldn’t help the weak smile that pulled at the corners of her lips as she watched him finally recognize what was most important in life. 

She laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder, nodding toward the car. “I’m gonna go wait in the car.” She explained, her voice hoarse and quiet, hardly louder than a whisper and she honestly couldn’t say if it was a result of her sobbing, or a learned instinct after years of forcing herself to be invisible. Either way, she tried not to think too much about the weakness she was showing in front of Larry and her brothers. “Don’t take too long. Please.” 

Dean nodded, patting her back as she passed him. Whatever happens next, all he hopes is that Grace could finally catch a break.

[glimmeringwinchester]

thank you so much for reading !! more coming soon !!

⛓️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰🪩꒱ ♡ ･ full masterlist ✧

[ ♱ ] — angst [ 𐦍 ] — fluff [ 𖤐 ] — series

WINCHESTER SISTER — parts will be added as written

love was the law ♱𐦍𖤐

yellow eyes wasn’t always after sam, not really anyways. he was after the youngest winchester, the only daughter of john and mary. just because she wasn’t fed demon blood at six months old, doesn’t mean her life was anything other than tragic and terrible

one | two

[glimmeringwinchester]

do we have any episodes from the first handful of seasons that we like more than others 👀

basically, i’m just writing the episodes that stick out as favorites to me but i’d love to hear what you liked !! currently writing s1e9 bc yes i love the angst !!

[glimmeringwinchester]

𝐁𝐔𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — grace winchester remembers the very first night her father showed his true colors, and she’s confronted with the memories when she and her brothers take on a case in oklahoma

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) — implied/referenced child abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, canon-typical violence, dean winchester is an asshole but he does care about his little sister, sam winchester just wants dean to realize he was hurt too, oc au

series: love was the law

Palm Springs, California. 1991. 

Rain came down heavy in Palm Springs, cold droplets splashing against asphalt and concrete with a rhythmic pattering that fought to quell festering anxiety. Tiny hands batted at the doors of a sleek black car, pleading to be let inside, to be allowed to escape the frigid rain and late summer mosquitos. Brown hair is drenched, weighed down by the rain shower that started just after sunrise. The wooded area still smells of flesh and gasoline, and salt residue gathers beneath untrimmed fingernails that are jagged and uneven. The smokes cleared, the fires burnt out, but John Winchester remains at the scene of the burning, his jaw set into a tight line as he watches his youngest child – his only daughter – pound against the windows, fear etched across her features as she stands out in the rain. Every couple of seconds she shrieks, slapping at her skin whenever a mosquito lands on her body, and sickeningly the father of three can only laugh as he watches her panic. 

“Daddy!” The little girl no older than five years old, though she’ll very proudly tell anybody who asks that she’s almost six, pleads with her father, having not yet learned that begging is futile. She doesn’t know what she did wrong. Maybe he’s angry that she slipped in the mud on the way to burn the bones of a pissed off spirit, maybe he’s finally punishing her for breaking Dean’s fishing pole that hardly ever got used anyways, or maybe he just feels like being mean. He’d felt like being mean a lot lately. She jumps away from the car when a spider crawls near her hand, the tiny insect fighting to find shelter from the storm, but no matter how innocent its presence was in the moment, Grace Winchester was not a fan of anything with more than four legs and two eyes, and she knows for a fact that spiders have eight eyes, they just learned about it in school. 

The rain continues to patter against the dense woods, and as the humidity in California increases, it only draws more mosquitos out of hiding. The little girl sobs when she realizes a spider is crawling up her arm, and she flails dramatically to get it off of her. She thinks it's never going to end – the storm; the assault of mosquitos – but then the doors click, and John begrudgingly inclines his head toward the backseat, the only indication that she’s allowed to escape the downpour. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t apologize for locking her out, doesn’t affirm that she’s safe from bugs now, merely huffs through his nose and speeds away, leaving the pile of charred bones behind him. 

Present  

Grace Winchester lays against the hood of the Impala, her eyes wide and full of wonder as she gazes up at the sky, an endless expanse of stars just out of reach above her head and speckled across the abyss of darkness like splattered paint. The air is twinged with something warm and inviting, Springtime in full swing across the states, though the temperature fluctuations with every border she and her brothers cross over.  She doesn’t mind the slight chill and promise of something warmer once the sun rises over the horizon, taking a minute to appreciate how the breeze feels as it brushes against her arms and legs. Unlike her brothers, who never seem to adjust their wardrobe for the seasons, Grace leans into the annual change of climate, and looks forward to the warmer months and the promise of lighter layers and bright colors. She’s a sore thumb standing between Dean and Sam, their dark and broody exteriors softened by the splashes of color and patterns on her clothing, but they’ve long since stopped trying to indoctrinate her into flannels and deep neutrals. Even if Dean’ll never admit to it, he doesn’t mind the cotton shorts and frilly tops that take up space in his trunk. It’s a refreshing sight when everything else in their lives is so heavy and serious. 

Sam leans against the hood, his broad frame accentuated by the jacket around his shoulders. He doesn’t know how Grace is unphased in only a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt, subconsciously shivering whenever the breeze rolls past him. Unlike the youngest Winchester, whose only priority is trying to locate the big dipper, he’s nose deep in the local paper, scouring for a case to work while Dean does whatever he intended to do inside of the bar he’d spontaneously pulled up to nearly an hour ago. Grace has a good idea of how their older brother is wasting time inside the dive bar, but she can’t bring herself to care about the nitty gritty details of his scamming as she loses herself to relaxation for the first time in a while. 

She turns her head to the side when footsteps draw near, her brothers laugh projected over the lively atmosphere of music and distant chatter. She rolls her eyes at the wad of money Dean holds up with evident pride, entirely missing the fact that in his other hand is a paper cup with a bendy straw that hasn’t yet been mended into an arch. Sam trails his gaze over to Dean seconds later, and his reaction is almost identical.

“You know, we could get day jobs every once in a while.” Sam scoffs, lowering the news paper that he’d been very intently skimming for leads. Grace sits up on the hood, pulling her knees into her chest as she looks at her eldest brother, analyzing the short lived exasperation that crosses his features at Sam’s comment. 

“Huntings our day job and the pay is crap.” Dean hands the cup to Grace, saying nothing about what it is, though the youngest Winchester has a pretty good idea and instantly perks up, reaching for the take-away cup that she only just noticed. She hums in satisfaction when creamy vanilla washes against her taste buds, the cup cold between her hands but she hardly bristles at the temperature, more than content to sip away at the milkshake like it's warmer than it really is. 

“Yeah, but hustling pool, credit card scams?” Sam drops the paper even more, his shoulder crashing into Grace’s shin as he adjusts his stance, “It’s not the most honest thing in the world, Dean.” 

“Well, let’s see, honest, fun and easy.” He holds out his hands, pretending to weigh the options that he’s never even really considered. Grace likes to think that in another life, he would’ve owned his own mechanic company, but Dean has never known freedom nor normalcy enough to even recognize that as something he’d be remotely interested in. “It’s no contest.” She can only scoff at his stupid expression, both of his eyebrows raised as he inclines his head to the side. “Besides, we’re good at it. It’s what we were raised to do.” 

Sam’s quick to rebuttal, the moonlight glistening against his eyes. “Yeah, well, how we were raised was jacked.” 

“Yeah, says you.” Dean doesn’t hear what’s actually being said, and his response comes quick and without thought. “We got a new gig or what?” 

“Maybe. Oasis Plains, Oklahoma. Not far from here. Gas company employee, Dustin Burwash supposedly died from Creutzfeldt-Jakob.” Sam slips off the hood with purpose, laying the paper down on the black surface, just barely skimming the words as he tells Dean about the potential case. Grace furrows her eyebrows at the medical term she doesn’t understand, but Dean makes a noise of confusion before she can swallow her mouthful of milkshake to ask herself. “Human mad cow disease.” He clarifies, his eyes flickering to Grace for a second. He can only laugh at the sight of her only half paying attention as she bends the striped straw into a loop. 

“Mad cow? Wasn’t that on Oprah?” Dean leans forward, hands bracing on the hood of the car as he inspects the paper for any details Sam left out, his interest peaked far more than Grace’s. 

“You watch Oprah?” Grace could only roll her eyes at what Sam chose to focus on, but a smirk of amusement pulled at the corners of her lips as she took another sip of the cold treat between her hands. 

As if he’s only just realized that he’s unintentionally outed himself, Dean bristles at the question for a second before he’s moving on, clearly wanting to avoid any further teasing. “So this guy eats a bad burger, why’s it our kind of thing?” 

“Mad cow disease causes massive brain degeneration. It takes months, even years for the damage to appear but this guy Dustin, sounds like his brain disintegrated in about an hour, maybe less.” Grace listens closely to what Sam rambles off, but she makes no indication of being interested in any way. Dean however, inclines his head, having to agree that the conditions around Dustin’s death seem strange enough without any further details to support the claim Sam initially presented. “Now it could be a disease or it could be something much nastier.” 

It takes no further convincing, and with a curt nod of acceptance, Dean stands, clapping his hands together before he reaches out to pat Grace’s ankle. “Alright, Oklahoma. Man, work, work, work. No time to spend my money.” 

Grace rolls her eyes, sliding off of the hood as she follows her brother's movements. She ducks under Sam’s arm when he opens the back passenger door for her before she has the chance, crawling into the backseat with a careful grip on her milkshake. She reaches for a blanket that's thrown onto the floor instinctively, pulling it up around her body as she snuggles into the door as Dean starts the car. It’s not even a full minute later that the Impala is peeling away from the parking lot, heading straight for Oklahoma. 

-

Hours later, the sky is bright with daylight, but the clouds that hang overhead keep the Springtime heat from fully settling over the small town. A sweatshirt is pulled over her body, but the hem of her pink shorts is visible as she climbs out of the car after Dean, eager to stretch her legs after falling asleep in a tight ball in the backseat. She pulls her hair up into a ponytail as they approach a man loading his truck outside of Oklahoma Gas and Power, smiling sadly at the man as Dean swings his keys into his palm, also playing up the act they’ve discussed in detail on the drive over. 

“Travis Weaver?” Sam questions as they approach, straightening out his jacket that had gotten bunched up from his position in the car. 

“Yeah, that’s right.” The man, Travis, answers, turning to look at the siblings that have the same light eyes in various shades of green. 

“Are you the Travis who worked with Uncle Dusty?” Dean asked, wanting to be sure they were talking to the right person while not-so-subtly dropping their connection to Dustin. It was almost disgusting to consider how good they had become at slipping into lives that weren’t their own, but that ability to disappear into someone else had come from years of practice and failure. Grace can’t remember the first time she’d been told to ‘just go with it’ but she can definitively assume she was more than a little skeptical. Now, she hardly bristles at the prospect of lying through her teeth. 

“Dustin never mentioned having nephews or a niece.” Travis frowned, taking in the appearance of the siblings, his eyes raking across Grace’s body as he took in the sight of her dressed so differently from the men on either side of her. 

“Really? Well, he sure mentioned you. He said you were the greatest.” Dean kept up the act, his smile entirely fake as he looked down at Travis. 

“Oh, he did? Huh.” Grace could’ve cringed at how flattered Travis looked if she wasn’t so focused on getting the information they needed. It was sickening to think that something so small could make someone stricken with grief so happy, and it was even more sickening to think that it was all a lie and most of the people they encountered never even knew. Maybe it gave them peace; Grace hopes that it does, otherwise she’d feel horrible. 

“Listen, we wanted to ask you, uh what exactly happened out there?” Grace’s lips trembled, her sad smile sinking into a grimace as she looked to Travis for information, hardly aware of how she played the part of a grieving niece almost too well. Sam had always been amazed at how naturally she could become somebody else, fitting whatever roll they wore like she was a trained expert. That was definitely an area where she far surpassed his level of expertise. 

Travis shook his eyes, his eyes twinged with pain that spoke volumes about his awareness of the situation; not that anyone could blame him for not immediately questioning the circumstances of Dustin’s death. The average person didn’t immediately consider that something supernatural had been at hand. “I’m not sure. He fell in the sinkhole. I went to the truck to get some rope, and, uh, by the time I got back…”

“What’d you see?” Grace allowed her voice to waver just slightly, desperation bleeding into her tone as she set her eyes on Travis firmly. Dean had to hide his amused smile behind a wrinkled grin of matching desperation, though his tone remained far more even than Grace’s. 

“Nothing. Just Dustin.” All of the siblings could tell that was far from the truth, but Travis didn’t seem to question the nature of the injuries he’d seen. They’d probably all been explained away by detectives and medical examiners who were always so desperate to find scientific evidence over logical reasoning. 

“Well, he was bleeding from his eyes and his ears and his nose, that’s it.” Travis shrugged, and Grace nodded gratefully, taking in the information and simultaneously trying to piece together what had happened with the information they already knew. 

Dean tilted his head to the side, his lips pressed into a thin line as he pressed for more. “So do you think it could be this whole mad cow thing?”

“I don’t know that’s what the doctors are saying.” Travis was hardly phased, having no reason to doubt the medical examination or the facts that the doctors had disclosed to him and the public. 

“But if it was, he would have acted strange beforehand like dementia, loss of motor control. You ever notice anything like that?” Sam pressed this time, but his tone was even, unassuming. 

Travis shook his head again, “Yeah, but then again, if it wasn’t some disease what the hell was it?” 

“That’s a good question.” Dean hummed his agreement. 

“You know, can you tell us where this happened?” Sam questioned, knowing that they’ve gotten everything out of Travis that they possibly could, and they’d need to do more digging elsewhere if they were going to learn anything of use. 

-

Oasis Plains Estates was exactly how Grace had pictured it would be, and as the engine revved, she glanced out of the back window, taking in the sights of large and lavish homes steadily being constructed by teams of men in orange hard hats. These were the kinds of neighborhoods she’d always been fascinated by, but there was something off-putting and eerie about knowing that a man had lost his life here – still, she thinks a neighborhood like this would be better than crappy motel rooms any day. 

She’d changed since they peeled away from the construction company’s headquarters, and as she climbed out of the car before Dean had even gotten the gear in park, she adjusted the waistband of her jeans, already annoyed by how thick denim cut into her hip bones. 

“Huh. What do you think?” Dean hummed as they crossed the street, approaching caution tape and the sinkhole that Dustin had fallen into. Nothing about the location in particular had her feeling any type of way, and so she only shrugged indifferently in Dean’s direction, brushing hair out of her face when the wind blew just enough to rustle her thin locks. 

“I don’t know, but if that guy Travis was right it happened pretty damn fast.” Sam noted, ducking beneath the caution tape with Dean, but he turned to hold it up for Grace, laughing quietly when Dean scoffed in annoyance about not receiving the same treatment. 

“So what? Some sort of creature chewed on his brain?” Grace grimaced at the visual, batting a hand against Dean’s bicep as she rolled her eyes at his unnecessarily vivid imagery. 

Sam wasn’t so phased, shaking his head as he peered into the sinkhole where roots grew and intertwined chaotically. “No, there’d be an entry wound. Sounds like this thing worked from the inside.

All three of the siblings squatted down, peering into the hole in the ground with equal disinterest. Sam’s nose wrinkled as he watched Dean shine a light on the sinkhole, and Dean, ever the observant individual, noted that there was only room for one of them down there. “You wanna flip a coin?” He questioned, ducking under the caution tape once again. 

“Oh yeah, let’s go down there when we have no idea what the hell happened to begin with.” Grace scoffed, shaking her head as she and Sam exchanged equally bewildered expressions before turning back to their older brother. 

“Alright, I’ll go if you’re scared.” Dean grabbed a hose from the ground, his tone laced with jesting arrogance that he knew would get under Sam’s skin. Grace wasn’t so easily roped into his shenanigans, and thus, entirely ignored the antagonizing comment. “You scared?” He only further egged Sam on. 

“Flip the damn coin.” Sam caved and Dean chuckled with amusement, reaching into his pocket for a coin upon the rebutted request. 

“Alright, call it in the air, chicken.” The coin toss was futile, because the second Dean flipped the nickel, Sam snatched it out of the air, declaring that he was going to be the one to go down. Despite not knowing what awaited him in the sinkhole, Grace wasn’t going to argue, just glad that she wasn’t being sacrificed with the bullshit excuse of ‘you’re smaller’. Dean, however, continued to tease, claiming that he said he would go down as if they all didn’t know he was bluffing just to do the opposite. 

Sam tied the hose around his waist, but his hands were quickly batted out of the way by Grace who stepped in to tie the knot the second she realized Sam had no idea what he was doing. She knew the second he bore any weight on the knot he originally created, it would’ve slipped right out and he would’ve fell however many feet it was to the bottom. She really did question if they’d still be alive without her constant supervision. 

“Don’t drop me.” Sam huffed, looking more toward Dean than Grace. Dean only rolled his eyes in response, gesturing for Sam to get on with it already, not wanting to draw any suspicion toward them when the up and coming development was crawling with construction workers still on the job. 

Sam lowered himself into the sinkhole, and Dean grabbed onto the hose, batting Grace away when she stepped up to help him. She rolled her eyes at him, but didn’t object, stepping away from the hole in the ground with the assurance that her brothers had it handled. Sam wasn’t down there for any more than thirty seconds before he was calling for Dean to pull him back up, one of his hands cradling something cautiously while the other clawed at the dirt around him. 

When he was on his own two feet again, he wiggled out of the hose, nodding toward the car without any further comment. Grace rolled her eyes, and Dean did the same, but the both of them followed Sam regardless of their attitudes towards his newfound silence. Once they were situated in the Impala, Sam opened his palm, revealing a very dead beetle with the most disgusting antennas at the top of its head. Grace flinched, shrinking into herself as she put as much distance between herself and the bug as she could manage. 

“So you found some beetles in a hole in the ground. That’s shocking, Sam.” Dean hummed not even three minutes later, his eyes glancing at the insect that Sam hadn’t stopped messing with before he refocused on the road ahead of him, one hand on the wheel while the other gripped the gear stick. 

Sam only shrugged, not giving into the sarcasm this time around, apparently able to pick and choose when he wanted to fall victim to Dean’s antagonizing. “There were no tunnels, no tracks, no evidence of any other kind of creature down there. You know, some beetles do eat meat. Now it’s usually dead meat, but–”

“How many did you find down there?” Dean cut him off, not interested in hearing all of the oddly specific beetle facts that Sam undoubtedly knew off the top of his head. Grace was more than glad about that, though she still shivered in disgust at the fact that her brother was holding onto a dead beetle somewhat protectively, poking and prodding at it like it wasn’t once a live insect that probably carried a few million diseases. 

“Ten.” Sam sounded proud of the development, meanwhile Grace scrunched her nose up in disgust, very glad that she hadn’t been the one to stumble upon ten beetles. 

“It would take a whole lot more than that to eat some dude’s brain.” Dean shook his head, rightfully skeptical about the premise of only ten beetles eating a man's brain in a matter of minutes. 

“Well, maybe there were more.” Sam rebutted, wrapping his fingers around the beetle as he tried to sway Dean’s opinion. Grace was just glad she couldn’t see the black insect anymore, still beyond disgusted that it was even in the car with her to begin with. 

“I don’t know. Sounds like a stretch to me.”

“Well, we need more information on the area, the neighborhood. Whether something like this has ever happened before.” Sam prattled on, but Dean’s attention was quickly misplaced as he analyzed red balloons on the side of the road, tied to a post just inches away from an open house sign. 

“I know a good place to start.” He commented smugly, his eyes scanning the surrounding area until they found yet another sign that advertised a community barbeque in a backyard. “Kind of hungry for a little barbeque. How about you?” Sam rolled his eyes, and Grace did the same, hardly surprised that Dean was interested in free food and conversing with townspeople. “What, we can’t talk to the locals?” 

“And the free food’s got nothing to do with it?” Sam teased, his smirk only growing when Grace laughed softly, bating at the back of Dean’s seat. 

“Of course not. I’m a professional.” 

“Swear to god, Dean. If you puke this time, I’m going to kick you.” Grace threatened as Dean pulled up to a house on the left hand side, her mind flashing back to the last barbeque they’d stumbled into somewhere deep in Ohio. He’d entered a hot dog eating contest like an asshole, and after losing (which he still won’t admit to, claiming the guy who won cheated by not eating the buns) he’d puked inches away from her brand new running shoes that hadn’t even acquired a spec of dirt yet. 

Dean only rolled his eyes at her comment, turning the engine off before he climbed out of the car, Sam and Grace following his lead begrudgingly. They glanced at the houses, taking in the large driveways and abstract roofs as they ventured down the sidewalk. “Growing up in a place like this would freak me out.” Dean commented, which had both Grace and Sma frowning in confusion. 

“Why?” Grace questioned, looking at the houses that were more or less finished. They weren’t exactly her style, a little too flashy and big for what she figured her taste was, but something about it still felt safe and oddly romanticized. This was the kind of neighborhood that threw block parties in the middle of the street, and where everybody knew everybody even if they secretly hated everything about the town and its community. 

“The manicured laws, how-was-your-day-honey? I’d blow my brains out.” Dean scoffed, still heavily critiquing the development. 

“I think it’d be nice. You’re just allergic to normal.” Grace commented, Sam nodding his head in agreement as he stepped toward the left, giving her more room to walk between them instead of lingering awkwardly behind their broad frames like she’d found herself doing. 

“I’d take our family over normal any day.” Dean scoffed, eyeing a sign in the front yard as they stumbled up the driveway. 

“Normal and our family don’t have to be antonyms, you know. We could be normal.” Grace hummed, already getting lost in the hypothetical image of growing up without crappy motel rooms and a dead mom that she can’t even remember. She knows that had they had white-picket fences and parent teacher conferences, they most likely wouldn’t have had the relationship that they do now, but she thinks she’d be okay with stereotypical annoying older brothers that have their own lives outside of her own instead of the trauma and constant fear that’s rooted in the reality they did actually grow up within. 

She pushes past Sam to be the one to knock on the door, a cheeky smile on her lips as she turns to tease him. Sam pushes her head away from his, but he laughs quietly beneath his breath regardless of the annoyed display he puts on. There are very few moments where he gets to see his sister for who she actually is, but as he watches her pound her fist against the textured glass, it’s clear as day that beneath the hunter exterior she always puts up, she’s just a twenty-year-old kid that still has so much joy tethered to her spirit. He wishes that she’d drop the act more often, she’d finally stopped putting it on at all in the last few months that they spent together at Stanford, but he knows what happens when she slips up, and he knows that despite their father not being around physically, she’s still terrified of word getting back to him that she was anything less than perfect. 

The door swings open seconds later, and Grace’s mask comes right back up. Her contagious excitement that had both Sam and Dean grinning was quickly shoved aside, replaced with a stoic expression that only conveyed what it absolutely needed to. “Welcome.” 

“This the barbeque?” Dean questioned, a smirk splaying across his lips as he inhaled the aroma of smoked meat and charcoal. 

“Yeah, not the best weather, but…” The man glanced at the sky, the overcast weather not uncommon for early Spring, but definitely a damper on his plans for a sunny-day barbeque. “I’m, uh, Larry Pike, the developer here, and you are?” 

“Dean, this is Sam, Grace.” Dean introduced them at the same time that Sam and Grace introduced themselves. Larry could only chuckle softly, his lips curving into a grin as he nodded. 

“Sam, Dean, Grace, good to meet you.” Larry exchanged formalities, “So you three are interested in Oasis Plains?” 

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded his head, inclining his chin just slightly to the right as he agreed, but Grace could tell he was itching to be let inside and shown to the food. She had to stifle the scoff that threatened to fall off of her lips, the days she’d been spending with her brothers breaking all of the habits she’d spent decades perfectly curating to avoid her fathers rage. It was both liberating and terrifying, because she knew that they would find him eventually, and she’d have to deal with the repercussions of letting herself be comfortable in her own skin for a change.

“Let me just say, we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color or… sexual orientation.” Grace and Sam couldn’t contain their smirks of amusement, meanwhile Dean looked deeply distributed by the insinuation that his connection to either of them was anything more than familial. 

“These are my brothers.” Grace smiled politely, fighting back her giggles as Dean tried his best not to start rambling about how Larry's analysis of their relationship was beyond off and disturbing.

“Big brothers.” Dean clarified, and Grace could only roll her eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. 

“Our father is getting on in years and we’re just looking for a place for him.” Sam cut in before Dean could derail the conversation anymore than it already had been. 

Larry hardly even bristled at the wrong assumption, inclining his head like a stereotypical businessman solely seeking out successes in his career. “Great, great. Well, seniors are welcome to. Come on in.”

The siblings followed Larry through the house, looking around at the furniture choices and style as they were guided out to the backyard where more people gathered. Some had red solo cups in hand, while others simply mingled, lively chatter filling the space easily. 

“You said you were the developer?” Dean questioned as Larry stepped outside, a smile on his lips as he proudly showed off his accomplishments. 

“A few months ago I was walking this valley with my survey team. There was nothing here but scrub brush and squirrels. And you know what, we built such a nice place to live that I actually bought into it myself. This is our house. We’re the first family in Oasis Plains.” Larry walked backwards as he explained the last few months of his life and developments, a smile on his lips as he peered over his shoulder, approaching a woman in a baby pink blouse. “This is my wife, Joanie.” 

“Hi there.” Joanie smiled, shaking Dean’s hand before she shook Sam’s. Grace only smiled, Joanie nodding her head fondly at her. 

“Sam, Dean and Grace.” Larry introduced them, and Sam was quick to mention that he was Sam, not wanting to be confused for Dean which had Grace shaking her head just slightly as she stepped back to let her brothers guide the conversation. She had no interest in baseless conversations, and so far, there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary that piqued her interest enough to pretend like she wanted to engage in a mindless conversation. 

“Tell them how much you love the place, honey. And lie if you have to because I need to sell some houses.” Larry faux whispered, and Grace had to fight the eye roll at his obnoxious attitude. She hated men that sought out nothing but personal gain, and while she could respect an honest hustle for business, something about Larry himself just rubbed her the wrong way. First impressions were hardly ever misleading, and so all she put her energy into was appearing polite enough. 

Her brothers, however, laughed in polite amusement, Sam’s lips curving into a smile as he nodded along.

“Boys, Grace, if you’ll excuse me.” Larry quickly saw himself out of the conversation, and Joanie was quick to step up, although Grace found her energy far more enticing than this. 

“Don’t let his salesman routine scare you.” Joanie brushed Larry off, more for Grace’s benefit than Sam or Dean, but still the men nodded anyway. “This really is a great place to live.”

“Hi, I’m Lynda Bloom, head of sales.” Another woman approached, and Joanie was quick to welcome her into the conversation, jutting a hand out in Lynda’s direction with a sweet smile on her lips as light refracted off of her necklace, something Grace was sure her brothers didn’t notice in the slightest, but she appreciated. 

“And Lynda was second to move in. She’s a very noisy neighbor though.” Grace found herself smirking at Joanie’s comment before the woman peeled away, leaving only Lynda to converse with. 

“She’s kidding, of course. I take it you three are interested in becoming homeowners.” The woman stepped the slightest bit closer, and instinctively, Grace stepped back, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Sam or Dean, though her brothers were hardly phased and thoroughly amused. They’d grown up with Grace rambling about how girls can read each other easily, and they’d always found it humorous, clearly that hadn’t changed as Dean’s hand jutted out to slap at her side. 

“Yeah, yeah, well..” Sam trailed off, but Lynda cut in before he could finish, not that he knew what to say in the slightest. 

“Well, let me just say that we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color or… sexual orientation.” Lynda gave the same rehearsed spiel, and this time neither Sam or Grace found it as funny as they did the first time, both fighting grimaces as they wondered why these people were so intent with analyzing their behavior beneath a romantic lens. In Grace’s opinion, they were basically the poster children for typical American siblings. 

“I’m gonna go talk to Larry, alright honey?” Dean played into it, and Grace honestly wasn’t sure whether he was addressing her or Sam, but that question was very quickly answered when he turned on his heels and began walking back toward the house, but not without reaching out to tap Sam’s butt on his way. 

Grace had to turn her face away to get her laughter under control, meanwhile Sam snapped his head back to glare at Dean’s retreating frame. It didn’t take any further prompting for Lynda to lead them over toward a tented area, talking their ears off about the customizations and amenities that Oasis Plains had to offer. Grace wanted to beat her head against the wooden fence, and every time she glanced over at Sam, she was certain that he was thinking the same thing, his eyes practically dead as he forced small smiles and head nods every few seconds just to appease Lynda. Grace was doing the same, but her boredom wasn’t so discreet as she drummed her fingers against the table to her right, wondering where the hell Dena had escaped to and inquiring about whether he was undergoing the same torment. She was only half paying attention when Sam stepped around Lynda and braced his hands on her shoulders, softly guiding her away from the table without any further explanation. Grace frowned curiously, but when her eyes followed his sharp motions, her breath caught in her throat as she realized a tarantula was mere centimeters away from where her hands had been. Immediately shivers crawled up her spine and she flinched in disgust, looking antsy as she glanced between Sam and the house. 

“I need to go wash my hands.” She announced quietly, making a quick b-line for the house, leaving Sam and the tarantula behind, although she was almost certain that she could feel it crawling up her arms despite not even actually touching her skin. She shivered in disgust at the thought of it brushing against her without her even realizing, suddenly desperate to scrub her hands until they were raw and bleeding. 

She stumbled into Dean on her haste to enter the house again, her shoulder bumping into his chest as she brushed through the crowd. She hadn’t even noticed him coming out of the house with Larry, but as she snapped her head to the left, she realized that he’d been one of the people she’d pushed past in an anxious hurry. Dean furrowed his eyebrows at her, a hand holding onto her wrist as he kept her in place. “What’s up?” He inquired, taking note of the unsettled gleam in her soft eyes. 

Grace shook her head, practically trembling as her voice came out rushed and whispered, “Fucking tarantula like an inch away from my hand. Oh my god, I think we need to cut my hands off. I can feel it crawling on me.” 

Dean rolled his eyes in fond exasperation, completely ignoring her dramatics as he pulled her along with him to Sam. “You’ll be fine.” He coaxed half-heartedly, accepting that her fear of bugs was very real, but not knowing the root, and therefore not recognizing the fact that she was seconds away from a panic attack – the memory of a late night in Palm Springs playing at the forefront of her mind despite all efforts to stay grounded in the present. His eyes fell onto her features when her fingers latched onto the sleeve of his jacket, and finally he took note of how her eyes were glazed over and far from the current moment, and the tough exterior he put on melted away quickly, replaced by soft understanding that he very rarely let show. “Hey, you’re okay, sweetheart. We’ll find Sammy and get out of here, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Grace agreed easily, but her grip on his sleeve didn’t falter, and although Dean was beyond confused, he didn’t push for anymore information, just continued on toward where Sam stood beneath a tent in front of a teenage boy. They got to him just as Larry began dragging the kid away, and Sam’s eyes lingered for a second before he looked to Dean and Grace. 

“Remind you of somebody?” Sam smirked, his eyes trailing over where Larry was not-so-subtly reprimanding his son beside the back door. Grace shivered, knowing exactly what Sam was referencing, but Dean remained unphased by the taunting, apparently not recognizing the similarities between Larry and John. “Dad?” 

“Dad never treated us like that.” Dean frowned, beyond confused. 

Sam scoffed, his eyes trailing over Grace who was hardly paying attention to the conversation at all, subconsciously picking at her cuticles with the hand that wasn’t tightly holding onto Dean’s leather sleeve. “Well, dad never treated you like that. You were perfect. He was all over my case.” 

John Winchester definitely had favorites, and very rarely (literally never) was Grace above her brothers. But, even though Sam was never thrown to the ground by his own hands, or locked outside of the car in a bug infested wooded area at five-years-old in the pouring rain, he didn’t avoid John’s gruff scrutiny so easily either. “You don’t remember?” Sam scoffed. 

“Well, maybe he had to raise his voice but sometimes you were out of line.” Dean wouldn't touch any conversation about Grace’s relationship with John with a ten foot pole, but he would touch Sam’s, and the frustration that the middle Winchester felt was only piling up by the day, incapable of comprehending how his brother could openly admit that John was a dick, while also being his biggest supporter. Grace could understand it, but she wasn’t in the mood to unpack the trauma response of surviving at whatever costs necessary. 

Sam rolled his eyes, not willing to abandon the topic just yet, despite how desperately Grace wished they’d stop talking about John all together. Her fingers twitched as she held onto Dean’s sleeve, but before he could react, she pulled her hands away entirely, intertwining her fingers in front of her body as she rocked on her feet. “Right. Right, like when I said I’d rather play soccer than learn bowhunting.” Sam rolled his eyes, his gaze trailing over Grace once more, but his sister still didn’t seem to be paying any more attention than she had been before, her eyes glazed over as she glanced back to where Larry and his son had once stood, but now both were gone. 

“Bowhuntings an important skill.” Dean rebutted, and if Grace wasn’t so dazed from lingering panic, she would’ve frowned at how normalized all of this was for Dean. She’d gotten the chance to spend almost an entire year out from beneath her fathers thumb, but Dean never had, and when she’d been healing, finding herself and establishing connections in the real world, he’d been subjected to it all alone. Maybe Dean had never been beaten until he passed out, maybe he’d never been taunted with cynical punishments, but he was just as equally manipulated by the mind games that John Winchester thrived on playing with his own children; he just hadn’t realized it yet. Grace could be patient, she could wait for him to realize how much of his life and adolescence had been tarnished by John’s attitude on his own terms. Sam however, didn't seem to be able to extend the same thoughtfulness. 

“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes, not in the mood to have his feelings belittled and trampled over. “How was your tour?” 

“Oh, it was excellent. I’m ready to buy.” Dean quipped, a sarcastic smile on his face before it fell, his tone dropping as he grew serious. “So you might be onto something. Looks like Dustin Burwash wasn’t the first strange death around here.” Grace frowned, looking up at Dean at the information, finally coming out of her own head enough to be fully engaged in the conversation at hand. 

“What happened?” She questioned, angling her body so that Larry couldn’t watch them talk, not that he’d be able to hear them from across the patio, but she didn’t want to take any chances and raise any more red flags than necessary. 

“About a year ago before they broke ground one of Larry’s surveyors dropped dead while on the job. Get this. Severe allergic reaction to bee stings.” 

“More bugs.” Sam concluded, and Dean nodded, repeating the realization. 

“Fucking great. Yippee.” Grace shivered, her brothers glancing down sympathetically, although amusement shone bright in both of their light eyes. If only they knew why she was so afraid, there wouldn’t be an ounce of amusement glistening through their green stares, but she wasn’t ready to disclose hidden moments of the past just yet, and they weren’t ready to hear it. 

-

Another handful of hours later, all three siblings were once again crammed into the car, although this time Sam was behind the wheel and Dean was nose deep in a book in the passenger seat. Grace was curled up in the backseat, forcing herself to go through a million different breathing exercises as her brothers discussed insects and creepy crawlies at distributing lengths. Her hair was dry, her clothes weren’t damp in the slightest, but she swore she could feel rain pelting her skin and turning her bones to frozen ice as she sat in the backseat, her mind half present and half far away in the first memory of her father being truly cruel and unforgiving. He’d raised his voice at her before that moment. He’d grabbed her wrist too hard, tied her braids too tight, but never had he done something like lock her out of the car in the middle of the woods. She can still remember the way her little heart had lept in her chest with overwhelming fear as spiders crawled over her clothes, and mosquitos leeched onto any part of her body that they could draw blood from. After that hunt, she’d been covered in at least thirty mosquito bites that had bled for weeks before they healed. Dean and Sam never knew how she got them, and John had made sure they never had the chance to ask. 

“You know, I’ve heard of killer bees, but killer beetles? What is it that could make different bugs attack?” Dean questioned, flipping to another page in the book, although Grace is certain that he’s already read the same pages three times over, but she doesn’t comment on it, more than content to let the boys take the lead on this case while she focuses on not succumbing to violent memories at the forefront of her mind. 

“Well, haunting sometimes includes bug manifestations.” Sam suggested, but Dean didn’t even let that sit in the air for a second before he was arguing its legitimacy, his eyes scanning the pages between his fingers intently. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t see any evidence of ghost activity.” He explained, and with pursed lips Sam agreed, effectively sending them both back to the drawing board. “Maybe they’re being controlled somehow you know, but something or someone.” 

Sam frowned, looking over at Dean, his eyes flickering to Grace for only a second before he was focusing back on the road, the Impala’s headlights shining bright in the expanse of darkness that surrounded them. “You mean like Willard?”

“Yeah. Bugs instead of rats.” Grace would be more than okay if it were rats that they were questioning right now, even if she desperately despised those creatures too. Nothing was worse than bugs. She’d been scared of them before that night in Palm Springs, but now all they do is stir wild anxiety in her belly. John Winchester hated her weaknesses, but he’d been the one to give her most of them. 

“There are cases of psychic connections between people and animals. Elementals, telepaths.” Sam explained away what he could, ideas bouncing off of Dean who took them in with only mild scrutiny. 

“Yeah, the whole Timmy-Lassie thing.” Dean hummed thoughtfully before he found a connection, his right hand jutting outward in a motion of understanding as he craned his head to glance at both Grace and Sam. “Larry’s kid. Got bugs for pets.” 

“Matt?” Sam questioned, nodding in agreement with Dean as he recalled the events of the barbeque. “He did try to scare Gracie and the realtor with a tarantula.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Grace shivered, grabbing at the silver chain around her neck instinctively, clutching the cold pendant between her warm palms, desperately trying to keep herself from overthinking how close the spider had been to her hand. Dean reaches back, patting her knee affectionately though he said nothing to ease her discomfort, not-so-subtly enjoying the way she squirmed in her seat like a terrified child. 

“Think he’s our Willard?” 

Sam sighed, both hands on the wheel now. “I don’t know. Anything’s possible, I guess.” 

Dean inclined his head in contemplation, but quickly pointed out a house on the side of the road, his finger tapping against the window as he directed Sam to slow down. “Oh, hey, pull over here.” 

Grace frowned in confusion, and Sam shared the same expression as he pulled into the driveway of the house. “What are we doing here?” He questioned, craning his head to glance out the window as Dean began to peel himself out of the car wordlessly. 

Grace crawled into the front seat when Dean reached for the garage door handle, “It’s too late to talk to anybody else.” His only defense as he began to pull the door open, revealing an empty garage. 

“We’re gonna squat in an empty house?” Sam called out in disbelief, but it wasn’t the most insane thing they’d done while seeking shelter on an active case, so Grace remained silent, emotionally drained from the long day behind her now. 

“I wanna try the steam shower. Come on.” Dean encouraged, but Sam remained unconvinced, simply staring at him through the open window. Grace, however, smiled in amusement, always the one to make the most out of whatever cards they were dealt, and spending a night in a bed of her own – a real bed, on top of everything else – well that didn’t seem so bad at all. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had her own space to sleep in, certain that if it had happened at all, it had been years ago. “Come on!” 

Grace batted her hand against Sam’s bicep, silently encouraging him to pull the car into the garage before anybody still lingering around the development could notice them. Sam rolled his eyes but obliged by the request, smirking in fond amusement when the side mirror crashed into Dean’s hand, their brother wincing in pain before he pulled the garage door down and into place, concealing the Impala for the night. 

She climbed out of the car eagerly, brushing strands of hair off of her shoulders before she was heading to the back of the car in search of her own duffle bag. Dean already had the trunk open, her navy blue duffle over his shoulder and his own black bag held up on the other one. Sam rolled his eyes when he realized that Dean had no intention of grabbing his bag, and shoved his older brother out of the way so that he could retrieve it himself. 

“Better sleep with one eye open, Gracie. Wouldn’t want any spiders in your bed, would you?” Dean taunted, his smirk electric and jesting, but it fell away quickly when Grace tensed at his side, her eyes widening with fear that was more than just irrational. Her breath caught, her lips beginning to tremble before teeth sank into soft skin, willing them to remain unmoving and neutral, though everything about her expression seeped genuine terror.  

Her eyes refused to meet Deans, but weakly she pleaded with him to ease up on the jokes. “Can you not? Please?” She grabbed her duffle off of his shoulder, stalking past both him and Sam before either one of them could say anything to either remedy the situation or make it worse. It wasn’t the first time Dean had threatened her with bugs, he was the stereotypical annoying older brother that exploited any lighthearted weakness his siblings expressed, but all of the times when he’d teased her about spiders in the past had been out of pocket. Now, there were actual bugs that were potentially killing people, and Grace was in no condition to just let the joke roll off of her shoulders like she’d always done before. 

Dean frowned in confusion as he watched her walk away and enter the house, Sam standing right beside him wearing the same expression of uncertainty. “She’s being weird, right?” 

“She’s scared of bugs, dude. I think she has every right to be a little on edge.” Sam defended, but even he was skeptical. 

Dean shook his head, and for a moment, Sam could see the genuine concern in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide at any given moment. “No. The way she held onto my sleeve at the barbeque… she’s not telling us something.” 

“Think it has to do with Dad?” Sam questioned as he closed the trunk, not without grabbing a blanket from the back that he knew Grace wouldn’t be able to sleep without. She was always cold at night, and he doubted that the house would have the best heat circulation – or any at all – with only the necessary furniture piled into it. 

“When doesn’t it with her?” Dean sighed sadly, nodding toward the door, desperate to leave the day behind and turn in for at least a couple hours of rest. Sam didn’t argue, following after his older brother and stepping past the threshold. For a moment, he wondered what their lives would’ve turned out to be if they’d never left Lawrence, but there was no point dwelling on what would never be known, so as quickly as he considered it, he moved on, just wanting to turn in for the night. 

-

The next morning, Grace was already up and ready for whatever challenges they faced while trying to uncover the mysteries of Oasis Plains. The sun had risen over the development, and with the birds chirping outside, all of the siblings were gathering themselves in preparation, although Dean had skewed priorities. 

Grace was sitting in the hallway, her back against the wall, and her knees pulled up to her chin as she waited around for her brothers to get a move on. She was in no rush to get back into bug infested territory, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t going restless. She’d never been good at keeping still, always in search of something to keep her mind alert and her hands busy, but there was absolutely nothing to do in a house that only had the basic necessities. The refrigerator wasn’t even plugged in downstairs, still covered in plastic that protected the stainless steel from scratches. 

Sam knocked on the bathroom door minutes later, annoyance set into his jaw as he heard the water still running. “You ever coming out of there?” He asked, only receiving a grumbled ‘What’ in response as Dean stayed beneath the stream of hot water. Grace had already showered, and her hair was still slightly damp as it fell over her left shoulder in a loose braid. “Dean, a police call came in on the scanner. Someone was found dead three blocks from here. Come on.” 

“More bugs?” Grace questioned from the floor, her light eyes revealing vulnerability that she just didn’t have the energy to conceal anymore. She’d hardly gotten even an hour of sleep, unable to move on from the phantom sensation of bugs crawling up her skin enough to actually rest, and that was evident in her dim eyes and timid demeanor. 

“Looks like it.” Sam smiled sympathetically, knowing that even if he suggested Grace stay here instead of join them out in the town and upcoming development, she’d never agree to those conditions. He wouldn’t either. Not when the both of them grew up being expected to perform under any conditions and restraints. 

The door cracked open, and Dean grinned widely. “This shower is awesome.” He concluded, a towel wrapped around his hair as steam slipped out from the crack in the door. Grace could only scoff her amusement, rolling her eyes at his fascination with simple pleasantries. 

“Come on.” Sam rolled his eyes, strutting away from the bathroom door in exasperation. Dean had an amusing way of always getting beneath his skin. He played the same tricks every time, but somehow Sam never learned to just ignore him. If Grace didn’t know any better, she’d suggest that Sam likes being annoyed by Dean. It certainly makes her day interesting. 

She stood up from her spot in the hallway, following Sam down the stairs. She’d already explored every inch of the house, but her eyes still scanned the layout as she descended the staircase, making note of all the subtle details and elements that further exonerated the vibe of the house. It wasn’t anything elaborate despite the size and favorable amenities, and she quite liked how nonchalant it felt to walk the halls in a pair of black leggings and a sweatshirt. It felt comfortable, easy. If she had been given the chance, she would’ve loved to grow up in a house like this.  

“Gracie?” Sam questioned as the youngest Wincheter came to stand in the kitchen. Grace hummed her attention, soft eyes trailing over Sam as she inspected his body for injuries. “Yesterday–” He began, trailing off as he scratched at his chin, unsure of how to broach the topic without upsetting his sister who notoriously wanted nothing to do with conversations about their fathers behavior. “You’re scared of bugs because of Dad, aren’t you?” He decided that blunt was the best option, but immediately regretted it when Grace reeled back like she’d been physically struck, her eyes widening for only a second before she masked the expression like she’d always had to do whenever John was around. 

“You don’t want to go there, Sammy. Just leave it alone.” That was answer enough, and Sam nodded, knowing that he wasn’t going to get anymore information out of Grace without further prying, and that wasn’t something he was interested in or ever wanted to do. Dean was the one who pushed them to open up, who fought to know every secret they kept close to their hearts. Sam and Grace, however, had the mutual understanding that they’d share when they were ready, and it was okay if they never were. 

“Right.” He hummed, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he accepted the end of the conversion; not that it had even started to begin with. He wasn’t trying to get more information out of her, more than willing to leave it alone, but Grace still softened at the sight of him so caught up in his head, and her shoulders deflated as she leaned against the granite countertop. 

“You were seven. I was five. We were in Palm Springs chasing that spirit that killed the two girls. Dad took me out to burn the bones, told you and Dean that we’d be back by sunrise with breakfast from that dumbass diner with the dinosaur in the parking lot. We came back soaked, and Dean was pissed off that Dad let me stand in the rain, because he got in trouble for going out during a storm the week before. Dad just agreed, let him think that I wanted to be out there with him, but he– god, that’s not even close to what happened. I tripped over a branch, fell in the mud. Dad was pissed that the new shirt I’d gotten from Bobby was already ruined. After he made me salt the bones, he told me to stay where I was, to make sure that the bones actually burned. He went back to the car, I thought he was coming back, but then he didn’t. It was the middle of spring, and humid, and it just started pouring out of nowhere. I came back covered in mosquito bites and you were mad that they kept bleeding onto the bed sheets. Dad told you I got bit while we burned the bones, and I mean, yeah I guess I probably did, but he didn’t tell you that he locked me out of the car for two hours as a punishment for ‘fucking things up like always’. At one point, there was a spider on me. I freaked out, I mean, I hated bugs to begin with, but being out in the rain, in the middle of the night, still able to smell the gasoline from the fire– I don’t know. It sounds stupid. Honestly, it is stupid. But that was when he really started to change. When the little comments he made turned into being backhanded, when any minor mistake was suddenly reason enough to hit me until I couldn’t get up without help. There is so much you don’t know, Sammy, and I’m not ready to talk about it. And, as much as you think you’re ready to hear it, you’re not. So yes, I’m scared of bugs because of Dad, but just… drop it, okay? I’ll be fine. I’ve always been fine.” Grace wasn’t even aware of the fact that she was rambling, anxiously pulling at her fingers as she disclosed the first night John Winchester had ever shown her his true colors. She’d idolized him at the time; been able to overlook the comments he made and the ways in which he treated her differently than the boys. She’d loved him, even afterwards, but now, now she’s not so sure whether she hates him with a burning passion, or still wants to try and impress him even slightly. 

Grace could see the gears turning in Sam’s head. She could see him piecing together snippets of the past that had made no sense at the time, but now had a different meaning. “You let Dean and I torment you with bugs for years…” He trailed off, an unspoken apology in his saddened eyes that Grace only shrugged off, harboring no hard feelings for her brother's actions. 

“You didn’t know, and I’m pretty sure most little girls hate bugs, Sammy. You were kids, acting like kids. It’s not your fault I was never allowed to be one too.” 

-

Despite the fear of bugs that came from that night out in Palm Springs, Grace Winchester still adored the rain, and how it gave whatever streets it fell upon a chance to start fresh when the clouds cleared. Droplets of cold rainwater pelted the ground beneath the Impala, the wipers working fast to clear away the drops that pattered against the windshield without a rhythm. She had stolen one of Dean’s sweatshirts for a change, wanting something heavier than her own clothes, and the material threatened to drown her frame as she shoved her hands into the front pocket, pulling at her fingers as she coached herself into bravery, wanting to prove to herself more than anyone else that she was capable of still doing her job even when fear ran down to the very center of her bones. 

Lights glimmered in the distance, an ambulance and squad cars pulled up to the house where Lynda Bloome had mysteriously died hours earlier. Sam was behind the wheel once again, Dean in the backseat for a change, not that he’d had any choice in the matter. Sam and Grace had already been in the car when he’d finally come out of the bathroom, and as if he could sense that something of importance had been discussed without him present, he’d slid into the backseat with only a huff of annoyance. Grace had craned her head to grin at him as Sam backed out of the garage, and all Dean had done was roll her eyes and mumble something about how she was a ‘princess’ beneath his breath. 

She stepped out of the car in time with Sam, pulling the hood of the sweatshirt over her hair and sticking close to Dean, not wanting to drag yet another umbrella out of the trunk. Dean didn’t mind, holding the pole just slightly at an angle, letting it cover her entirely. Rain pelted his shoulder, but if he cared, he didn’t even grimace as the leather of his jacket became slick with tracks. They walked up to Larry who was on the phone, an umbrella in his hands that was similar to their own. His eyebrows raised in surprise as he noticed them, shoving the phone into his pocket before giving over his attention. 

“Hello, you’re, uh, back early.” He commented, clearly frazzled by their unexpected appearance. At the end of the day, it wasn’t the death of Lynda that bothered him, it was the fact that he could lose business over it. Grace had to resist rolling her eyes at his attitude, wondering how somebody could become so detached from reality that they prioritized a sales deal over real relationships. Twenty years working a job like this, and even she still shed tears over the victims they couldn’t save. 

“Yeah, we, uh, just drove in. Wanted to take another look at the neighborhood.” Dean explained away their sudden appearance, his eyes scanning over the houses that filled the block. 

“What’s going on?” Sam questioned. 

Larry sighed, his eyes darting in the direction of the house that Lynda had passed within before they found the siblings again. He looked straight at Sam, hardly even acknowledging Grace. “You guys met, uh, Lynda Bloome at the barbecue?” He questioned, glancing at the body bag that was being placed into the back of an ambulance just a few feet away. 

“The realtor.” Sam nodded, establishing that the connection had been made. 

“Well, she, uh, passed away last night.” Larry explained, and for the first time, Grace saw a wrinkle of despair in his expression, proving that beneath the businessman persona, Larry did have a heart in some capacity. 

“What happened?” She asked softly, eyes saddened and understanding as she fit into her role of concerned young woman well. It wasn’t all a fabrication however, because at the end of the day, that was the true question that remained unanswered across all of their books. 

“I’m still trying to find out.” Larry shrugged, his voice wavering as he glanced back at the house for a third time. “Identified the body for the police. Look, I’m– I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time.” 

Grace shook her head, waving Larry’s apology off with a soft smile that conveyed her understanding. “It’s okay.” She assured, watching as he nodded before excusing himself, stalking up to the front door where an officer loomed, in the process of roping off the entry points. 

“You know what we have to do, right?” Dean questioned, turning to look at Sam. 

“Yeah, get in that house.” Sam sighed, already mapping out possible entry points that excluded the front door. Grace’s eyes lingered on the wooden fence, knowing that they’ve scaled more challenging fences in their past, and that it would certainly be easy enough if they could catch a minute without bustling crowds of law enforcement watching. 

“See if we got a bug problem.” Dean prattled off, his hand that wasn’t wrapped around the pole of the umbrella jutting out toward the center of Grace’s back. She nearly jumped out of her skin when his fingers crawled up her cotton covered body, her eyes wide and full of fear as she flinched away from the sensation. 

“Dean!” She hissed, her heart racing as she shivered involuntarily. She’d only just stopped feeling like there were beetles and spiders all over her body, but now that feeling was back tenfold, and her face flushed with anxiety as she tried to quell the brewing storm of memories as the rain seemed to splash harder against the ground beneath her feet. 

Sam shook his head, pulling Grace into his side, his arm slinking around her shoulders protectively as his fingers brushed against her comfortingly. “Not cool man.” He directed the comment at Dean, his jaw set as he watched Grace swim within her own head, her pupils dilated with fear that he now knew wasn’t as baseless and irrational as he’d previously thought. How many times had they triggered her without knowing? How many times had she brushed off and forgiven their jokes when it stirred nothing but panic and fear inside of her? Sam hated to think about what those answers would be if he asked. 

“It’s fine, Sammy.” She brushed it off, not wanting to dwell on the situation when Dean had no reason to think that his jokes were beyond insensitive and triggering. Her attempt to derail the conversation was futile though, because he’d already begun to figure that something was going on, and his jaw clenched with annoyance as he glanced between Grace and Sam. 

“What’s going on with you two?” He questioned, but Grace only brushed him off. 

“Nothing.” She excused. “Once some of these idiots leave, we can definitely scale that fence and go in through the window. Place like this, it’s definitely unlocked.” She explained, nodding toward the corner of the street. Sam agreed, saying nothing further, and for once, Dean let the topic drop without arguing. 

They retreated back toward the car, Grace climbing into the backseat without even acknowledging Dean, who was ready and willing to take that seat for himself again. She only smiled softly when he glanced back at her questioningly, and for a second, his eyes softened and he smiled back. “Figure these idiots’ll be out here for at least another hour. There’s a diner up the road, you hungry?” 

“I could eat.” Sam shrugged, leaving the decision up to Grace, who nodded in the affirmative. 

-

An hour later, all three siblings were standing outside of Lynda’s house with full bellies. Grace had ordered a mac n cheese from the kids menu after deciding she wasn’t hungry enough to finish anything bigger, and Dean hadn’t let her hear the end of it since the waiter served her her food on a small plate with a fond smile; equally amused herself. As they stood on the sidewalk, assessing the best plan of action for how they were going to get into the window, he was still snickering quietly to himself, and both Sam and Grace had had enough. 

“Shut up!” She groaned, slapping her palm against his head, rolling her eyes when he recoiled in mock offense. “Not everyone lives off of cheeseburgers, asshole. And don’t think I didn’t realize you stole I bite when I went to pee!” 

“I had to make sure you weren’t being poisoned!” Dean rebutted, his eyes glimmering with amusement that had Grace breaking into a smile as well, the anxiety that had gripped her in the earlier hours of the morning no longer so heavy and paralyzing. “Alright, Sammy goes in first. You follow, and I’ll be right behind you. Got it?” 

Both Sam and Grace nodded, accepting the game plan without complaint. Sam leapt up onto the fence, making it look far easier than it actually was as he shoved his foot into one of the holes and reached for the shutters on the side of the house, holding on with one hand while his other pried open the window. Grace, who’d temporarily been referred to as monkey when she was three and climbed anything in sight, had no trouble following his movements, even daring to laugh as she stumbled through the window and into Sam who steadied her with fond amusement etched across his green stare. 

“Remember that time you and Jess scaled the fire escape at that frat house?” Sam laughed, recalling a night that felt like years ago, but was really only a couple of months ago as they waited for Dean to climb up the fence and join them in the bathroom. 

“Oh my god, yeah!” Grace laughed softly, shaking her head at the memory she’d more or less buried since leaving Stanford behind, “She kept freaking out about falling. I was sure she was going to pass out.” She continued on, but her smile wilted as she and Sam connected eyes, both suddenly sobered up from their momentary bout of nostalgia as reality came crashing in on them once more. “I miss her too, you know.” 

“I know.” Sam sighed, patting Grace’s shoulder before he pulled away from the embrace looking toward the window as Dean stumbled in. Sam was quick to turn around and pull the window closed, all three of them focusing on the crime scene beneath their feet now. The black tape on the floor in the shape of an unconscious body was eerie, but a definite sign that they were in the right place. 

“This looks like the right place.” Dean affirmed what they’d already gathered, and began to lead the way into the bathroom, leaning down to pick up a rag that was crumpled on the floor. Grace stepped just over the threshold separating the bedroom and bathroom, moving just slightly to the side so that Sam could see as well, not willing to get any closer than she absolutely had to to what she desperately hoped wasn’t a pile of dead beetles. Her face paled when Dean picked the rag up and dead spiders fell onto the floor, their lifeless bodies shriveled up in odd positions that sent shivers down Grace’s spine. “Spiders. From spider boy?” Dean questioned, turning to look at Sam and Grace, the washcloth still between his grasp. 

“Matt.” Sam corrected, adamant that Dean refer to the kid by his name, but his efforts were beginning to prove that they only lead to even more taunting. “Maybe.” He reluctantly agreed, sighing heavily as he stared down at the pile of spiders, desperately wanting to be wrong about even considering Matt’s involvement. 

Grace had begun to slowly pull away from where Dean was crouched down on the blood stained tile, hardly noticing that she was stumbling backwards at all until her back hit the wall. Her breath hitched just slightly, eyes trained to the pile of arthropods that she could swear was moving toward her. She nearly jumped out of her skin when something thudded against her shoulder, and she definitely did when she glanced down, finding a spider just slightly caught within wild strands of her braid. 

“Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!” Her entire body was frozen in fear, eyes wide and pleading as they flickered between both of her brothers, although she wasn’t really seeing them at all. Her hands flailed frantically at her sides, breath hitching as she became hyper aware of every minor sensation happening against her skin, almost certain that she could feel something crawling up her calf despite her pants being tight around her ankles. 

Suddenly something was pressing against either side of her face, gentle but gruff against her skin that felt disgustingly clammy as the circulating air brushed through the room. Her unfocused eyes eventually focused again, becoming less glassy as she recognized Sam’s face in front of hers, blocking her sight from the spiders on the floor. His voice felt like it was years away, but she could make out the rushed words nonetheless.“Hey, hey. You’re good. It’s good. It’s gone. It’s gone.” 

Grace shoved him away from her panickedly, batting against his chest with her palm when he hardly even budged, looking down at her with concerned confusion. He eventually got the hint and backed out of her way, just in time for her hands to seek out the ledge of the sink and expel everything she’d managed to eat at lunch. She groaned after a minute, reaching for the faucet with trembling hands, letting the water run until the bowl cleared and she could reach in and cup a handful, bringing it to her mouth quickly. When she spat it out, she didn’t look up right away, keeping her head craned above the sink and her eyes pinched shut, forcing herself to remember that she wasn’t stranded in the woods, nor was John even around to see her break like this at all. 

When her chest didn’t feel so tight anymore, she stood up fully, reaching for the faucet and turning it off. She pulled Dean’s sleeve over her hand, wiping at her mouth. “You good?” Her eyes trailed to find Dean, his voice the one that had called out for her attention. His eyes were clouded with mixed emotions, his cluelessness conflicting with his natural response which was amusement. Grace could tell he was getting suspicious, connecting dots that had been in front of his face the entire time, but wasn’t entirely sure how the picture he had all the pieces to was supposed to look. 

“I really fucking hate spiders.” She groaned, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, attempting to relieve some of the pressure that was building at the front of her head. “I need to get out of here.” She didn’t wait for her brothers to agree, stepping past Sam and heading for the window without so much as a glance back. 

-

Grace woke up to someone tapping her shoulder with gentle urgency, and instinctively she leaned away from the disruption, her green eyes squinting open as she attempted to avoid the blinding brightness beyond the Impala’s backseat. She groaned quietly in exhaustion, but took in her surroundings just enough to recognize that the car was parked on a busy street corner directly beside a high school, and it was Dean who was standing in front of the car door, attempting to rouse her from sleep. 

She shrugged off his hand, straightening her posture as she furrowed her eyebrows. She’d fallen asleep shortly after climbing into the backseat back at Oasis Plains, but more than a few hours had passed since then and the dirt caked beneath Dean’s fingernails insinuated that something had happened whilst she was essentially dead to the world. In any other case, she would’ve been pissed that they didn’t wake her, but she wasn’t too perturbed about missing out on even more conversations about killer insects. 

“Hey, switch with me.” Dean inclined his head toward the high school, stepping out of the way so that Grace could climb out of the car. She didn’t question why he wanted to switch, figuring that whatever the reason was, it wasn’t a topic for others to overhear, let alone adolescent children getting out of school. 

She slid into the passenger seat, pulling it forward so he wasn’t as crammed, and only then did she notice that Sam was on the other side of the car, putting a box down on the leather seats beside Dean. Curiously, she leaned over to peak inside, immediately regretting that decision when she found a bunch of dirt covered skeletons and worms. She groaned, pulling her head away and instead focusing on the road in front of her, beyond ready to finish this case and get moving onto the next, even if that meant they were just one step closer to locating John. 

“Do I even want to know what I missed?” Grace questioned, pulling her legs together as she sat criss-cross applesauce in the passenger seat, something her brothers couldn’t even imagine being able to do. Even with the seat pushed up as far as it could be without Grace practically eating the dashboard, Dean’s knees hit the back of the chair and he shifted slightly in an attempt to find a comfortable position. 

“Uh, not really.” Sam grimaced as he closed the drivers side door, starting the engine and peeling away from the curb. “Moral of the story is we think these bones are what’s attracting all the bugs.” 

“And the kid? Matt?” Grace turned to look at Sam, having figured that they were at the high school he attended, and they’d most likely talked to him at some point. 

“Not connected. Smart, though. Figured out something was going on, just didn’t know what.” Grace hummed as she nodded, accepting that her brothers had a good grip on the case without her help. “You okay now?” Sam asked after a beat of silence, his eyes shining with concern that made Grace’s chest clench. She hates when she’s the reason they’re worried; hates that half of what they worry about isn’t even in her control at all. 

She nods her head, but the way she bites at her nails tells both of her brothers that she’s lying. “I mean, this case isn’t all sunshine and rainbows to begin with, Sammy. Given the circumstances, I’m as good as I can be.” 

“Yeah, and what are those circumstances?” Dean calls from the backseat, finally having had enough of the apparent secrecy that was happening between his two youngest siblings. Grace sighs softly, soft eyes flickering to Dean in the rearview mirror, but Sam’s jack locks, and he shakes his head. 

“Nothing, dude.” He defends, but Grace just shakes her head, knowing that Dean’s not going to relent until they tell him something believable. 

“No, it’s not nothing. You two have been weird all day. I mean, really, what’s going on?” There was an edge to Dean’s tone that had Grace inching closer to the passenger door, a thickness in the air between Sam and Dean that she didn’t want to be included in at all. She sighed again, green eyes falling shut as she drew in a deep breath. 

“Why can you never drop anything, dude?” Sam continues to try and go at Dean, but Grace puts her hand up, ending their arguing before it could really begin. 

“It’s fine, Sammy.” She shrugged off his glance, craning her head to look back at Dean who was sitting in the middle of the leather row, his jaw locked, impatience etched across his features. “You remember the hunt in Palm Springs something like fourteen years ago? The spirit that killed those two girls? Dad took me out to salt the bones for the first time?”  

“Yeah, and? What about it?” Dean questioned, evidently still annoyed as he barely even glanced at Grace. She bristled at the clip in his tone, sighing softly as she turned her gaze back to the road. The rain had stopped at some point, but the ground still glistened as the Impala’s headlights reflected off of puddles. 

“Why do you even care if you’re just going to be an asshole about it?” She huffed, sinking down into the seat, suddenly not so willing to share moments of her troubled past with him. Dean sighed regretfully, letting his shoulders drop as he glanced at Grace softly, but the damage had already been done. The woman in the front of the car had dealt with irrational anger being directed at her for the entirety of her life, and although she still had trouble asserting her own personal boundaries, she wasn’t about to deal with Dean’s anger when whatever his problem was had to do with Sam and not her. “Just forget it. Where are we going?” 

“Somehow, whatever’s happening here is connected to these bones. Figured we should probably find out where they came from.” Sam flicked the left blinker on, turning down a street that evidently led to a college campus if the swarms of young adults with backpacks walking around was any indication. 

“Right.” Grace hummed, climbing out of the car when Sam pulled over, pulling the keys out of the ignition without saying anything more. Dean caught her wrist before she could follow Sam, keeping her on the sidewalk as he basically pleaded with her to forgive his earlier attitude. “Not now.” She pulled her arm free from his grasp, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over her hands as she caught up with Sam. 

“So a bunch of skeletons in an unmarked grave, maybe it is a haunting?” Grace questioned as they trekked toward the anthropology department. “I mean, pissed off spirits, not a far fetch to say at least one of them has some unfinished business.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Question is, why bugs?” Sam nodded at the suggestion, fixing his jacket over the box, not wanting to draw attention to the bones he carted around with effortless nonchalance like they were only a collection of old textbooks. “And why now?” 

“Uh, that’s two questions.” Dean muttered, something clearly on his mind as he matched Grace and Sam’s pace but contributed nothing to their back and forth. “Hey, so with that kid back there how could you tell him to just ditch his family like that?” 

“Just, uh, I know what the kid’s going through.” Sam explained, not seeing where Dean was going with his line of questioning, although Grace figured that they’d already butted heads about the topic while she’d been asleep in the car. Dean’s aggravation made a lot more sense now, but she still didn’t feel like divulging pieces of her past even if his temperament was called for. He’d burned that bridge and she didn’t know when she’d ever be ready to rebuild it. 

“How about telling him to respect his old man? How’s that for advice?” Dean kept pushing, kept trying to make his opinion of Sam’s decision known, though it wasn’t like neither he nor Grace ever even had a chance to forget about his feelings toward Stanford when almost every conversation led back to the topic in some capacity. Grace understood both of their perspectives, probably more than either of her brothers realized, but Dean’s unwilting loyalty to John was even too much for her to be okay with. She’d give him her patience, allow him to unmake every memory of childhood at his own pace, but pushing his own experiences onto Sam was far more than she could tolerate. One day, Dean would have to accept and understand that all three of them were treated differently by John, and for that they were each entitled to their own feelings about him. 

“Dean, come on. This isn’t about his old man. You think I didn’t respect dad. That’s what this is about.” Sam fought, stopping right in front of the department building, his jaw tight as he glanced down at their older brother. 

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “Just forget it, okay? Sorry I brought it up.” 

“I respected him. Even when he beat the shit out of Gracie. Even when he bailed on us for a fight he wasn’t even sure he could win. But no matter what I did, it was never good enough.” Grace hates that she respected him too, hates that maybe she still does. He was the first person to show her how cruel the world could be to someone smaller, weaker, kinder, but he’s also the man that raised her. The man that raised her brothers, and despite everything, kept a rough over their heads; even if it was an ever changing one. She hates that after everything, the smallest part of her heart still yearns to win over his pride. 

“So what are you saying, that dad was disappointed in you?” Dean asks, stopping a few feet ahead. 

“Was?” Sam scoffs, a perturbed smile crossing his lips as he shakes his head. “Is. Always has been.” 

“Why would you think that?” He genuinely doesn’t understand where Sam’s coming from, because even if he hates John Winchester for how he treated his only daughter, just like Grace, there are pieces of him that only want to remember the good. And, there was good. Not for Grace, never for her, but for him and Sam, there had been undeniable good mixed into the unavoidable bad. 

“Because I didn’t wanna bowhunt or hustle pool because I wanted to go to school and live my life which, to our whacked-out family, made me the freak.” Sam defended, his palm slapping against his thigh as he tried to keep his frustration at bay, but with each quip from Dean, his reserve was breaking more and more. 

“Yeah, you were kind of like that blonde chick in The Munsters.” Dean’s smile only further annoys Sam, and Grace can only roll her eyes at her eldest brother's inability to ever have a serious conversation about Sam’s very real resentment towards John. There was only black and white in Dean’s world, but Sam had long ago discovered that life was more gray than anything else. 

“Dean, you know what most dads are when their kids score a full ride? Proud.” Sam sighs, his voice softening as he begins to break, not possessing the energy to keep having the same conversation over and over again with little to no understanding from their brother. Grace frowns, knowing how much it had hurt Sam that John couldn’t have cared less about his scholarship. She’d been proud, unbelievably so, but she understands that her pride would never be enough to fill the hole in his heart that John had left empty. “Most dads don’t toss their kids out of the house.”

“I remember that fight. In fact, I seem to recall a few choice phrases coming out of your mouth.” Dean rebutted, and Grace wanted to facepalm at that moment. Dean’s perception of family dynamics was so beyond tainted that even years later, he couldn’t even begin to recognize that it wasn’t Sam’s job to keep the peace between himself and John. She couldn’t blame Dean, he’d never known anything other than this life and surviving by whatever means necessary, but she wouldn’t agree with him either. 

“You know, truth is, when we finally do find dad I don’t know if he’s even gonna want to see me.” Sam admits, and Grace has to refrain from drawing in a heavy breath at the mention of reconnecting with John. Ultimately, that was the goal, the reason they were even working this case – or any case – at all, but it was easy to forget about the pending reunion when every lead they followed came back empty. She didn’t know if she’d make it out alive once she was back beneath his thumb, but that wasn’t what she needed to put her energy into right now. 

Dean bristles, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Grace, who frowns at his conflicted expression. Where she could see both of her brothers' sides in the argument, neither of them could ever seem to meet eyes on their own opinions; both of them too stubborn and fueled by trauma to recognize that all they’d ever been trying to do was survive by whatever means necessary, with whatever cards they were given. Grace knew that Dean had it harder than Sam, she recognized that, but Sam just couldn’t grasp how much Dean had sacrificed to practically raise them on his own whenever John was working a case. He followed orders because it kept them safe. He defended Dad because he desperately wanted them to feel like their lives weren’t so unorthodox and out of control. He didn’t know how to stop fighting the battle because the battle was all he’d ever known.  “Sam, dad was never disappointed in you. Never.” Dean shook his head, and Grace could hear the sincerity in his tone, but Sam couldn’t – he didn’t want to, not yet anyways. That was the problem with them. Everything had to be at their own pace, in their own time. “He was scared,”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head as he cut Dean off, who for once was being painfully genuine and transparent. “What are you talking about?” 

“He’s afraid of what could’ve happened to you if he wasn’t around.” Dean filled in the blanks, and Grace’s heart thumped in her chest. “But even when you two weren’t talking he used to swing by Stanford whenever he could. Keep an eye on you. Make sure you were safe.” 

“What?” Grace froze, eyes wide as she looked at Dean for answers. Nausea pools in her belly, her chest tightening as she realizes that she had never fully been out from beneath her fathers thumb. She’d been with Sam for almost a year. It had taken her months to feel like she could be whoever she wanted without word traveling back to John, but now she was confronted with the fact that he’d always been there, always lurking, watching. Maybe he was there for Sam, maybe he never hid within the shadows to check up on her specifically, but he’d still been there. He’d still been there as she did all of the things he’d always told her she couldn’t do. Would he be pissed off when they found him? Would he punish her tenfold because not only had she left him behind in the middle of the night, but she’d gone and made a mockery of their family name? Her mind flashes to moments when she’d been less than perfect. When Jessica had dared her to do shots at a party, and she’d ended up so drunk that she puked in the bushes on the walk back to the apartment. When Sam had dragged her out to the fountain in the middle of the night, and they’d jumped in still in their clothes, claiming that it was a rite of passage at Stanford. Had he been there in those moments? Had he watched as she shed layers of scar tissue to instead embrace freedom and comfortability? Was she ever going to fully be free of his presence, or was she cursed to always be looking over her shoulder? 

“Why didn’t he tell me any of that?” Sam craned his head, eyes flickering to Grace for only a moment before his attention fell back to Dean, needing to know why John had never tried to reach out to him when he was apparently worried enough to drive out to Stanford. 

“Well, it’s a two way street dude. You could have picked up the phone.” Dean answered, and Grace wanted to scoff at the excuse, but she was frozen in fear, her mind racing a million miles an hour as she overanalyzed all of the times when she’d felt like somebody was watching her but had chalked it up to (valid) paranoia. They may be adults now, but it was never going to be their job to fix the relationships they had with John. “Come on, we're going to be late to our appointment.” He inclined his head toward the doors, stepping forward to keep moving, but Grace remained frozen, her eyes blurred with tears that stung and threatened to fall as she blinked. “Gracie, come on.” 

“Um, I’ll, uh, meet you at the car. I need– I’m gonna go find food.”  Grace could barely get the words past her lips, but by the time that she had constructed the sentence, she was turning on her heels, putting distance between herself and her brothers without even waiting to see their responses. 

She’d spent eleven months and seven days – yes, she counted every last one – at Stanford with Sam. It had taken her a month to even leave the apartment for the first time after showing up on his doorstep in tears, and three months to stop looking over her shoulder every time she did. She’d put in the effort to reinvent herself however felt authentic and right, and there had been something sacred built on the promise that John Winchester would never know who she had become without his influence and restrictions. She’d never had a lot of things in life, but she’d at least had the chance to live her own way. But, now she was finding out that it wasn’t really her own at all. The nights she’d walked home from the part time job she’d gotten at the diner in town, and she’d clutched her bag tighter out of instinct when it had felt like eyes watched her closely. The days when she’d be out with Jessica, laughing and talking like her spirit had never been weighed down by fear, only to shrink into herself when the memories came back and learned instincts took over. Wherever she went, John Winchester followed her. She’d known that, but Sam had promised she was free of his control. She doubted that, but she’d trusted him anyway. Sam was wrong. She was naive. No matter how far she ran. No matter how hidden she made herself. She would never be unpinned. 

Her chest tightened as she glanced around the campus square. Was he here now? Had it become something of a game to him? How were they to know if he lurked in the shadows? Suddenly Grace couldn’t breath, and she stumbled her way to a bench across from the department building. Her body crumbled onto the wooden boards, feeling heavy and tense as her vision blurred. For a moment, the sounds around her faded, but then they all came rushing back seemingly louder than they’d been before. She wheezed, blunt nails digging into the wood beneath her, clawing at any chance of finding solid ground to focus on. 

Minutes later, the bench shifted beneath additional weight, and Grace’s gaze snapped to the right. She half expected to see her father glaring back at her, but instead, she met the eyes of a student who was probably her age, if not just a few years older. His face was kind, but tired, and his shoulders slumped to accommodate the heavy weight of his backpack. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya.” He apologized, having clearly noticed the way her grip tightened on the wooden boards beneath her thighs. 

“No, you’re okay. Just got lost for a minute there.” She brushed him off weakly, her voice hoarse as a result of the emotions that had accumulated in her chest within such a short span of time. 

“What classes are you taking?” The student questioned, expecting Grace’s stress to be related to coursework, which wasn’t the farthest fetched conclusion given they were in the heart of a lively campus. 

“Oh, I’m not a student here. I’m not even from Oklahoma.” She laughed softly, the tightness in her chest ebbing away as she focused her energy on the casual conversation at hand, glad to be talking about something mindless and surface level for a change. She was getting really tired of long emotionally demanding conversations. 

“Okay, I’ll bite. Where are you from?” Grace hadn’t meant for her earlier remark to come across any kind of way, but she can’t help but smile regardless. Something tells her the boy beside her knows a thing or two about fishing for conversations, and she can’t say she minds using him as a distraction. 

“Kansas. But, I’ve lived practically everywhere. New York’s probably my favorite.” She doesn’t remember the last time she’s gotten to talk about something like this; probably months ago when Jessica was still around, but the sentiment remains. There was no need to have these conversations with her brothers, they’d all been there when moments happened, they all knew each other enough to just know these things based on body language, but it was nice to feel like someone was seeing her for a change. It got to be draining when all you ever were to anybody was a brush of wind in the night. Their lives were meaningful, she knew that, but that didn’t mean it was easy never having anyone around that cared about who you were as a person, not just an asset or an ally. 

She doesn’t know how much time elapsed on that bench, but she knows that Sam and Dean came back far too quickly for her liking. She stood when Sam came into her line of sight, offering Weston an apologetic smile as she pulled at the hem of her hoodie, preparing to join the boys at the car. Weston, who had turned out to be a third year communications major from a town not even twenty minutes north, waved as she turned to leave, laughing beneath his breath when she stumbled over her untied laces and tried to play the entire thing off with nonchalance. 

She gave him one last glance before she dunked into the backseat, sighing softly as she closed the door behind her, not even getting the chance to consider putting her seatbelt on before she sped away. 

“Gracie–” Dean started, but she shook her head. 

“If it’s about Dad, or a bullshit apology for being an asshole earlier, I really don’t care. What did you find out?” She questioned, not in the mood to have another conversation tethered to their father in some capacity. This case was enough without Dean’s remarks. 

“The bones are Native American. There’s a Euchee tribe in Sapulpa that might know more.” He sighed, backing down from what was originally going to be his point of conversation. Grace nodded, saying nothing more as she crossed her legs, looking out the window as the scenery blurred together. 

-

They walked into the diner after asking around, and immediately Dean led the way toward a man at a table, laying out playing cards. “Joe Whitetree?” He asked, receiving the slightest nod of confirmation from the long haired man. 

“We’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright?” Sam tucked his hands into his pockets, keeping his voice even and unarmed as he approached. Grace stood between them, a kind and welcoming expression on her face despite how utterly done with the case she was. She wanted something different, something that was more guns blazing and literature. She hated when all there was to do was flounder around until they found something that stuck. And, she especially hated that everything they stumbled upon related back to their father as if the very premise of the case wasn’t enough for her wounded heart. 

“We’re students from the university.” Dean began, but Joe was quick to dismantle that lie. Dean bristled at the confrontation, beginning again with another lie he’d thought up, but Joe didn’t take the bait for even a second. 

“You know who starts sentence with truth is? Liars.” Grace couldn’t help but smirk a little at the man’s persistence for the truth, and instinctively she stepped out from behind Dean, facing Joe with a soft smile. 

“Mr. Whitetree, have you heard of Oasis Plains?” She asked softly, glancing down at his playing cards for only a second before she was searching his eyes again. “It’s a housing development near the Atoka Valley.” 

Whitetree’s eyes met hers with fondness, and his lips curved into a jesting smirk as he flicked his gaze to Dean’s. “I like her. She’s not a liar.” Grace only smiled more, a soft laugh falling off of her lips as she glanced at Dean to see him pull a palm down his face, clearly exasperated. “I know the area.” 

“Is there anything you can tell us about the history there?” She asked cautiously, preparing for this to be dangerous water with the older man, but he only inclined his head curiously. 

“Why do you want to know?” He fired back at her, though there was no defensiveness in his tone, and for that Grace was grateful. She couldn’t handle another hostile man on this case. 

“Somethings happening there, and well, I think it might have something to do with some old bones we found down there.” She answered, being honest with the man, but still keeping the full truth closer to their inner circle. “The bones… they’re Native American.” 

“I’ll tell you what my grandfather told me, what his grandfather told him. Two hundred years ago a band of my ancestors lived in that valley. One day, the American cavalry came to relocate them. They were resistant. Cavalry, impatient. As my grandfather put it, on a night the moon and the sun shared the sky as equals the cavalry first raided our village. They murdered, raped. The next day, the cavalry came again and the next and the next. And on the sixth night, the cavalry came one last time and by the time the sun rose every man, woman and child still in the village was dead.” Grace didn’t break her stare with Whitetree, but she was highly aware of her brothers connecting eyes behind her, and with their attention diverted, she tried not to draw attention to the way her body tightened at the details of the retelling of events. Enough secrets had slipped into the air already, there were just some that didn’t need to see the light of day along with the others. “They say on the sixth night as the chief of the village lay dying he whispered to the heavens that no white man would ever tarnish this land again. Nature would rise up and protect the valley and it would bring as many days of misery and death to the white man as the cavalry had brought upon his people.” 

“Insects. Sounds like nature to me.” Dean muttered to Sam, before looking back at Whitetree, who had finally allowed his gaze to leave Grace’s. “Six days?” He double checked, earning a nod from Joe. 

“And on the night of the sixth day none would survive.” Joe reaffirmed what he’d already mentioned, and the siblings nodded acceptingly. 

“Thank you, Mr. Whitetree.” Grace smiled appreciatively before she followed her brothers out of the small diner, their minds reeling as they pieced together the information they’d just learned and what they already knew. 

“When did the gas company man die?” Sam questioned as they stepped outside, heading back to the Impala to hopefully finish all of this once and for all. 

“Friday.” Grace hummed, not even having to think about it. She was good with dates, she always had been. It was one of the few strengths that John Winchester saw in her. 

“March 20th. That’s the Spring Equinox.” Sam pieced together the information that had been staring them in the face since the start. Grace wanted to bash her head into the wall for not considering the connection beforehand. 

“The night the sun and the moon share the sky as equals.” Dean hummed, and Sam nodded, confirming that he was correct. 

“So every year about this time anybody in Oasis Plains is in danger. Larry built this neighborhood on cursed land.” 

“Uh, the sixth night would be tonight.” Grace piped up, looking at Sam with evident concern in her eyes. 

“If we don’t do something, Larry's family will be dead by sunrise. So how do we break the curse?” Sam questioned, standing at the passenger side door of the Impala, not in the mood to be the one to drive. Grace didn’t even try to claim the position, just following him along to the left side of the car, waiting for Dean to unlock the latches so that she could slip into the backseat. 

“You don’t break a curse. You get out of its way.” Dean shook his head, unlocking the car and beginning to sink into the driver's seat, but not without voicing the urgency that they all knew they faced. “We gotta get those people out now.” 

-

Hours later, they were still on the way back to Oasis Plains, but Dean wasn’t taking his chances with the family. As headlights reflected off of damp roads, he held his phone up to his ear. “Yes Mr. Pike there’s a gas leak in your neighborhood.” He explained, but without the call being switched to speaker phone, neither Grace nor Sam could hear what Larry was saying on the other end. They simply waited with baited breath to hear Dean’s responses, desperately hoping that Larry didn’t prove hard to convince. “Well, it’s fairly extensive. I don’t wanna alarm you, but, uh, we need your family out of the vicinity for at least twelve hours or so just to be safe.” By the way Dean was answering questions, Grace knew that they weren’t going to stand a chance with convincing Larry to leave Oasis Plains behind. “Travis Weaver. I work for Oklahoma Gas and Power.” There was a beat of silence before Dean stuttered, pulling the device away from his ear and flipping it closed in frustration. 

Grace sank back against the backseat, sighing in exasperation for headstrong men that didn’t know how to help themselves any. She watched as Sam reached for the phone next, hurriedly typing numbers into the keypad. “Matt, it’s Sam. Matt, just listen, you have to get your family out of that house right now, okay?” There was undeniable urgency in Sam’s tone, and Grace could only hope that it didn’t freak the teenager out to a point where he became less than helpful. “Because something’s coming.” 

Grace looked out the window, watching the world pass by in the form of blurred together hues and shades. Dean was going as fast as he could, but even that was proving to not be enough as the night dragged on later and later and there was still distance to cover before they got to the Pike’s residence. 

“You gotta make him listen, okay?” Sam stressed, but that wasn’t enough for Dean, who reached for the device, pulling it up to his ear as his voice hardened. 

“Matt, under no circumstances are you to tell the truth. He’ll just think you’re nuts. Tell him you have a sharp pain in your right side and you gotta go to the hospital, okay?” Dean barked his orders sharply, and for a minute, all Grace saw was John telling her and the boys how to weasel their way into a case as children and young teenagers. Once they’d been embraced into the hunting world, John had no shame in using his children as bait. She couldn’t even recall how many times he’d told her to approach random strangers and get them talking, nor how many times he disregarded her safety to pull information out of a case. She knew Dean had good intentions, knew that this was for Matt’s benefit, but she couldn’t help but think that all of this had started for them as little white lies constructed by their father. 

Evidently, Matt agreed because Dean slapped the phone closed for a second time and turned his attention to Sam. “Make him listen? What are you thinking?” 

Grace rolled her eyes, not bothering to tune into their bickering. She’d had enough of the squabbling for a day, and so instead of paying attention to the way Sam clapped back defensively, she pressed her head against the window, watching the trees blur together as they passed. 

When they eventually pulled up to Oasis Plains, making a sharp left before they approached the Pike household, all three of them sighed at the front lights turned on and cars still in the driveway. “Damn it, they’re still here. Come on.” They got out of the car with efficiency, and for the first time ever, Grace desperately wished that this was one of those hunts that could be handled with a gun. She was a near perfect shot, but that wouldn’t do her any good against what they were facing, and she felt entirely too vulnerable going in with only her senses. 

As they approached the front door, Larry came storming out, his finger jutted out in their direction threateningly. “Get off my property before I call the cops!” He demanded. 

“Mr. Pike, listen.” 

“Dad, they’re just trying to help.” Matt interjected from the front porch, but Larry swung to address him quickly, his tone still raised and sharp as he turned his wagging finger to his song. 

“Get in the house!” He demanded, and Grace couldn’t help but bristle at the sharpness of his order, her chin dropping to her chest as she recalled the many times John had yelled that same command at her before she’d been met with a world of pain from his bare hands. 

“S-Sorry. I told him the truth.” The kid said apologetically, and suddenly Larry’s anger made a lot more sense. Grace sighed, but she couldn’t blame him either. Dean had been asking a lot of him and hadn’t even considered how Matt would feel about lying to the person that only ever saw his worst assets. 

“We had a plan, Matt. What happened to the plan?” Dean snapped, his frustration bubbling over and being directed at the first person it could be. Unfortunately, that was Matt. Grace smiled softly at the boy, hoping that she could ease the guilt pooling in his stomach even slightly with the simple expression. 

“Look, it’s twelve am. They are coming any minute now. You need to get your family and go before it’s too late.” Sam continued to try and plead, but Larry wanted to hear none of it. Grace hated that she couldn’t blame him for being defensive and critical, but it was in moments like this where she wished people had more blind faith in others. 

“Oh, yeah, you mean before the biblical swarm.” The man rolled his eyes, and Dean had finally had enough. 

“Larry, what do you think really happened to that realtor, huh? And the gas company guy? You don’t think something weird's going on around here?” He laid out the facts as blandly as he could, not having the time to stand there and hold Larry’s hand as he fought to prove the legitimacy of their claims. 

“Look, I don’t know who you are but you’re crazy. You come near my boy or my family again, we’re gonna have a problem.” The man threatened, but it wasn’t anything that the siblings hadn’t heard a few hundred times already when they were working cases that involved real people and families. 

“Well, I hate to be a downer, but we got a problem right now.” Dean fought back, his tone level as he tried to break through the man's strong reserve. 

“Dad, they’re right. We’re in danger.” Matt tried again, persistent in his efforts to sway Larry’s decision to remain in Oasis Plains. Grace could only appreciate his courage, especially when Larry turned to yell at him again, and he didn’t even bristle in the face of confrontation. She knows that she would’ve backed down and scampered away the second John so much as turned his head to look at her. She could face monsters and things that went bump in the night, but put her in a room with her father and she was nothing more than a terrified little girl just wanting to avoid any additional pain and torment. “Why won’t you listen to me?” His voice raised, trembling as he finally broke, not able to act like Larry’s constant shoving aside and berating didn’t bother him. 

“Because this is crazy! It doesn’t make any sense!” 

“Look, this land is cursed! People have died here! Now are you gonna really take that risk with your family?” Sam raised his voice, but Grace wasn’t focused on the fight at hand, rather the distinct buzzing that was happening on all sides of her. Her chest tightened as she realized they were too late; that the insects were already here. 

“Wait!” She called out, voice trembling despite every nerve in her body screaming to keep it together. “Do you hear it?” 

Larry snapped his head toward the bug catcher on the porch, his eyes squinting as he took in the sound of audible buzzing, noticing that the electric trap zapped more frequently than it had been all night. “What the hell.” He commented, reality finally beginning to sink in as he snapped his gaze back to the siblings.

“Alright, it’s time to go. Larry, get your wife. Sam.” Dean turned to address his siblings, but he was cut off by Matt calling for their attention, his head craned toward the sky as they watched a swarm of insects rise over the treetops and make their way toward the house.

Grace felt her chest tightened even more, her hands beginning to shake at her sides as she realized that she was out in the open, vulnerable to whatever assault would come. For a moment she was frozen, her gaze turned toward the sky as her breathing became uneven and labored, but then something was grabbing her hand, and before she could really recognize what was happening, she was being dragged up the porch steps and into the house. 

“No, no, no.” She mumbled on a loop, her hands tangling into her hair as she pulled at the roots, pacing back and forth as commotion ensued around her. She didn’t pay it any attention, she couldn’t, not with the way her mind was going blank and all she could think of was that night in Palm Springs when everything had changed. She wished she could go back to then, to hours before she’d ever gotten in the car with her father and headed off toward the woods. Things hadn’t been good, but they hadn’t been terrible either. That day in 1991 was the last time that Grace Winchester had ever really been a kid, and she could feel herself slipping into the vulnerable defenselessness that she felt then as she forced herself to remember that there was nothing they could do about the fate they’d found themselves tangled into. All that there was to do was wait and hope for the best, but the best had never found her easily or at all. 

“Gracie, hey! Hey, come on! Now’s not the time, okay, sweetheart? I need you with me right now. I need you here.” Dean held her face in his hands tenderly, but unrelentingly. He pulled her hands away from her hair, his eyes filled with determined urgency that only just barely managed to sober her up from her state of panic. Adrenaline rushed through her veins as she nodded, breathless as she raced alongside him to where Larry and Joanie kept their spare towels and linens. 

She grabbed a towel from his hands with numb fingers, forcing it beneath the gap in the front door as efficiently as she could with the trembling in her knuckles that just wouldn't stop. Her body was moving, but there weren’t any thoughts in her head besides survival. She knew that the Pikes were yelling, that frantic conversations were being had, but it was all static noise in her head as she tried to keep her breathing even and her senses as alert as they could be. She didn’t even register the fact that Sam had come downstairs or that Dean had grabbed a can of bug spray from the kitchen until there was an incessant rattling coming from the fireplace and in seconds a swarm of bees rushed in. Every breathing exercise that she’d even known failed her in that moment, and the composure she’d managed to grab onto left within seconds. She whimpered pathetically, stuttering over soft cries as she panicked, right back in those California woods.  

“Come on, Gracie! Come on!” Sam grabbed her hand, dragging her up the stairs with efficiency. She could follow him, that was what she could do, but her feet thudded on the steps as she climbed them and her chest only tightened as she tried to draw in even a single breath. 

Somehow she made it up into the attic, and the second Sam’s hand left hers, she was falling to the floor with a thud, scooting back until her back hit a wall. She curled up into herself, her head between her knees as she rocked back and forth, muttering desperate pleas and frantic apologies beneath her breath that were drowned out by the frantic yelling of the Pikes. Somewhere between the first swarm of termites chewing through the wood and the second, she’d passed out, slumping against the boards of the house in a useless pile on the floor. In a single moment of distraction, Sam shrugged his jacket off, throwing it over her exposed face before he went back to trying to find a solution with Dean. Every instinct in his body told him to go over and check on her, rouse her back to consciousness, but that wouldn’t do any good if they were dead by morning anyways. Instead, all he could do was hope that the insects had a harder time getting to exposed inches of her vulnerable body. 

It was minutes later when she roused, and the swarm of termites was still attempting to cleanse the land of their presence. She glanced to her left, scrambling into the corner of the attic where her brothers were crouched desperately. She threw herself at whoever was closest, letting out heartbreaking and raspy sobs as she dug her face into their neck, the hood of the hood pulled over her face just enough to keep the bugs from bouncing off of her skin, but she could still feel the thud of their dense bodies hit the fabric on her body. And then, it stopped. She didn’t move, didn’t loosen her hold, but eventually it became clear that the swarm had left, and her chin was guided upward by gruff hands that she knew to be Deans. 

“You’re okay, Gracie. It’s okay.” Dean coaxed softly, holding the back of her head as he analyzed her face for any bites or injuries. He frowned softly when he noticed three red blotches on her cheek and another on her forehead, but considering the circumstances, she’d come out relatively unscathed. “It’s over. It's done.” 

-

The very next morning, when the Impala pulled up to the Pike residence, there was a moving truck parked at the curb and Larry was standing beside the bed, packing up the little belongings that they’d moved into the house. She climbed out of the car with her brothers, walking up to where he stood in casual attire as opposed to the suits she’d typically seen him wearing during the daytime.  

“What? No goodbye?” Dean called out sarcastically, catching Larry’s attention. 

“Good timing. Another hour and we’d have been gone.” Larry hummed, reaching out to shake Dean’s hand in silent thanks. 

“For good?” Sam questioned, shaking Larry’s hand next. Grace could only offer a small smile, still reeling from the events from the early morning hours. Her chest still ached, her breathing was still wheezy, and every time she closed her eyes she constructed a scene of Palm Springs that looked eerily similar to the night's endeavors. 

“Yeah. The, uh, developments been put on hold while the government investigates those bones you found. But I’m gonna make damn sure no one lives here again.” Larry explained, and the Winchesters nodded understandingly. 

“You don’t seem too upset about it.” Sam noted. 

“Well, this has been the biggest financial disaster of my career, but…somehow…I really don’t care.” Larry’s gaze flickered to Matt, and Grace couldn’t help the weak smile that pulled at the corners of her lips as she watched him finally recognize what was most important in life. 

She laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder, nodding toward the car. “I’m gonna go wait in the car.” She explained, her voice hoarse and quiet, hardly louder than a whisper and she honestly couldn’t say if it was a result of her sobbing, or a learned instinct after years of forcing herself to be invisible. Either way, she tried not to think too much about the weakness she was showing in front of Larry and her brothers. “Don’t take too long. Please.” 

Dean nodded, patting her back as she passed him. Whatever happens next, all he hopes is that Grace could finally catch a break.

[glimmeringwinchester]

hell house

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — grace winchester has more skeletons in the closet than she and her can fight, and as they race against the clock to find their missing father, slowly but surely everything unknown comes into the light

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) — canon supernatural violence, gore, and themes. mentions of past abuse, ptsd, anxiety, indications of claustrophobia, sickness, john winchester being an absolute asshole. deans a dick (what’s new) but he’s soft with his sister, oc au

series: love was the law

Grace Winchester rolls her eyes as she watches Dean reach across the car with a disposable spoon in hand, his smile wide and a little too mischievous as he wedges the thin plastic into their brother's slightly agape mouth. Sam is passed out in the passenger seat, his seat reclined despite the person that sits behind him, and his head is falling slack to the side as he catches up on much needed rest. The days had been long in the seven months that had played out since Dean had pulled them both away from life at Stanford, and instead back to the lives they’d lived before, though not by choice. Grace remembers how long the days used to feel when she was only a kid, but for whatever reason, the last seven months have felt excruciating. She can only sympathize with Sam as she watches him sleep, light colored eyes ghosting across the subtle motions of his breathing – the only indication he’s actually alive up there.

She would’ve found the energy to smile in wry amusement if her head didn’t feel so heavy on her shoulders. Her body is slouched against the door, her knees pulled up to her chest if only to allow Sam the space he needs to sleep, and her head cheek pressed against the window somewhat uncomfortably; though she appreciates the coolness that spreads across her flushed skin too much to adjust her position. Her eyes are glassy, bloodshot and stinging, but she blinks rapidly despite the pain, determined to keep herself awake as nausea pools in her lower belly.

She manages a weak eye roll as Dean finagles his phone into a specific position, peeling his eyes away from the road to snap a picture that will certainly be used as leverage in the next battle over music choice. She barely has the time to prepare for him cranking up the volume, an involuntary wince making her aware of the sudden soreness in her muscles as she leans away from the abrupt sound, unable to deny the way it seems to pierce through her skull like pinpricks.

Sam bolts awake, his eyes wide and panicked for a handful of seconds before he’s batting at the spoon between his lips, a grimace of utter annoyance overtaking his once relaxed expression. Dean couldn’t care less, grinning with pride in the driver's seat as he drums along to the chorus of a song Grace has heard too many times since only last week. He turns his head to Sam, eyes squinted as he beams, though Sam’s not easily amused by Dean’s clear enjoyment.

“Ha ha. Very funny.” He huffs, fixing the position of his seat with one hand while the other reaches for the stereo, turning the music down to an acceptable decibel, though Grace still thinks it's too loud as she barely conceals another involuntary wince.

“Sorry. Not a lot of scenery here in East Texas. You kinda gotta make your own.” Dean apologizes, though both of his siblings know he’s not being the slightest bit sincere. Grace wants to roll her eyes, but a deep and incessant pressure at the front of her temple prevents her from so much as looking to her left.

“Man, we’re not kids anymore, Dean. We’re not gonna start that crap up again.” Sam scoffs, his jaw clenched as he expresses his annoyance, his eyes trailing toward the backseat as he searches for signs of life from Grace, hardly reacting when he finds her curled up into a tight ball, blanket ditched around her ankles, and her eyes closed as she gnaws on her lower lip. He can see exhaustion rolling off of her body – her eyes sunken, her face flush – and so he assumes she’s annoyed, not treading any deeper into that isolated spiral of thoughts.

“Start what up?” Dean, ever the antagonistic older brother, reaches into the backseat, his palm tapping against Grace’s blanket covered ankles in a silent greeting. He can only chuckle beneath his breath when her foot kicks out at him in response, an annoyed huff rolling off of her lips as she curls further toward the seats, just out of reach from his assault should he try again.

“That prank stuff. It’s stupid, and it always escalates.” Sam groans, slapping Dean’s hand when he reaches out for Grace again, his eyes rolling when Dean only shakes his shoulder in admitted defeat, looking entirely too smug about irritating his younger siblings for his own entertainment.

“What’s the matter, Sammy? You afraid you’re gonna get a little nair in your shampoo again, huh?” Grace doesn’t even have to see her brothers to know that one quip was enough to entirely change Sam’s attitude, his ego still bruised from the epic nair prank of 1990. Grace can only wonder how boys never mature past the age of fourteen, unable to believe they’re actually considering rehashing ‘prank wars’.

“All right. Just remember, you started it.” Sam can barely conceal his smirk as he shakes his head, eyes now glancing out the window, watching as rows of lush trees blur together into evergreen flashes.

“Oh, bring it on, Baldy.” Dean smirks, though his eyes flicker to Grace in the rear view mirror, “You in, G?” He sings smugly, only able to laugh in amusement when he receives nothing more than Grace throwing the bird his way in response. She’d never wanted to be part of their prank wars as a kid either, but Dean was never so quick to relent, always effectively dragging her into them whether that be by deception, or simply pranking her anyways.

“Where are we, anyway?” Sam asks, changing the topic as he glances out at the passing scenery.

Dean glances out the window, his face a neutral expression as he assesses the road surrounding them, never able to truly be secure in the temporary safety they find between places. Grace pretends not to notice the fault in Dean’s stoic persona as she shifts in the backseat, tugging off the sweatshirt that’s only trapping in unwanted heat. “A few hours outside of Richardson. Give me the lowdown again.” Dean reaches into the backseat again, although this time his gesture isn’t so playful, but softly he catches his sister's attention as Sam rustles through their current case information. “You should get some sleep. Need you at your best.” Grace wants to remind Dean of all the sleepless nights that haunt their pasts, but instead she nods, finally finding a moment of ease where not every part of her body is aching and churning at once.

She just barely hears Sam begin his refresher when her head lulls to the side, resting just below the leather headrest as she finally submits to the exhaustion that’s been crushing her for hours.

When she wakes, the Impala is parked in front of a record store, and Sam is ruffling through his bag that’s on the floor beside her feet. Grace bats his hand away with an exasperated eye roll, ignoring the wave of simultaneous nausea and dizziness that hits her as she sits up. Her muscles ache at the change in position, and she’s vaguely aware of her shoulder cracking as she rustles through the bag instead, pulling out the worn leather wallet she knows her idiot brother was searching for. Sam offers a bashful smile, his eyebrows furrowing after a handful of seconds as he takes in her appearance, but Grace only shrugs him off, cracking her fingers as she waits for Dean to make the first move, able to grasp why they’re here without the step-by-step break down she knows Sam wants to give her.

“Let's roll, Gracie.” Dean whistles as he opens the door, only acknowledging his younger sister, aware of how Sam wants to roll his eyes in annoyance every time he’s singled out. Grace follows his motions, though unlike her brother who has entirely reframed his mannerisms by the time their doors close in tandem, it takes her a minute to gain her bearings, only managing to deflect the discomfort radiating through her body as she steps ahead of Sam, through the door he’s holding open for her with that same stupid furrow in his eyebrow.

Her eyes are immediately drawn to a vinyl on one of the farthest shelves from the door, and naturally she lets herself float towards it, aware of how Dean and Sam are trailing behind her instinctively, though Dean’s eyes are definitely wandering as he gathers his critiques.

Grace looks up as a young looking guy approaches, a beat up record in his hands that he flips with indifference, his eyes scanning the black and white labels that differentiate the slots on the shelves. She picks up the record she’d been eyeing, effortlessly playing the role of inquisitive customer. “Gentlemen, ma’am, help you with anything?” The man asks, his eyes trailing over Grace an unnecessary second time, though he seems innocent enough as he lingers on the design against her chest. She’s only vaguely aware of the fact that she’d never changed out of her Spice Girls t-shirt, and that she’s holding one of their albums in her hands; definitely a conversation starter when standing in the middle of a music store.

“Yeah. Are you Craig Thurston?” Sam asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he analyzes the employee. Grace turns the vinyl over in her hands, reading over the tracklist as she tunes into the conversation happening in front of her.

“I am.” Craig nods, reaching over the rack as he shuffles through alphabetized slots. Grace can only roll her eyes at the sight, her thought of how boys never mature past puberty coming back once again.

“Oh. Well, we’re reporters with the Dallas Morning News. I’m Dean. This is Sam. Grace.” Grace brings her eyes away from the vinyl at the mention of her name, offering Craig a polite smile as she fights to stay balanced on her feet, even the slightest movement amplifying the dizziness that’s fogging up her senses.

Craig smiles at the information, his posture relaxing as he nods along to Dean’s fabrication. “No way. Yeah, I’m a writer, too. I write for my school’s lit magazine.” Despite his earlier display of reaching over the shelves, Craig peels from his post, stalking around the shelves as he grabs a seemingly sought after vinyl, showing no indication of contemplation as he reaches for the slot and pulls one up.

“Well, good for you, Morrison.” Dean huffs out a laugh, his smile entirely insincere as she gazes down at the vinyls, batting Grace’s arm when he notices one of his favorite bands at the very front, his fascination somewhat amusing as Grace’s lips quirk into a smirk.

“Um, we’re doing an article on local haunting, and rumor has it you might know about one.” Sam sways slightly, appearing hesitant, uncertain even, but both Grace and Dean know he’s anything but. They’ve learned a thing or two in the decades they’ve been doing this job, and one of those things is people are always more inclined to help you out when they think they have an opportunity to gossip or gloat.

“You mean the Hell House?” There’s a certain tick in Craig’s eyebrow that has Grace hooked, her eyes analyzing his movements because she knows her brothers won’t focus so much on the physical. They’ve always focused more on voice inflection, but Grace has always known a thing or two about body language.

“That’s the one.” Dean nods, his smirk almost condescending as he stares Craig down, but the employee hardly bristles, a subtle glint of arrogance in his eyes as he inclines his body just the slightest inch towards Dean, like he’s fascinated, or maybe transfixed, by the things that he knows – or thinks he knows.

“I didn’t think there was anything to the story.”

“So why don’t you tell us the story?” Grace smiles sweetly, her head tilting to the side, allowing her thin hair to spill over her shoulder. She’s aware of how her voice wavered in the middle, and how it feels like hellfire’s tearing through her throat as she swallows, but she makes no indication that anything’s wrong, keeping her eyes fixed on Craig.

“Well, supposedly back in the ‘30s, this farmer, Mordechai Morduch, used to live in the house with his six daughters. It was during the depression, his crops were failing. Didn’t have enough money to even feed his own children. So I guess that’s when he went off the deep end.” Grace tries not to wince at the mention of hungry children, but the grimace that wrinkles her upper lip is a dead give away that it strikes her. Sam doesn’t notice, his interest entirely in Craig, much to her relief.

“How?”

Grace rolls her eyes as Dean sneaks up beside her, throwing his arm over her shoulder as he tugs her into his side annoyingly. She has to fight the nausea that threatens to climb up her throat at his jostling, elbowing him between the ribs as she pulls herself away.

“Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quick rather than starve to death…so he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop. But he just strung them up, one after another. And then when he was all finished, he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl who goes inside.” Craig looks entirely too fascinated with the harrowing details of the story, his eyes becoming wide as he loses himself in the details like a kid fascinated by a fairytale. Grace only barely hides her grimace as she continues to analyze his posture.

“Where’d you learn all this?” Dean inclines his head interestingly, squaring his shoulders as he stares Craig down.

“My cousin Dana told me. I don’t know where she heard it from. You gotta realize, I didn’t believe this for a second.” There’s a quip in his tone that has Sam shifting on his feet, and Grace isn’t blind to the way Craig’s fists clench in his pockets, that gleam of fascination slowly becoming a mixture of terror and uncertainty.

“But now you do?” Sam questions, his tone somewhat incredulous though there’s a hitch toward the end that keeps Craig hooked and spilling.

“Guys, I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to god, I don’t want to go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?” Grace understands the fear that becomes fascination all too well, and she offers Craig a sympathetic smile as Dean and Sam lock eyes, the elder of the two extending his appreciation toward Craig before he tapped Grace’s forearm, already beginning to lead the way back to the door.

She wobbles on her feet as she follows after him, looking over at Sam when his fingers ghost across the small of her back, reaching to catch her if she fell. She ignores the questioning look in his eyes, picking up the pace as she aims to catch up with Dean, eager to get away from Sam and his incessant questioning and analyzing.

She breathes a sigh of relief when the cool air hits her as she exits the music store, her flush face seemingly burning as its assaulted by the chilly wind around them, but all she does is deflate at the exposure, temporary relief settling in before she’s rushing into the backseat, not wanting to hold up the boys or raise anymore suspicion than she already has.

Despite how warm she feels, she reaches for the hoodie she’d thrown on the floor hours earlier, knowing Dean’ll grow suspicious if she doesn’t react to the cold soon. For men that rarely pay any attention to minor details, somehow they always pick up on the things that Grace wants to be left alone. She flips Sam off when she catches his eye in the rear view mirror, pleased when she watches his lips quirk into an amused smirk, his eyes no longer so clouded by concern. She hates that lying to them comes so easily.

Sometime later, the Winchesters are trekking through the Tennessee woods, searching for the so-called Hell House that Craig informed them of. The warmth that had once felt suffocating had fully abandoned Grace, and she shivers as she pulls the sleeves of her hoodie over her fingers, trying to keep out as much of the chill as she could manage without her jacket that’s buried in the trunk of the Impala. She looks up questioningly when Dean nudges her shoulder, but soon a grateful smile spreads across her lips as she realizes he’s extending his jacket. She slips it on eagerly, zipping it all the way up to her chin before she’s pulling the drawstrings of her hoodie even tighter, creating a barricade around her face that has Sam laughing.

“It’s not even that cold, G.” Sam rolls his eyes at her dramatics, unaware of the chills that are rolling down Grace’s spine and her arms, or that she’s fighting off a violent wave of nausea that has her practically seeing white from the discomfort.

“Do I need to remind you that women’s bodies and men's bodies interpret temperature differently because of our core temperatures?” She huffs, beyond irritable as she fights off the stinging sensation in her eyes, the burning sensation in her throat, the foggy pounding in her head, and the churning in her stomach. She’d been hopeful that those symptoms were just a result of her exhaustion, but she’s not so sure anymore, though she’s also not willing to admit that she’s sick. Definitely not willing to admit that she’s sick.

“Let’s go, nerd.” Dean only rolls his eyes at her snarky comment, nudging her forward with his shoulder. Grace stumbles on her feet, eyes becoming unfocused as her vision blurs for a second. She fights the urge to grab at her temple, instead keeping her hands in the pockets of Dean’s jacket as she steadies her balance.

Sam frowns, only steps behind her. “Dude, you okay?” He finally brings himself to ask, but all he gets in response is a huff from Grace and an indifferent shrug from Dean.

“Shark week?” The elder Winchester suggests, his expression neutral though there’s the slightest quirk in his lip that suggests he’s a little too smug about the suggestion.

Grace wants to cry in frustration, her eyes stinging with tears she refuses to let her brothers see. Her head is pounding, black spots dance in her vision if she turns her head too quickly, her stomach is in knots, but she refuses to accept that she’s sick. She refuses to even acknowledge the possibility. Instead, she scoffs, shaking her head as she moves past Dean, now being the one to lead the way through the wooded area.

“Definitely shark week.” Dean nods, to which Grace flips him off, her footsteps heavy as she quickens her pace, not sure if she’s aiming to lose them in the trees or simply express every emotion that's overwhelming her.

“Can’t say I blame the kid.” Sam comments, his eyes trailing over Grace’s frame before he turns his attention to the abandoned houses around them, an eerie feeling creeping up his spine as the miles of land around them appear barren and worn down.

“Yeah. So much for curb appeal.” Dean scoffs, finally catching up to Grace who isn’t so intent on ‘accidentally’ losing her brothers anymore. He slings an arm over her shoulder, but she shrugs him off, her glare unwavering as she looks over at him.

She sticks closer to Sam as they continue down the gravel path, annoyance rolling off of her body in thick waves that has Dean shaking his head as if he’d not been the one to agitate her. Twenty years with a little sister and he still doesn’t know how to not be a dick around women. Grace hates to think that she loses more and more hope in men every time her brothers get too comfortable with their precious masculinity.

When they come up to a specific house, she peels away from them both, her eyes squinting as she approaches the abandoned building cautiously. Neither Sam or Dean attempt to stop her, blindly following her onto the dying blades of grass, equally as curious. Sam kicks around at broken branches, but Dean hangs back, the EMF detector in hand, his fingers tapping at the small device incessantly.

“You got something?” Sam questions, walking closer to where Dean is standing, having abandoned the corner of the house where he’d initially been searching, coming up with nothing of importance to them or the case at hand.

“Yeah. The EMF’s no good.” Dean sighs, the machine buzzing in his hand. “I think that things still got a little juice in it. It’s screwing with all the readings.” His eyes glance toward the power lines, and both Grace and Sam follow the motion, looking at the wires that cross over their heads.

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” Sam agrees quietly, only looking down at Grace for a second as she comes to stand beside them, not finding anything important on her end of the house.

“Come on, let's go.” Dean nods towards the house, and both Grace and Sam follow. For an instant, Grace almost wishes that they had even the slightest bit of reluctance to be entering an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, but it's certainly not the creepiest of settings they’ve wandered into with less information than what they currently have. She’ll never understand how this became her life, but she’s too far into it to start asking questions now.

The house is somehow colder inside than it is outside, and she shivers as she steps over the threshold, pulling the leather jacket tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes sweep over the interior, noting the cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings, and insignificant piles of debris scattered around the baseboards.

“Looks like old man Murdoch was a bit of a tagger during his time.” Dean comments as they walk farther into the house, eyes scanning over the decor that’s still sitting on shelves and pinned to walls.

Sam follows Dean’s line of sight, looking straight at the reverse cross that Grace had already set her gaze on, her thoughts spiraling in every possible direction as she pulls on everything she’s ever learned about religion and its branches. “And after his time, too.”

“The reverse cross has been used by Satanists for centuries, but the sigil of sulfur–” Grace starts, looking directly at Sam, who knows exactly where she’s going with that specific train of thought. He doesn’t hesitate before jumping in, their brains attempting to unscramble the puzzle in front of them in tandem. “–didn’t show up in San Francisco until the ‘60s.” He finished, eyebroward furrowed as they shared a single glance before Sam was lifting his phone, snapping a picture of the cross.

“This is why you never get laid.” Dean scoffs, never above making a dig at Sam about his lack of sexual activity, though he seems to bristle when he realizes he’s unintentionally looped Grace into the insult, and the slightest grimace of disgust that crosses his features at the insinuation of his little sister having random hookups is enough satisfaction for the woman, not feeling it necessary to call him a pig when he’s already regretting his choice words. “What about this one? You seen this one before?” Dean nods toward the opposite wall, stepping away from Sam and Grace who are still trying to memorize the image of the cross.

“No.” Grace shakes her head, stalking closer to where Dean is standing, his head tilted like he’s trying to remember something just out of reach. She shuffles closer to him out of instinct, their arms brushing at the newfound proximity, but if Dean thinks anything of it, he doesn’t comment on it. Sam comes up on the other side of Grace, his phone already raised as he snaps a picture of the symbol on the wall.

Dean keeps his eyes on the symbol, his head turning as he further analyzes it. “I have… somewhere.”

Sam reaches out inquisitively, brushing the pads of his fingers over the markings. “It’s paint.” He notes as he pulls his fingers away, glancing at the residue that comes off on his hand. “Seems pretty fresh, too.”

“I don’t know. I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but the cops might be right about this one.” Dean sighs, turning away from the symbol on the wall as he takes in everything else in sight, Sam trailing after him as he contemplates the truth in that statement. Grace doesn’t move, her head lulling on her shoulders as fights off a sniffle, suddenly congested despite the fresh air that streams into the house from beneath window sills and door frames.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Sam agrees.

Just as the three Winchesters let their guard down, a crash comes from somewhere in the house, instantaneously raising their guards. Sam and Dean take initiative, stalking through the house until they come upon a closed door where the sound seemed to have come from. Grace stands to the side, her eyes on both of her brothers who wait a single second before nodding at her, Dean reaching for his gun just as Grace reaches for the handle and pushes it open. She’s immediately blinded by a shining light, her eyes squinting as she quietly groans and backs away. Sam pulls her behind him, equally as frazzled but ever the protective older brother.

“God!” A man choirs, his heart undoubtedly racing as he glances at the siblings in front of him. “Ugh. Cut!” He calls, posture deflating as he regains his bearing, the flashlight lowering and no longer blinding Grace who thinks the black spots in her vision have doubled now. Still, she makes no indication that she’s not at her best, keeping her chin high and her shoulders square despite how Sam’s wide frame keeps her concealed. “Just a couple humans. What are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean throws back at them, his eyes watching Grace as she steps away from Sam, though he makes no indication that he sees the way she closes her eyes tightly and masks a wince of discomfort. His theory on her odd behavior being a symptom of shark week is dwindling by the minute, but he’s not brave enough to quiz her again, still highly aware of the fact that he has to be in a car with her later on, and he does not want a pissed off little sister on his ass in confined spaces.

“Um, we belong here. We’re professionals.” The man with the camera explains like its obvious, his hands waving at his sides as he addresses Dean.

“Professional what?”

“Paranormal investigators?” Grace notes how the frames of his glasses do little to compliment his features, the blue button down he wears only another factor that aids in her analysis of his character; and whether he’s going to be a royal pain in their ass throughout the duration of the case. She’s not always so quick to judge, but nerdy men who think they have a chance at social redemption have a thing or two in common. She scoffs quickly beneath her breath when he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a card with a little too much finesse to be authentic. Her analysis is quickly proven correct, his air of false confidence already annoying her as she watches the scene unfold, not willing to help her brothers out with this one. “Here you go. Take a look at that, boys.” He entirely ignores her presence, and she can only roll her eyes. Not all men are the same, she knows and appreciates that, but most of the ones she stumbles across in this line of work do not fall very far from the same misogynistic tree.

She glances down at the card in Dean’s hands, rolling her eyes as she reads over the blocky black text. “You got to be kidding me.” Dean comments, not an ounce of humor in his tone.

“Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler, hellhoundslair.com – You guys run that website.” Sam looks up at them, disbelief in his expression though Ed and Harry take it for what it's not, pride filling their features as their shoulders square and their chins rise the slightest inch.

“Yeah.” Ed hums.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re huge fans.” Dean mumbles as he passes them, Grace following behind him, eager to find something to look at that isnt the two men who couldn’t care less about her presence. For once, she’s thankful that they have no interest in her, not sure if she’d be able to handle the high levels of masculinity that twinge the air with something almost hostile.

“And, uh, we know who you guys are, too.” There’s a stiff beat of silence that elapses as Dean and Grace lock eyes, their gazes trailing toward Ed and Harry curiously, though cautiously.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam questions, being the only one to find his voice quick enough.

Ed clears his throat, “Amatures looking for ghosts and cheap thrills.” Grace rolls her eyes, opening a cupboard on the left of her body, not so entertained by the conversation anymore. She grips at the hinges for support when a wave of dizziness crashes over her, knuckles becoming white from the intensity of her grip as she forces herself steady and coherent.

“Yeah, so, if you guys don’t mind, we’re trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here.” Harry not-so-subtly attempts to get the Winchesters to leave, his eyes trailing across Grace’s petite frame as she searches through the cabinets for something undisclosed. She’s entirely unaware, but Dean’s not, and his body quickly shields her from sight as he turns around to look at the men fully.

“Yeah? What do you got so far?” He picks up a camera, playing it cool despite the annoyance thats radiating off of him.

“Har, why don’t you tell them about EMF?” Ed looks entirely too smug, and when Sam questions it, Harry only beams with arrogance, his smirk deeply unsettling as he nods like he knows everything that the Winchesters couldn’t even dream of one day finding out. Grace really wants to punch him, but she’s aware of the fact that she’s more irritable than she usually is as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of Dean’s jacket, only slightly apologetic about the action that he’s not at all aware of.

“Electromagnetic field.” He boasts, and Sam can only smile as he scratches at his head, enjoying this far too much. “Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector like this bad boy right here.” Harry pulls an EMF detector out of his duffle bag on the counter, and Grace can only roll her eyes as she moves through the space, standing beside Dean now as they watch Sam lead the conversation. “Woah, woah. It’s a 2.8 mG. It’s hot in here.”

“Wow.” Sam fakes interest, his lips curving downward into an impressed expression as he glances at Grace and Dean, amusement sparkling in his eyes that only his siblings can pick up on.

“Huh. So, have you guys ever really seen a ghost before?” Dean questions, hands vaguely gesturing around the room they’re occupying.

“Once.” Ed nods, “We were investigating this old house, and we saw a vase fall right off the table–”

“ –by itself.” Harry adds, though the statement is quickly undermined by Ed who snaps his gaze to meet his partners.

“We didn’t actually see it, but we heard it. And something like that, it– it changes you.” Grace wants to bash her head into the wall as she listens to Ed talk, his tone entirely too filled with pride for something so insignificant.

“I think I get the picture.” Dean nods, “We should go, let them get back to work.” Nothing has ever sounded better to Grace, the woman desperately craving to seek warmth from the Impala, hoping to get another few hours of rest as well, though that's not looking too promising anymore.

-

Grace Winchester is definitely sick. She grimaces at the aftertaste on her tongue as she walks down the street balancing three hot drinks. While Sam and Dean had gone off to gather more intel on the case, she’d sought out a local coffee shop, thinking it was time that they put a little something in their bodies other than dust and debris. She hadn’t expected to make a b-line for the bathroom as soon as she’d entered the quaint little shop, but she was glad her brothers weren’t around to hear her wretch over the toilet, wanting to keep her sudden illness far off their radars, although she knew she was off to a terrible start already. She sneezed for the third time in the last five minutes as she approached Dean and Sam on the corner, standing outside of the Impala waiting for her to return, though they look to be having a pretty in depth conversation as Sam grips a handful of papers and pamphlets in his hands. Grace is painfully aware of how her eyes are glassy and swollen, her cheeks flush and yet somehow also pale, but she hopes that they think nothing of it, willing to lie and say she’s simply cold if they start to ask too many questions.

“I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals.” She only hears the tail end of their conversation, and a pout forms on her lips instantaneously as she glances down at the cups of coffee in her hands for the both of them. Sam winces sympathetically, taking one from her as she steps up to him softly.

“Thanks, Gracie.” He smiles softly, but his eyes stay fixed on her face for longer than necessary, and she sighs as she anticipates his next question. “You okay?”

“Fine. Definitely inhaled too much dust.” She plays it off, though the excuse is timed perfectly with another soft sneeze, and for once Sam doesn’t question it any further, nodding as he offers a quiet bless you. She’s about to get into the car, but Sam stops her with a hand on her forearm, a smirk on his lips that tells her everything she needs to know.

“What the–” Dean startles easily when he turns the car on and a spanish song starts blaring through the speakers. Sam can only laugh, entirely unaware of how Grace flinches at the sudden noise, her eyes pinching shut as she attempts to focus on her breathing and not throw up for the second time in ten minutes.

She gets into the car when Sam opens the passenger door, handing Dean his coffee before she’s making herself comfortable in the back, her cup of hot chocolate held between her kneecaps as she curls up tight, reaching for the blanket that’s crumpled up in a heap toward the other end of the seat. She tunes out their conversation, already half asleep by the time Dean puts the gear in drive and peels away from the curb.

She’s passed out when Sam glances back at her, his eyes filled with concern. He reaches for the hot chocolate that’s still between her knees, pulling it away from her unconscious body before it has the chance to spill and burn her. He frowns when he realizes she’s hardly even taken a single sip from it, his eyes immediately trailing toward Dean who isn’t so subtly watching her through the rearview mirror. “She’s sick.” He notes.

“Knew that the second she started with her ‘womens bodies run hotter than mens’ bullshit.” Dean rolls his eyes, though there's a twinge of concern etched across his brows as he reaches for the stereo, turning the music down despite it already being practically inaudible. “Just– don’t say anything. Don’t need her slashing my tires.” He’s only partly joking, and Sam knows that, but still they both can’t help but dread the anxiety and fear that plagues Grace whenever she comes down with something. Guilt pools in Dean’s chest, his heart hammering as he questions how their lives turned out so shittily that his sister can’t even find it within herself to admit to being sick.

-

The next morning, Grace somehow feels worse than she did the day before, and it's evident in the way she winces with every move she makes, soft sneezing filling the backseat as she masks groans of discomfort every time her muscles tense. After the seventh sneeze, Sam can’t take it anymore, his eyes trailing over her frame that’s partly concealed by the thick blanket she has pulled up to her chin.

“I know that you’re sick.” He comments, not blind to the way Grace tenses with fear, her eyes wide and vulnerable as she shakes her head, attempting to deny the truth they’re all aware of.

“I’m not sick.” She denies the accusation, her voice wavering, though whether it's a result of the fear that grips at her belly and twists it into knots, or the throbbing ache in her throat that’s not quelled by any amount of honey or tea, not even Grace is certain. All that she knows is that it most definitely does not help her case, and that’s evident in the way Sam’s lips twitch with sympathy.

“Gracie–” He starts, only to cut himself off, shaking his head as Dean pulls up to the Hell House, seeing officers and squad members surrounding the abandoned foundation. “It’s okay if you are. Dean and I got this.”

“I’m not fucking sick, Sammy. Would you just get the fuck out of the car already?” There’s a clip in her tone that neither of her brothers have heard in a while, years even, and they can only sigh as they agree to her demands, straightening out their jackets before they push the Impala’s doors open and step out into the awaiting cold. Whoever said Texas was warm year round was most definitely lying through their teeth.

Despite the soreness in her muscles and the way her head begs for reprieve from the constant moving, Grace climbs out of the car after Sam, not even glancing back at her brothers for a loose game plan before she’s stalking up to one of the officers in the yard, an air of confidence surrounding her as she moves, though its not at all genuine, rather, fabricated from the deep-rooted fear that just won’t relent no matter how hard she pleads with herself to just breathe.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 1999

Grace Winchester pants for breath as she looks over at her father, her green eyes glassy and incoherent as she lays limp on damp grass. She can’t remember how she got here – sprawled out in Bobby’s yard, covered in blood and what she thinks is monster goo – nor how long she’s been here. John stands in front of the Impala, arms crossed over his chest as he seethes. It was meant to be an easy fight, a sure fire win, but when he’d handed Grace the gun, when he’d told her to shoot the thing without a single second to prepare herself, all hell broke loose for both Winchesters involved.

Grace’s chest throbs as she hyperventilates on the grass, not sure if the ache in her ribs is from the monster she’d been pit up against, or her fathers assault. It doesn’t matter why she hurts, it only matters that she can’t pull herself up and John is waiting; waiting for her to get up, to dust herself off, to put up her fists and prove that she’s worth keeping around. Grace can’t move though. She can’t even lift her hands off the ground, let alone raise her entire body. Her head is pounding, but it has been pounding for days at this point, her throat is raw, and her eyes sting so horrendously that she thinks it might just be better to keep them closed forever, but that’s not an option. It will never be an option so long as John Winchester expects obedience from her.

“Get up, girl.” He demands, and another rock is hurled in her direction. It thumps against her thigh and becomes yet another sensation for Grace to try and ignore as she continues to try and stay conscious. She knows she’s in even more trouble if she faints, but she hasn’t eaten in days, she’s thrown up every ounce of water John’s let her consume, and she’s practically numb after trying to hold her own against her own father just hours after being thrown against a wall by whatever monster she’d been tasked with ending. “I said, Get. Up.” John growls, pushing himself off of the Impala with impatience. Grace can barely even flinch as he comes closer, too close, and before she knows it, or even has time to prepare, his steel toed boots are crashing into her ribcage, and the pain that she’d been dealing with before suddenly triples.

Grace tries to stand, attempting to get her limbs working again, but just as she lifts her head up off of the rain-soaked grass, she’s throwing up all over herself and John’s shoes. It’s not just stomach acid and water anymore either, and she cringes as she feels blood drip from her lips onto the blades beside her head. She can only whimper when her father grabs her by the collar of her blood soaked t-shirt, pulling her up off the ground without a moment of hesitation. Nothing’s broken. She’d know if something was broken, but that doesn’t mean everythings right either. Her face is flush, her throat is on fire, her stomach churns and not just because she’s terrified. Three days ago, she’d come home from school sick. The flu had been going around her dusty, and very temporary, middle school, and it came as no surprise to anyone that she’d been unlucky enough to catch it. John hadn’t taken kindly to her complaining, though all Grace had done was cough into her elbow at dinner, but apparently that was enough to put her on his chopping block – not that she ever left the very top of that list. He’d dragged her out to South Dakota that very next day, something about a strange death and a monster to hunt slipping past his lips when he’d informed Dean of the case. It wasn’t often that John took Grace on a hunt without her brothers, but it wasn’t uncommon either, and with that logic in mind, neither Sam nor Dean questioned why John wanted only Grace with him, naively assuming it was to keep them away from the flu that had her practically bedridden and imobile until he’d dragged her out by her wrist.

The only thing keeping Grace on her feet is John’s hand around her neck, and when he lets go, when he finally relents and allows her to breathe, she crumbles to the ground, landing in the pile of sick that's already begun to cool. She whimpers, both in pain and disgust, and attempts to get to her feet again, but John’s hand on her shoulder keeps her where she is. She’s little, only thirteen years old and barely half the height of her youngest older brother, but that’s never stopped her father from treating her like an adult. She moans in pain when he backhands her, but headlights shine brightly in the distance, and Grace knows it's the end, at least for now.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bobby rushes out of his car, his breath visible in the air as he races to where Grace is, her blood laced vomit smeared into her hair and her clothes tattered and stained as she succumbs to darkness, finally passing out. The last thing she can hear is John saying something about her being useless, needing to teach her that even a fever doesn’t exempt her from earning her keep in the family; his family.

Present

Grace tries not to panic as she crouches behind wilting shrubbery, the jacket around her shoulders zipped all the way up, though it barely does her any good as she continues to shiver. She has a fever, she doesn’t need a thermometer to tell, but she refuses to let Sam and Dean see this through on their own. She refuses to be a waste of space and air when there’s good to be done, evil to be ganked. It’s been years since she’s seen her father, but his words still echo through her head, and his irrational anger that only increased whenever she came down with something still flashes against her eyelids whenever she lets herself rest.

Her brothers still don’t know half of what she endured at the hands of John Winchester, but with the pieces of the puzzle that they have, Sam especially, they aren’t surprised by Grace’s reaction. None of their childhoods were ideal, none of them had white picket fences and lovey-dovey moments to steal, but Grace had the shortest stick there was to draw, and neither of her brothers can – or try to – deny it. It’s a miracle that she’s even here with them at all, searching for a man that put her through hell for the first eighteen years of her life, but she’s always known a thing or two about loyalty, and Dean hates to think that she’s faithful to a fault. She’ll get herself killed doing this job before she ever lets them go off without her.

“Guess the cops don’t want anymore kids screwing around in there.” Sam notes, watching as flashlights shine bright on the expanse of land surrounding them. For a moment, Grace is back in South Dakota, she’s sprawled out on rain-soaked grass and on the cusp of unconsciousness from a fever and physical injuries, but she forces the memory away, biting down on her bottom lip to focus on something other than the trauma circling through her mind.

“Yeah, but we still got to get in there.” Dean sighs, looking out past the branches, only to snap his gaze to the side when a twig breaks in the distance, leaves crunching beneath footsteps that approach as a pair. Grace follows his line of sigh, her hand falling onto Sam’s thigh as she steadies herself. She doesn’t make a big deal out of needing Sam’s support to find balance, and thankfully, neither does he. “I don’t believe it.” Dean scoffs, all three siblings watching as Ed and Harry stumble up the hill, headlamps shining bright against the night sky.

“I got an idea.” Dean mumbles before he rises off the ground just slightly, and while he’s preoccupied with whatever master plan he's thought up, Sam forces Grace closer to his chest, one arm looping around her waist to keep her close, knowing she’ll struggle.

“Sammy, would you quit it already!” Grace seethes lowly, her voice hushed and weak as she bats at his arm, trying not to panic at the sensation of being trapped; unable to defend herself against someone bigger than herself, stronger than she will ever be. “I told you I’m fine.”

“You’re burning up!” His voice is hushed, a whisper in the night, but still loud enough for Dean to acknowledge as he scoops out the stance of the officers on the front lawn, further curating his plan of distraction, though he’s still fully tuned into the conversation Sam is trying – and failing – to have with Grace. “Dad’s not here, Gracie! You don’t have to pretend like you're not sick!”

“You don’t know what your talking about, so why don’t you just shut up and let me do my fucking job.” She snaps, elbowing him in the gut, putting distance between herself and him. Neither brother notices how she grabs at her throat, or how she seems to heave for breath like she can’t physically draw anything into her lungs. They might be looking for John Winchester, but the effects of his torment and torture have never left Grace, not even for a second.

“Who you gonna call?” Dean bellows, tapping Grace’s side as he nods toward the house. The two officers posted outside bolted toward Ed and Harry, leaving a clear point of entry open for the Winchesters to strike. Grace can only shake her head at their stupidity, but doesn’t harp on how truly terrible they are at their job, thankful that it makes her life easier for once.

The siblings rush through the cover of darkness as the two county officers further chase Ed and Harry back down the hill. Grace gets into the house first, her heart stuttering in her chest as she forces her body to keep going, keep moving, keep being worth something to her brothers. She brushes strands of hair out of her face, sighing in annoyance when she finds that the reason her hair is loose and unruly in the first place is because the elastic band around her tresses has snapped. She looks to Dean when he hits her shoulder, ready to snap, to deny the fever that’s clouding her judgement, but all he does is offer her another hairtie, not saying a single word about how her breathing comes out wheezy, or how her face is flush and she looks somewhat green even beneath the cover nightfall they’ve chosen to sneak around beneath. She doesn’t ask why he even had a hair tie around his wrist to begin with, just takes it gratefully and redoes the ponytail that swings with every crane of her head. She feels better, just slightly, but with cold air hitting the back of her neck now, she hopes that some of the fog over her senses will fall away and become a problem for later on when there aren’t innocent lives to save and monsters to put an end to.

Sam hands Dean a shotgun first, before reaching into the duffle again to hand one to Grace. She barely bristles as she cocks the gun, the metal familiar beneath her fingertips despite how much she hates these weapons. She doesn’t waste a second, because they don’t have a second to waste, before she’s approaching the wall where the unknown symbol remains, Dean’s flashlight illuminating the dried paint as well as it can.

“Where have I seen that symbol before? It’s killing me.” He grumbles, but Sam isn’t waiting around for their brother to figure it out, sneaking up beside Dean and Grace before he’s making a move of his own, peeling away from the post they’ve created beside the wall.

“Come on. We don’t have much time.” He directs them farther into the house, his flashlight illuminating corners they don’t even touch as he searches for the basement. Grace sighs as she follows her brothers, but when Sam stops in front of the staircase, shining his flashlight down the steps, she’s quick to snake her way between them, outright refusing to be the first to descend the rickety stairs or the last last. Sam looks back at her, rolling his eyes, though he’s anything but surprised. She’s always been terrified of basements, and neither Dean nor Sam know why. It’s one of the only fears that Grace can’t explain either, though she’s sure something has happened over the course of her life that would warrant such a fear, but off the top of her head, she always comes up blank.

A sneeze catches both of her brothers off guard, their flashlights temporarily blinding her as they snap their gaze in her direction, expecting to see a shadow or another idiot kid, their shoulders squared and ready for anything that may come at them. She blushes sheepishly, apologizing meekly as she wipes at her nose with the sleeve of her jacket as a precaution. Growing up with two brothers that never learned how to actually be mature adults means she’s constantly worrying about having something on her face, and she knows neither of them would tell her if she did, though she holds a little bit of hope in Sammy now, but even he’s guilty of omitting the truth for a prank.

Dean’s the first to pull away from the interaction, his flashlight sweeping across the expanse of the basement before he dwells on a single shelf with mason jars of ominous liquid laid out in a neat row. He picks one up that has an off-putting orange tinge to it, a smirk curving his lips upward. “Hey, Sam, I dare you to take a swig of this.” He teases.

Grace rolls her eyes, staying silent, but Sam was never one to just ignore Dean’s wit. “The hell would I do that for?” He rebuttals, features unamused despite giving Dean exactly what he wanted in the first place, which was any kind of response at all.

“I double dare you.” Dean’s entirely too giddy about the situation, but that ends just as quickly as it began when there’s a scratching noise behind them. Instinctively, he reaches for Grace, tugging her further behind him as all three of them turn to address the sudden sound.

They stalk up to the cupboard where the sound came from with intent, shotguns raised and aimed at the cabinet as Sam ever so cautiously inches to pull it open. Grace braces herself for whatever they may face, but ultimately its not needed, rats scampering out of the cupboard the second the door is cracked open.

“I hate rats.” Dean groans, and Grace can only agree, inching backward as the rats run in all directions around her.

“You’d rather it was a ghost?” Sam questions, and Grace nods eagerly, a shriek escaping her lips when a rat tail flicks at her ankle.

“Yes.” Dean grimaces, flashlight still shining on the floor, illuminating the creatures that scamper around.

Grace is still inching backwards, away from the rats when something eerie creeps up her spine. All she has to follow is intuition, but she listens to her instincts without second thought, thankful that she did, because behind her is the shadow of a spirit, an axe held high above her head. Her gun goes off first, aimed directly at the ghost's chest. She doesn’t miss, she hardly ever misses, but even with the echoes of her brothers shooting at it too, the ghost disappears, hardly phased by the ambush.

“What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?” Sam bellows in surprise, his eyes flickering to Dean as Grace steps back into line with them, no longer wanting to be out in the open steps ahead of them. Her chest is racing, her lungs ache. She’s never been a fan of jumpscares, but it's not panic that fills her body with discomfort, it's the reminder that despite wanting to pretend like she’s at her best, there’s still a fever and nausea plaguing her.

“I don’t know! Come on, come on, come on!” Dean chirps with efficiency, all three siblings keeping their shotguns cocked as they peel away from the corner of the basement, rushing toward the stairs, hoping to escape the spirit to regroup the information that they have – which isn’t much of anything – but before they can climb the steps, the shelves are being smashed, and something knocks Grace on the ground, her head bashing against the banister as she falls.

She hardly manages to get to her feet before Dean’s grabbing the back of her jacket and pulling her with him. There’s blood dripping down her head, sticky and warm as it coats her eyebrow and drips farther down her face. She can only grimace as she runs, both hands on her shotgun ready to aim at whatever comes at them. Dean barrels through the front door still holding onto Grace’s jacket, and the both of them tumble to the ground as she loses her footing on the stairs and Dean trips over himself. They’re back up on their feet in seconds, Dean shoving past Harry and Ed who are stupidly holding up cameras that won’t do them any good.

They’re heading to the Impala, the cold air hitting Grace as she races past her brothers and toward the car, desperate for a minute to breathe without fearing for her life. She wipes at the blood dripping down her face, grimacing at the familiar feeling beneath her fingertips and the stain to her white long sleeved shirt but that's the least of her worries as the throbbing in her head only grows, and the wave of nausea intensifies. Somehow she gets into the car without losing any of the lunch she’d barely been able to stomach, and she’s practically dead to the world when Sam and Dean climb in, peeling away from the scene like a bat out of hell, the engine revving as Dean books it back to the motel.

“You okay back there, G?” Dean calls once they are a safe distance away, adrenaline no longer coursing through their veins so intently. Grace can’t say she’s thankful for that, because without the fight or flight instincts taking the reins, she’s aware of how tired she is.

“Peachy.” She chokes out, grimacing as the strain in her throat. “Give me that.” She leans forward, stealing a rag from the passenger seat that Sam had been using to polish his knives. She doesn’t care about what chemicals have touched the rag, or that it’s been trampled on by both her shoes and Sam’s. All she wants is for the blood to stop pouring down her face, not sure how much more she can take before she’s thrown head first into a panic attack that neither of her brothers should need to deal with. “Fucking hell.” She winces, pressing the rag to the cut on her temple. It’s not nearly deep enough for stitches, she’s beyond grateful for that, but it's still deep enough to be a pain in the ass as she puts pressure on the wound. “My brain better not have a fucking splinter.”

-

Grace moans as she slumps against the wall in the bathroom, the porcelain of the toilet seat cold beneath her cheek as he heaves over the bowl once more. She’s been bent over the toilet for the last twelve minutes, not that she was counting, throwing up everything that she’d consumed that day. Her head is pounding, and tears blur in her vision as the breakdown she’d been desperately trying to ignore overcomes her in a moment of weakness. She bashes her fist against the wall, but even the pain in her fingers can’t distract her from the panic attack that’s climbing up her throat. A dry sob falls off her lips, tears falling down her cheeks, mixing with the blood that still smeared across her face.

A knock on the door sends her scrambling back against the wall, swallowing the bile that’s raising in her throat as she stares at the door with wide, terrified eyes. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, or better yet, who she’s expecting, but when Dean jiggles the handle, finding it unlocked, she can only sob in terror that’s wildly misplaced. He has a cup of hot tea in his hands, but quickly he sets it on the sink, crouching in front of Grace who shrinks away from him in fear, her breathes wheezy and shallow as she shakes her head, fingers tangling into her hair as she pulls and pulls at her tangled locks.

“No! No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m fine! I promise!” She mumbles, eyes pleading with Dean to believe her, to spare her anymore pain. She’s not seeing Dean, not in the slightest. The fevers made her delirious, the panic’s turned reality to old memories. She’s in a bathroom, a crappy motel bathroom, but its not the one she shares alone with her brothers. It’s one that her father rented.

West Reading, Pennsylvania. 1997

Grace heaves over the toilet bowl, coughing and spluttering as she expells everything she had at lunch that day. John isn’t with them, but he’s coming back soon, Dean told her as much when she came home early with a fever. It’s not the first time she’s gotten sick at school, not the first time she’s picked up a virus or a bug from hanging around kids her own age. It’s not her fault, not really. All of her classmates get the vaccines and the boosters, all of her classmates are exposed to illness and viruses year round as they socialize and develop their personalities based on the small towns they occupy. Grace has never had the luxury. Grace isn’t even sure she’s ever had the flu shot.

The last time she was sick, John had told her not to let it happen again. That she was already weak enough without a fever and vomiting; that she was no good to any of them if she was hunched over a toilet. He’d told her the only reason he keeps her around at all is to have an extra set of hands, and what good are her hands if she can’t even lift her head up. Grace knows the kids at her school don’t have to worry about their father killing them if they come home with a cough, but she can’t help but think that this may be the reason she dies. She doesn’t want to believe that John will kill her over a stomach bug, but she can’t deny the possibility. Not when he’s hurt her for less. Not when he told her the next time she gets sick, they’ll be a bullet between her eyes before she can even plead for her life.

Her fingers tighten around the seat of the toilet as she retches, the motel door slamming as John comes back. She knows it's him because of the way his boots echo despite the carpeted floors. She knows its him because Dean is sputtering excuses, practically begging John to take him to the diner, claiming he needs a beer. Dean’s not even old enough to drink, Sam’s not even old enough to drive, and Grace is definitely not old enough to be panicking over whether this is the last thing she’ll ever do; throw up in a shitty motel bathroom.

The bathroom door wasn’t locked. It’s never locked. Not when Grace uses it at least. She wishes she locked it when the door knob slams into the wall, almost hard enough to dent it, but it's like John’s showing restraint, not wanting to be questioned at check out if somebody happens to notice the damage before he can peel away from the parking lot. She whimpers, eyes staring straight back at her father who looms over her like a predator. Her friends at school don’t see their dad’s as the enemy. Well, Carrie does, but that’s only because he took away her favorite body spray after her brother tried to start a fire after learning about chemicals in his high school science class. Grace knows this isn’t normal. She understands that now. But understanding something doesn’t mean that it’ll stop, only that it becomes a best kept secret.

“What the hell did I tell you, girl!” John bellows, backhanding her without remorse. Her head slams into the wall, and she starts to vomit again, but this time it falls onto her chest, and she whimpers in humiliation as she stares up at her father with glassy eyes. Sam and Dean stand in the center of the room between the two beds that all four of them share. Dean watches silently, his hand on Sam’s wrist keeping him from getting between John and Grace. Nothing good happens when they do that; when they protect her, but still Sammy always tries anyways.

John doesn’t say anything else as he grabs a fistful of Grace’s hair, pulling her in close to the toilet that she hasn’t had the chance to flush. She doesn’t know where this is going, doesn’t know what to brace herself for, but when her father forces her head into the toilet, into the contaminated water that’s not just water anymore, she desperately tries to get herself free. Dean winces as he watches, Sam flinches. There’s nothing they can do. If they so much as ask him to stop, he’ll only go on longer. If Sam tries to get in the middle, tries to help his baby sister that’s drowning in her own sick, John’ll only hit her harder. They’re trapped. Forced to watch as their father that devotes his life to killing monsters, turns into one any time his youngest child so much as breathes too loud.

The toilet flushes with Grace’s head still in the bowl, her hair wet now as it falls into the water. John only relents when Grace can’t struggle anymore, but he doesn’t give her the chance to catch her breath before he’s pulling her to her feet by the handful of hair that he has. She knows where this is going. Sam and Dean know where this is going. Both brothers watch as their little sister is dragged to the closet, her body, already weak and barely functioning, thrown into it with a venomous force. She’s coughing up water, desperately wiping at her face that is covered in her own sick. She doesn’t have the strength to plead with John, but Dean knows that she wants to; that she would’ve had there not been water in her lungs she’s continuously coughing up. The door slams and the lock clicks, and it's silent for a handful of minutes before John nods toward the door, suddenly interested in that beer Dean suggested.

“Wh-What if she gets sick again? S-She’ll– Dad, she could die if she chokes on it.” Sam glances back at the closet as John demands that he steps outside and comes with them. He knows his little sister is in a ball on the floor, panicking and probably puking, but he knows if he reaches for the handle, if he opens the door now, John’ll only shove Grace right back in and force him outside and on a hunt. He knows that if either he or Dean open that closet before at least a handful of hours have elapsed, it’ll only be worse for Grace.

“You disobeying me, boy?” John narrows his eyes, Dean silently pleading with Sam to drop the subject and get moving, knowing the quicker they leave, the quicker they grab dinner and drinks at the local diner, the quicker they’ll be able to come back and let Grace out. John never has any objections when they let her out after they’ve come back from somewhere. They just need to get through the hour or so they’ll be away first.

“No, sir.” Sam sighs, glancing at the closet one last time before he’s following after his brother, fear pooling in his belly as he tries not to think about what’s happening in the closet, or if his little sister will still be alive when they come back.

Present

“Hey, hey. Hey, Gracie girl.” Dean’s tone is unbelievably soft as he steps closer to his sister, his hands extended toward her, though he doesn’t think he’s really seeing him at all. Her face is flush, her eyes are glassy and rimmed red, swollen from crying and the minutes she’s spent hunched over the toilet. He can still remember that night in Pennsylvania. He can still remember how John held her head in the toilet for what felt like hours, and his heart hammers with guilt for not being able to protect her then, but he can do something about it now, even if it is years too late. “You’re okay. Gonna be sick again?” He’s always been soft with her, always been kind and gentle, but it only shows itself in moments like these. Moments when they’re not hunters, just siblings that have only ever had each other to look out for and count on. Grace might be twenty, she might not be this little girl who doesn’t know how to defend herself anymore, but she’s still his baby sister. She’s still the only piece of Mary that he and Sammy have left.

Grace shakes her head, swallowing thickly. She’s out of it, the fever she’s been ignoring finally getting the best of her. She whimpers when he steps closer, when he brushes hair out of her face that’s damp from the pearls of sweat that drip down her neck. She thinks he’s going for her hair, thinks he’s going to pull her up to her feet and force her into a closet, and she whimpers, flinching away. Dean’s strong, he always has been, he doesn’t care to show emotion, doesn’t care to express his feelings, but he can’t help the frown the pulls at his lips as he finally realizes why his sisters so scared right now. It’s not that he forgot, he could never forget, but when it was all happening, when John was still around and Grace hadn’t yet bailed to find peace with Sam at Stanford, he’d been partly blinded by his fathers dysfunctional style of discipline. He’d always known that the way John treated Grace was abusive, he wasn’t that easily manipulated, but until now, until John wasn’t here to chastise and terrorize her anymore, he’d never realized just how much it had all affected her, and unfortunately, he’s no longer blinded by the false hope that when John pulled her away form them for solo hunts, he wasn’t doing his absolute worse.

“Okay, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed then.” He helps her to her feet, guiding her out of the bathroom, trying not to wince when her head falls onto his shoulder and he can feel the heat radiating off of her forehead. She’s burning up, and he can only sympathize. She’s always been the one to catch an illness, and although he was only six when Mary died, he vaguely remembers how his mother would always fret over her health. John used to worry too, used to tell the boys to wash their hands and never touch her face, always tell them that because she was born so early, her little body couldn’t fight illnesses as well as theirs. He doesn’t know when his father stopped caring. Doesn’t know when Grace became the person he hates most, when she was once his favorite child, but he hates it. He hates that his sister is the sweetest, kindnessest, most trusting and loving person he knows, and their father could never recognize that. He hates that after nineteen years of torture and pain, Grace still has her heart. She’s one of the best damn hunters Dean has ever crossed paths with, but at the end of the day, she’s just a woman with a whole lot of love to give, and somehow she always ends up hurt.

“I need– I need to h-help. Need to– to be worth keeping ‘round.” She wheezes, allowing Dean to lay her down in his bed. He’s a real bitch whenever they get into their motel rooms, always claiming a bed to himself, never willing to share. Usually that means Sam and Grace are bunked together, or on the rare hunts when they can splurge for a bigger room, Sam takes the couch. Grace barely even recognizes that she’s being laid down in Dean’s bed, her fever taking the reins of her consciousness despite how hard she’s trying to fight it.

“You’re worth keeping around, Gracie girl.” That nickname, something so soft, so sweet and slightly abnormal, isn’t one that she hears a lot, but in moments like this, moments when she’s just Dean’s baby sister and not a hunter with near perfect aim, it slips out. “Just take these, and get some sleep, yeah? Sammy and I’ll finish this thing up. We just need you resting.”

He hands her three different pills, and Grace takes them without fuss, not coherent enough to really fight him anyway. She’s only getting hotter by the second, her complexion pale and gauntly as she sinks into the mattress. She’s asleep within seconds, and Sam can only shake his head.

“What are we doing man? Dragging her back into this– I mean, I know she can handle this. The hunts, the monsters… but Dean, you didn’t see her when she turned up to my place at Stanford. She barely left her room for the first month, terrified that Dad would find her, drag her back to some crappy motel and beat the shit out of her for trying to leave. Are we really just going to walk her back into his life?” Sam pulls a hand down her face, and for a moment Dean falters, torn between wanting to find out what happened to their father, and keeping Grace far from him. They don’t have time to sit here and discuss the trauma that still affects their sister who isn’t so far off from still being a kid.

“It’ll be different this time.” Is all Dean says before he’s out the door, and Sam can only follow him, stealing one last glance at Grace before he’s closing the motel door, desperately hoping that Dean’s right, that this time really is different.

It's hours later when they return, and despite expecting to see Grace still asleep in bed, she’s sitting up against the wall, a takeaway container of chicken tenders in her lap. The sun is just beginning to rise again, though the sky is unwilling to let light fan across the endless expanse just yet.

“Hey.” She greets them, holding the box out for Dean, grinning when he doesn’t hesitate to grab a fry and throw it into his mouth.

“Hey. You look better.” Sam comments, already starting to pack his shit up, both him and Dean eager to get the hell out of town and hit the road to somewhere new.

“Took a nap, a shower, went out for some actual meds… and there’s nothing chicken fingers can’t fix. Had to bribe the chef at the dinner to make me some.” She’d be lying if she said her head didn’t still throb, but everything else seems to have faded now that she’s medicated, rested, and actually eating something that’s not a twix bar Dean lifted from a gas station.

“Of course you did.” Dean rolls his eyes, reaching for another fry before he’s scrambling to get his own shit together, not that any of them brought much inside, but there’s still precious items they wouldn't’ dream of just abandoning scattered around the room. “Everything’s good. Dude was a freaking Tulpa.”

Grace nods, but there’s an edge in her eyes that tells Dean he’s on his sister's chopping block. “Next time you leave me here to finish a hunt, I’ll cut your balls off.”

“What were you gonna do, puke on the spirits' feet?” Dean can only laugh when a chicken finger is thrown at his head, Grace huffing as she stands to start packing her own shit, though she’s considerably less disorganized than her brothers who are scrounging around every corner of the room for things.

“Asshole.” Grace mutters beneath her breath, though she’s just glad the world has finally stopped spinning.

[glimmeringwinchester]

love was the law

༊*·˚ winchester sister series

summary — yellow eyes wasn’t always after sam, not really anyways. he was after the youngest winchester, the only daughter of john and mary. just because she wasn’t fed demon blood at six months old, doesn’t mean her life was anything other than tragic and terrible

warning(s) — depictions of child abuse, violence, death, gore, canon supernatural events and trauma. additional warnings will be provided in each part.

au — grace winchester was the youngest child of john and mary. she was also hated by her father!

PARTS — parts will be added as written

(i) bugs | (season 1, episode 8) [ 20.1k ]

(ii) home | (season 1, episode 9) [ 20k ]

(iii) hell house | (season 1, episode 17) [ 12.6k ]

(iv) dead man’s blood | (season 1, episode 20) [ 17.6k ]

[glimmeringwinchester]

⛓️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰🪩꒱ ♡ ･ full masterlist ✧

[ ♱ ] — angst [ 𐦍 ] — fluff [ 𖤐 ] — series

WINCHESTER SISTER — parts will be added as written

love was the law ♱𐦍𖤐

yellow eyes wasn’t always after sam, not really anyways. he was after the youngest winchester, the only daughter of john and mary. just because she wasn’t fed demon blood at six months old, doesn’t mean her life was anything other than tragic and terrible

one | two | three | four

[glimmeringwinchester]

twenty ♡ ˙ ̟!! masterlist 🎧ྀི — winchester