Dean – Age 14
Dad left us in Savannah with a motel room, a twenty-dollar bill, and the usual line: "Back in a few days."
Translation? Something spooky in the next town over—old church, sudden disappearances, flickering lights—just another pit stop in our family's road trip through Hell's greatest hits.
He didn't say when he'd be back. He never really did.
He just packed the trunk, loaded the rock salt, and vanished into the night like a myth no one believed anymore.
I was used to it.
Sam wasn't. Not really.
He was ten, but he still asked questions. Still looked for meaning in Dad's scribbled notes. Still hoped.
We were staying at the Bay Breeze Motor Lodge—a rundown two-story rectangle with a neon sign that buzzed like a bug zapper and flickered in a way that made you question your sanity.
The A/C worked. The TV didn't.
Sam had claimed the bed closest to the window, tucked into his hoodie and buried nose-deep in a weathered copy of Frankenstein. He read like he was trying to find a way out through the pages.
I watched reruns on mute and threw stale pretzels into the air, catching them with varying degrees of success.
The room smelled like old carpet and stronger memories.
By late morning, the food situation had become dire.
"You ate the last Pop-Tart," I muttered, rifling through drawers.
"No, you did," Sam replied, not even glancing up.
"Lies. I distinctly remember saving one."
"For your 2 a.m. victory snack? That doesn't count."
"We need real food," I said, straightening. "Come on."
He looked up slowly. "Like what?"
"Like canned ravioli and fruit snacks. We're living like kings today."
He rolled his eyes, but stood.
I threw him a backpack. "You're carrying."
"Only if you promise not to hit on the cashier again."
"She smiled at me."
"She was seventy."
"Seventy-five, tops. Still got it."
Sam – Age 10
Savannah didn't feel like any other city we'd passed through.
It was old—like the buildings had memories. The cobblestone streets looked like they'd cracked under the weight of time. Even the air felt different: heavy with humidity, yes, but also with something else. Something watching.
Dean said ghosts probably lined the sidewalks like colonial decorations.
I believed him.
But it didn't bother me.
It was peaceful in a strange way. Familiar.
Like the world here didn't pretend it wasn't haunted.
We walked toward the historic square, planning to cut through to the local corner store for supplies.
Dean said it was faster.
It wasn't.
We passed graveyards with tilted headstones, lampposts wrapped in Spanish moss, and storefronts full of books, bones, or both. I wanted to stop at the little occult shop tucked between two cafés.
Dean said no.
"They sell fake hex bags and overpriced sage," he muttered. "Tourist witchcraft."
"How do you know?"
He didn't answer.
He never really answered questions about Mom. About what he remembered. About before.
I think it hurt too much.
Dean
It happened behind a flower shop.
One minute, we were arguing about whether I tripped over my own feet or Sam's obnoxious stride (spoiler: it was definitely him). The next minute, our grocery bag exploded across the concrete like a ravioli massacre.
Then we weren't alone.
She stepped into the alley like she'd walked out of another time.
A girl—ten, maybe eleven—wearing a lavender dress, white sandals, and a wide-brimmed hat pushed back from her face. Her hair was light brown with gold streaks that caught the sun. Her skin practically glowed.
She crouched like she didn't care about the grime, picked up a can of ravioli, and held it out to me.
"Salvageable," she said, smiling like we were old friends.
I blinked.
"Uh… thanks?"
She stood again, graceful like someone taught in ballrooms, not sidewalks. She brushed off her skirt with a casual sweep.
"You're not from around here," I said automatically.
She smiled wider. "Neither are you."
That threw me for a beat.
Sam lit up. "Are you British?"
"Yes."
"That's cool."
"She could be a demon," I muttered.
"I'm flattered," she said.
Sam laughed. I didn't.
She introduced herself as Bela.
"Like the vampire?" I asked, eyebrow raised.
"Like the thief," she said with a knowing grin.
I didn't like how easily she said it.
I liked her even less for how easily Sam liked her.
But I couldn't deny it—she had presence.
Power, maybe. Not the kind we hunted. Something subtler. Older.
She didn't flinch when Sam said our dad was working out of town.
She didn't press for details.
She didn't talk like a kid.
"You read?" Sam asked.
"Obsessively," she said. "Especially stories with monsters pretending not to be."
That made Sam grin.
"Dean thinks reading is for nerds," he added.
"I didn't say that," I grumbled.
"You implied it."
Bela tilted her head at me. "You look like someone who'd rather learn things by doing."
I shrugged. "Maybe."
"Reckless," she said. "But efficient."
I narrowed my eyes.
Sam beamed.
Eventually, she said, "Well, I should get going. My parents will wonder if I've hexed someone."
I stared.
She waved a hand. "Joking."
Right.
"Will we see you again?" Sam asked hopefully.
"Probably," she said with that same smooth smile.
And then she turned and walked away—like she owned the street, the light, and the silence she left behind.
Sam – That Night
I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Not in a crush way. Just... fascinated.
She was different.
She saw us. Not just noticed—saw.
Like she'd been expecting something strange and we were it.
Dean wouldn't talk about her, but I knew he felt it too.
He was quiet all night.
That meant something.
Dean
Back in the motel, I lay on the second bed and stared at the ceiling fan spinning slow and silent.
She wasn't a hunter. Wasn't a witch, not exactly. Not a ghost, demon, vampire, or shifter.
But she wasn't just some kid either.
She was something else.
Something new.
And she saw me.
That scared me a little.
Because when someone sees you that clearly, it means you're part of their story.
And I didn't know what kind of story she was writing.
Sam – Dreamlog
She stood beneath a streetlight.
Not moving.
Eyes glowing green.
"Do you believe in fate?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know yet.
Dean – Internal
She felt like something out of place.
Like she'd walked out of one world into another without blinking.
And when she looked at me—really looked—I felt like she knew something I hadn't learned yet.
Something I was going to.
Soon.