Written by: KariGorsuch

Dean leaned against the counter, keys in hand, a canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder. His grin was bright, boyish.

"C'mon, sunshine. Farmers market's got that cider you love. The spicy one that kicks like bourbon."

I didn't look up from the mug I'd been cradling for the past twenty minutes. It had gone lukewarm. Still untouched.

"I think I'll skip this one," I said softly. "Stomach's off."

Dean frowned. Not confused—concerned. That same brand of gentle worry you give a kid with the flu.

"You sure? You were fine this morning."

"Yeah." I forced a small smile. "Probably something I ate. I just... want to rest."

A pause. Then he stepped forward, brushed a hand across my forehead like checking for a fever.

"You're a little warm," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "Okay. No market. I'll stay."

"You don't have to."

"I want to." He kissed my temple before I could react, then turned toward the fridge. "We'll make it a stay-at-home kind of day. Soup, board games, maybe that movie you like with the dragons."

I didn't answer. Just stared down into the coffee like it might whisper the truth back to me.

Dean busied himself with making soup—roasting vegetables, humming something low and easy like all of this was routine. Normal. Real.

Before long, he had everything set in the crockpot, quietly cooking on the counter.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and turned back to me, still humming—something slow and harmless, like the kind of tune you'd hear in a grocery store. But it didn't fit him. It didn't fit.

My eyes flicked to the window. Sunlight cut sharp angles across the counter.

"What happened to the Impala?" I asked.

Dean glanced up. "What?"

"Baby," I said, slowly. "The '67 Impala."

He gave a short laugh, confused. "I never had one of those. Wish I did, though—thing's a classic. But we needed something more reliable. Safer. You said so yourself when we bought the CR-V."

My heart skipped.

"And my Mustang?" I asked, voice tight.

Dean's brow furrowed just a little, then smoothed. "You've never had a Mustang. You had that silver Focus—used to call it your little rust-bucket. Said it had personality."

No.

That wasn't right.

That wasn't me.

I took a small step back, rubbing my temples as a splitting headache made itself known.

The pain throbbed at my temples like heartbeat that didn't belong to me.

Dean noticed. Of course he did. He stepped forward slowly, like I was a skittish animal he didn't want to spook.

"Hey," he said gently, reaching out. "You okay?"

I finched before he could touch me. Not because I thought he'd hurt me- but because I didn't know who he was anymore. "I just need a second," I said, backing into the hallway. "I- my head's pounding."

"Of course," Dean replied calmly, too calmly. "Lie down for a bit. I'll bring you some tea."

His voice was warm.

His smile soft.

But my skin crawled.

I turned and walked fast, leaving the kitchen behind. Something pulled me toward the mantle. I stopped. Stared at the wedding photo- our wedding photo.

The once-beautiful picture was twisted.

Dresses and tuxes now covered in dirt and blood.

My bouquet had wilted in the frame, petals browned and curling like they'd died years ago. Dean's tux was torn at the shoulder, smeared with something that looked too dark to be wine. Eve's smile was still wide—but wrong now, feral at the edges. And Sam—

Sam wasn't smiling anymore.

His eyes were on me.

Direct. Accusing. Bleeding from a wound just beneath his ribs.

I staggered back, breath catching like barbed wire in my throat.

The photo didn't glitch. It held- stained and brutal. Sam's blood seeped in slow motion through the white of his shirt, blooming larger.

I turned- too fast- and stumbled into the hallway, where the wallpaper peeled back like old skin, curling at the corners, blood seeping from the walls.

The breeze that once carried the scent of cinnamon now reeked of iron.

I glanced at the hall mirror as I passed- then froze. My reflection wasn't me.

Her eyes were mine- but older. Haunted. Rimmed in black veins that spiderwebbed beneath skin too pale, too stretched.

She tilted her head in time with me, but her mouth curled into a sadistic grin I didn't wear. Behind her- a hallway of mirrors flickered into view, each with a blur moving within them.

I didn't move. Couldn't.

The thing in the mirror did.

She leaned forward, one hand pressed to the glass from her side. Her fingers were long, bone-thin, stained at the tips like she'd clawed her way out of something dead and unforgiving.

"You broke us," she whispered. Her head tilted, creaking like wood strained to the edge of splintering. "You let him die."

"No-" I gasped, staggering a step back.

"Let me in," she purred. "I can save him."

I shook my head, breath coming fast and ragged, but my feet wouldn't move. The reflection smirked.

"You think this is the first time?" She asked, her voice too layered- like a dozen versions of me speaking all at once. "You think this regret is new?"

Behind her, the mirrors rippled.

The reflection stepped to the side, revealing Eve- on her knees, chained- screaming my name.

The sound of Eve's scream- raw, guttural- rattled something loose in my chest.

"No," I breathed. "That didn't happen. That hasn't happened."

She laughed- a bitter splintering sound that seemed to echo from all around me. "Hasn't yet."

I stumbled back, my legs finally breaking free from whatever frozen grip had held them. The air around me pulsed, thick with iron and static, the kind of pressure that builds before lightning strikes.

Another mirror sparked to life beside the first.

Dean- slumped against a wall, his chest barely rising. His mouth formed my name, blood painting his teeth. His eyes didn't hold judgment.

Just disappointment.

I turned, only to face another mirror.

Sam.

Eyes black as night.

A demon's eyes.

He stood tall, a cruel grin stretching across his face, a bloodied knife in his hand. Not the man I knew. Not the man I loved. "You didn't save me," he said, voice deep and layered, twisted by something ancient. "You let this happen."

I flinched, instinctively reaching out- but the glass was cold, unyielding. A barrier between now and whatever future that was.

The demon- Sam tilted his head, the motion almost curious. "You know it was coming. You felt it. And still, you hesitated."

"No," I whispered, stepping back again.

A new mirror appeared to the left.

The reflection of me stood in silence, but the weight she carried screamed loud enough. Dean's pistol looked too heavy in her hand. Not a weapon anymore- just a memory clutched like a lifeline. Eve's rings glittered like grave markers, catching the light in a way that felt cruel. And Sam's jacket-

It looked wrong on her. On me. Like it had been folded and refolded too many times. Like it didn't smell like him anymore.

Her eyes met mine- and I knew.

She'd lost them all.

"You wear their ghosts like armor," the first reflection mocked softly, stepping into view again, circling me like a predator. "But they don't protect you. Do they?"

Another mirror crackled to life behind me, the sound sharp as bone snapping. I turned—

And there she was again.

Me.

Laughing, drenched in blood, eyes golden and blazing with corrupted power. Azazel stood at her back, clapping slowly, mockingly, as if he'd always known the ending.

"I knew you'd make the right choice," he purred, voice like venom wrapped in silk.

The image shifted—no, multiplied.

A dozen mirrors flared to life, surrounding me in a twisted kaleidoscope of horror.

Each one showed Cold Oak.

But this time, I wasn't the one grieving.

I was the one pulling the trigger.

Sam's eyes—soft, confused, pleading—locked with mine as he stumbled backward in each reflection.

He didn't fight. Didn't run.

He just trusted me.

And I killed him.

In every mirror.

Over and over again.

Sometimes I was crying.

Sometimes laughing.

Sometimes blank—like it was just another day, another job.

The sound of gunfire echoed through the glass, fractured and overlapping like a broken symphony.

"No—no, I didn't—" I staggered back, covering my ears, shaking my head as the versions of me raised their weapons again, in perfect sync.

I flinched as the shots rang out in unison—sharp, deafening. The force of their echo felt real, like bullets tearing through more than just glass.

Sam fell again.

And again.

Each version of him crumpling like marionettes with severed strings.

Blood bloomed across his shirts in different patterns—white, flannel, tuxedo. In one, he wore the jacket from the auction. In another, he still had the scar from Cold Oak.

Every death was different.

Every one of them mine.

"No," I gasped, stumbling backward until I hit something cold and unyielding—another mirror. I spun.

This one showed nothing at first—just darkness. Then, slowly, it flickered to life.

Me.

Standing in front of an open grave.

No one else around.

No sound.

Just me. Holding a lighter.

A pyre already burning behind me.

The wind in the vision caught my hair, carried the ashes past my face like confetti.

And the look on my face—

Resolved.

Empty.

Like I'd run out of tears years ago.

I reached out a trembling hand toward the glass—and the reflection moved first.
She grabbed my wrist through the surface, cold fingers biting into my skin.

"Don't you get it yet?" she snarled. Her eyes were mine—but hopeless. "It always ends like this. You always lose him."

"No—no, I can stop it. I have to."

Her grip tightened, bruising. "Then wake up," she hissed. "Find him before it's too late."

She shoved.

I stumbled, off balance- but there was no wall behind me. No floor. Just falling.

The mirrors vanished like mist, and the world tilted sideways. My stomach flipped. Wind roared past my ears, but there was no sound, no impact- only darkness rushing up to meet me.

I hit the ground- soft, like sinking into ash that didn't shift beneath my boots. The air hung heavy with the scent of fire and blood, and something ancient, almost familiar.

Silence stretched long enough for my ears to start ringing.

Then- a voice. Soft, rough, unmistakable.

"Bri?"

I turned.

Sam stood ten feet away, barefoot in a worn flannel and jeans. His eyes were soft, tired- but real. Too real.

But then, another voice- just behind me.

"You came for me."

Another Sam stepped out of the shadows. Same voice. Same desperate look in his eyes. His hand reached for mine.

Then a third emerged from the darkness- his face gaunt, skin bruised, hands trembling.

"Don't listen to them," he said, voice raw. "I'm the one who remembers the conversation in the Mustang."

I spun, my heart hammering.

Each version pleaded with me, each knowing something only Sam would have experienced with me.

But something was off. Too polished- too smooth. They knew what he would say- but not how he would say it.

I stepped back, shaking my head. "No," I muttered. "No, it's not-"

"Bri."

It was a whisper behind me.

Not desperate. Not pleading.

Just there.

I turned.

He stood apart from the others, half in shadow, quiet. Watching me like he always did- like he knew what I was thinking before I said it. His eyes weren't wide with need. They were full of recognition. Of grief.

"I remember what you said in the Mustang," He said softly. "But that's not what mattered."

He stepped closer.

"What mattered was what you wouldn't say."

My breath caught.

"You looked at me like you were already losing me."

Tears burned hot at the edge of my eyes.

He reached for me- but didn't grab. Didn't force.

The others screamed as my fingers brushed his.

Not words anymore. Howls. Warped and broken. They convulsed, bodies twisting into smoke and bone, cracking open at the seams. The ground trembled beneath my boots as he tugged me into his chest, shielding me from spraying shards as the mirror behind him shattered.

Glass cut through the air like razors—slicing past us, hissing against his jacket. I buried my face in his shoulder. He smelled like smoke and old earth and something warm underneath it—like memory.

The screaming fractured into static. No more words. No more twisted truths. Just the walls coming down.

One by one, the illusions collapsed—mirror frames rotting like wood, reflections melting like wax under flame. The sky above us cracked open, light pouring in like floodwater.

His arms stayed around me.

"I've got you," Sam said, voice steady against the chaos. "You're not alone."

Another quake split the ground, the ash beneath us parting like a wound. Something moved beneath it—slick and serpentine, watching. Feeding.

"This place—it's not just in your head," he muttered. "It's trying to keep us both."

I pulled back just enough to see his face. He looked pale, exhausted. But real. Present.

Him.

"What do we do?" I asked.

He nodded toward the last standing mirror—the only one untouched. Faintly glowing. Pale blue light bleeding from its edges, flickering like a heartbeat.

"We run."

A low, wet growl rolled through the dark like a threat.

I didn't look back.

I ran.

Hand in hand, we sprinted through falling glass, crumbling ash, blood-slick stone. The maze shrieked behind us, mirrors bursting like gunshots. Reality peeled away around us in burning layers—grief, guilt, memory—until only the light remained.

And then—

We hit the mirror.

And everything shattered.