Written by: KariGorsuch

Sam's whisper still echoed in my ears as the doors to the banquet hall yawned open, the crowd shifting like a tide pulling us in. Sarah's silhouette vanished through the archway, swallowed by velvet and gold.

He didn't move.

"Sam," I murmured, fingers brushing his wrist. "Eyes on the mission."

It took a second. Then he inhaled—sharp, steadying—and nodded once. Controlled. But I saw it: the fracture she left behind just by existing in this place.

The moment we crossed the threshold into the banquet hall, I felt the power shift. Wards hummed through the room, threaded into the walls, stitched into the very floor beneath our feet. It crawled over my skin like static- old magic, Hell-touched and humming with intention.

Above us, the chandeliers cast fractured gold across black marble, gilding the shadows and the faces watching from the balconies. Silent bidders. Monsters in masks.

Another stage had been erected in the center of the hall- velvet lined, spotlights trained like crosshairs. A display- or maybe a warning.

Sam and I had barely entered the hall before an attendant stepped forward from behind the door in a tailored black suit. Polite. Dead-eyed.

The attendant dipped his head respectfully- to Sam, not me. "Mr. Morrison. This way, please."

I felt more than saw Dean and Eve step into the hall behind us, and the attendants eyes flicked over my shoulder.

"Ah, Mr. Easton," the attendant continued smoothly, gaze settling on Dean with the same false reverence. "You're expected."

Expected.

That word landed like a stone in my gut.

I turned just enough to catch Eve's subtle nod- barely a twitch of her chin. She was already cataloging details, senses working hard to assess threats. Dean's jaw flexed, but he followed the cue. Professional. Composed.

Another attendant appeared behind the first, younger but no less unnerving. "If the ladies will follow me to the viewing mezzanine, refreshments are being served."

"Split us up," Eve muttered under her breath.

"Divide and bid," I whispered back, my voice low and tight.

Sam's eyes locked with mine—just for a second. A silent question. A thousand warnings. A promise.

I gave the barest nod. I've got this.

Then they took him.

Dean, too. Each led to opposite sides of the stage. Sam stiff but silent. Dean fighting the urge to punch someone, even as he played along. The lights shifted, and the auction began—not with words, but with spectacle.

Eve leaned in close as the crowd refocused on the stage. "Security's heavier near the stage, but the ring won't be down there. Too risky."

"Back rooms?" I asked.

She gave a small smile, already turning toward a velvet-draped corridor. "Back rooms."

The velvet curtains swallowed us whole, the din of the auction fading behind brocade and shadow. The corridor stretched narrow and plush, lit only by sconces that flickered with too-warm light. Glamour spells- meant to dazzle, confuse, and conceal.

"I count two guards at the end," Eve whispered. "But the magics doing most of the work here."

I nodded, pulling a silver sigil charm from my bracelet. "Then let's ruin the illusion."

One breath. One quick swipe of the sharpened edge. One press of the charm covered in blood.

Light fractured.

The hallway flickered- walls pulsing like lungs- and suddenly we were standing in something more sinister: Stone beneath our heels, sigils scorched into the walls. No longer a hallway in the gala. This was a sanctum.

And at the far end: a door guarded by a time-lock so old I could hear it humming like a lullaby from the deep.

"Bingo," Eve breathed.

The guards never saw us coming.

One hit the ground unconscious. The other twitched once, then stilled under Eve's pressure-point strike. We didn't linger.

The door pulsed with layered enchantments—traps meant to rot flesh or tangle minds. Eve worked faster than I'd ever seen, fingers drawing counter-runes midair. I traced a backwards glyph across the edge of the lock, and with a click that echoed like a clock striking midnight—

It opened.

Inside, the chamber was nearly empty—except for the pedestal in the center.

There it was.

The Chronos Ring.

Suspended in stasis, floating above obsidian glass. A ripple of time shimmered around it, warping the air. The moment I stepped inside, I felt it—memories bending, futures pressing against my skin. Possibility and entropy layered like breath on a mirror.

"I've got it," I said quietly, crossing to it.

I reached.

Just as my fingers closed around cold metal—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a smooth voice drawled behind us.

We spun.

"Damien," Eve hissed, reaching for the blade strapped to her thigh.

He stood framed in the doorway, casual as sin in his black suit, his eyes gleaming like a snakes in candlelight. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

"Ladies," he said, gaze sweeping over us, landing on the ring in my hand. "Did you really think no one would notice?"

Eve stepped infront of me, shielding my body with hers in a practiced motion I didn't have time to protest.

"We're not interested in a fight," she said flatly.

Damien laughed. "Oh, I think you are. You just haven't realized it yet."

And then-

"Wrong room, asshole," a voice snarled from the shadows.

Raines hit him like a freight train.

Damien swore, rolling fast, already lashing back with a curse that bent the air around it. The sigils stitched into his cuffs sparked blue and gold, flaring like struck magnesium.

Raines didn't flinch. He drove forward, blade meeting spell with a crash of force that rocked the narrow corridor. Dust shook from the ceiling. Somewhere behind us, a sconce exploded in a shower of sparks.

"Go!" Raines barked, fangs flashing as his blade bit into Damien's shoulder. "I've got him!"

Eve didn't hesitate—she grabbed my wrist and yanked. We sprinted through the corridor, shadows buckling around us as the ring's magic began to distort everything. Walls rippled. Doors blinked in and out like bad reception.

"That thing's breaking the wards," I said, nearly tripping over a shifting floor tile that tried to unmake itself mid-step.

"Exactly why we need to get out—now!" Eve hauled me sideways just as a blast of light shattered the hallway behind us.

A burst of heat hit my back. I didn't look.

We tore through a servant's passage, ducked behind a false wall, and stumbled into a side room thick with velvet and candle smoke. Everything in here felt wrong. Disconnected. Off-kilter.

I clutched the ring tighter in my palm. "We're not in the same building anymore."

Eve's eyes flicked to the mirror on the far wall.

It didn't reflect us.

Only shadows.

Before I could move, the air pulled. Like something sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

The Chronos Ring thrummed once. Twice.

And the floor gave way.

I blinked.

Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains. A gentle breeze lifted the edge of the linen throw draped across my lap. The couch beneath me was soft, but firm in all the right places.

For a moment, I didn't move. Everything felt... safe.

Wrong.

My fingers curled against the fabric. It was worn in the way favorite things are- used, loved, familiar. Except I didn't remember loving it.

The sound of something sizzling behind the couch drew my attention over the back, and I quietly shoved the blanket down, reaching under the couch.

My fingers skimmed the hardwood floor, searching. Dust. A coin. A pen cap. Nothing sharp. Nothing hidden. No weapon, no sigil, no familiar charm tucked where I'd normally stash one.

I rose slowly, cautiously. The couch creaked like it knew me. The air was warm, smelled like cinnamon and breakfast.

I padded softly to the fireplace, pulling the poker from its place before making my way toward what I assumed was the kitchen.

The floorboards didn't creak under my steps.

They should've.

Not just because every old house had its symphony of groans and complaints, but because it was a great early warning system.

I held the poker low and tight to my side as I rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Dean stood at the stove, humming Owl City, of all things- soft and completely out of place.

The skillet sizzled under a perfect arc of eggs as he flipped them with one-handed grace, like this was something he'd done a hundred mornings in a row. Like this wasn't wrong.

He didn't look up.

"Toast's done," he said casually, as if I hadn't just crept in like a burglar with a fireplace poker.

I didn't answer. Just stared at him- Metallica tour shirt clinging to his shoulders as he turned, two plates in hand. "Thought I'd let you sleep in. You've been working too hard lately."

Working?

He set the plates down on the island, reaching for a mug. "Coffee?"

"What day is it?" I asked, ignoring his question.

"Tuesday," he said, voice steady but a beat too slow- like he'd just double checked in his head before answering. "Did I forget something? Our anniversary? Birthday?"

I studied him, every line of his face, the way his eyes didn't quite meet mine. "Tuesday," I repeated, slow and deliberate. "But what about... us? What about everything?"

"Everything's good," he said lightly. "You've just been burning the candle at both ends lately, that's all."

I stepped closer, the poker still low, knuckles white on the grip. "What work, Dean?"

He hesitated.

"You know," he said, waving a hand in that familiar easygoing shrug. "That security gig. Consulting. You've been on call a lot. Talking about upgrades. Surveillance stuff. It's been messing with your sleep."

"I don't remember a consulting gig," I said coldly. "I remember... a ring. A stage. You and Sam in tuxes. And Eve."

His smile faltered—just a flicker.

I pressed forward, voice sharpening. "And I remember being hunted. I remember monsters. Blood. Raines."

Dean's brow furrowed. He tilted his head, concern painted just a little too cleanly across his features.

"Bri," he said gently. "Come on. That's just dreams. You get like this sometimes, remember? When you overdo it. Let's get some food in you, then we'll figure it out."

I didn't move.

"Don't," I said. My voice was ice. "Don't say that to me. Not with that face."

He blinked, taken aback—maybe trying to fake it. His mouth opened like he meant to laugh it off, like I'd just made a ridiculous joke. But nothing came out.

"I remember," I hissed. "The auction. The Chronos Ring. Sarah Blake calling Sam by his real name in a room full of demons with checkbooks. I remember slipping out with Eve while you were being—"

I cut myself off. The word auctioned hung in the silence like a ghost.

Dean didn't flinch.

But he also didn't answer.

His eyes were soft. Familiar. Too familiar. Like someone had studied them, memorized them frame by frame and reassembled them just slightly... wrong.

"You're just tired," he said finally, quieter now. "It happens. We all get run-down sometimes. You don't need to fight. Just... let it go. Sit down. Eat something."

My grip on the poker loosened—just slightly.

Dean didn't make a move. Just stood there, coffee in one hand, eyes steady on mine like he was waiting for something to shift. Like he knew eventually I'd give in.

And maybe I did. A little.

The smell of cinnamon toast curled warm around me. My stomach growled, traitorous and loud. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd eaten. Not really. Not without adrenaline humming in my veins.

I slid the poker onto the counter, within reach. Just in case. Then I moved to the stool and sat.

Dean—this Dean—watched for a beat longer, then smiled like he'd won something small but important. He turned back to the stove, picked up the eggs and toast, and set a mug of coffee in front of me like it was any other morning.

"See?" he said softly. "Not so bad."

I didn't answer. I took a bite of toast.

It was warm. Crunchy. Just the right amount of butter.

Too perfect.

But it didn't taste right. Or maybe it was me that didn't. The kitchen was bright, clean, too clean. No gun parts on the counter. No knife rack too close to the edge. No tension under the surface, no threat waiting to be named.

I ate in silence.

When I finished, Dean kissed the top of my head—chaste, tender, familiar. My skin crawled under it. I forced myself not to react.

"I've gotta check on the garage," he said, already grabbing his jacket from the hook. "You rest. We'll go out later, yeah? You love the farmers market."

Do I?

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I stood.

The kitchen was still. The hum of the fridge. A distant birdcall through the open window.

I moved through the house slowly, barefoot, quiet. The place was beautiful—wood floors, exposed beams, old-world charm—but unfamiliar despite the way my name was stitched into the air. A house I'd never lived in but apparently knew by heart.

Then I saw the mantle.

Framed photographs, neatly arranged. Smiling faces.

Me and Dean.

One from what looked like a honeymoon—us on a beach, sun-drunk and grinning. One at a barbecue, me in his lap. And in the center, the biggest frame: our wedding.

Dean in a crisp black suit. Me in white, veil lifted, laughing.

Sam stood behind him, straight-backed in a dark tux. His smile was careful. Controlled. A little too tight.

Eve was beside me in a slate-blue dress, bouquet in hand, her grin wide and perfect. Like this was exactly the life we were always meant to have.

A jolt shot through me—sharp and nauseating.

I reached for the frame, heart pounding. My hands shook.

Dean was never mine.

He shouldn't have been mine.

And Sam—Sam wouldn't have stood there like that, smiling like nothing was wrong. Like this wasn't some twisted postcard.

I set the picture down, slower than I wanted to. Backed away from the mantle like it had burned me.

The sound of a lawn mower starting drew my attention from the mantle, over towards the window. I stepped closer, heart still pounding, and pushed aside the sheer curtain with trembling fingers.

Outside, the sun-drenched street was picture-perfect. Too perfect. Every lawn edged with precision. Each drive filled with a modern car, gleaming in the sunlight.

No Baby.

No Beauty.

Across the street, Sam was pushing a mower in slow, even lines.

Shirtless.

He moved with practiced ease—like he'd done this a hundred times before. Like this was his life.

Like I wasn't part of it.

The sunlight caught the line of his shoulders, the familiar slope of muscle, the scars that shouldn't be there in a world this clean. A towel was draped over one shoulder. His hair was shorter than I remembered—neatly trimmed, like he had somewhere respectable to be.

And then—

Eve stepped out onto the porch.

She wore a sundress, breezy and blue. A phone in one hand, a lemonade in the other. She called to him—light, teasing—and when he looked up, she reached out and brushed her fingers along his chest with a laugh that was far too intimate.

He leaned in, murmured something back I couldn't hear.

She kissed his cheek.

My breath caught in my throat.

This wasn't right. This wasn't right.

The edges of the curtain crumpled in my hand as I pulled it tighter against my palm, willing the illusion to crack. But nothing happened. Just Sam and Eve on the porch, the very picture of domestic bliss.

I stepped back from the window, dizzy. Air too thick. Silence too loud.

Then I caught a flicker from the hallway mirror.

At first, I thought it was just my reflection—but it moved wrong.

I turned to face it.

There I was. Same house. Same clothes. But the reflection wasn't standing still.

It was trembling. Eyes wide. Blood splashed across the neckline of my shirt.

I took a step closer, heart hammering. The reflection followed—but behind her, the house was different. Dark. Gutted. A door blown off its hinges. A body sprawled in the hall.

Sam.

Dead.