Though the charges were dropped, it took time for the boys to be released. Nadia sat with Jay in the hotel lobby, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, occasionally glancing toward the doors.

The minutes dragged, and the weight of everything that had happened pressed down on both of them. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Jay thought he'd gotten his mojo back, that he was reclaiming a piece of the glory he'd lost over the years, but it had come at a terrible price—a deadly price that had cost him his best friend.

Jay shifted uncomfortably in the chair beside her, staring at the polished hotel floor. Finally, he broke the silence. 

"How did you know?" His voice was quiet, almost hoarse. 

"About what?" she muttered, her arms crossed over her chest. 

"About how I felt?" 

Nadia blinked, caught off guard by the question. She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Oh, um... part of it was intuition. The other was research the boys and I did on you."

She looked at him, her voice softening. "You were famous—well-known. You used to play big venues, sell out crowds. Now you're doing magic shows in three-star hotels. And there's nothing wrong with that," she added quickly, "but I figured that... I don't know. It might be hard for someone who used to have it all to adjust to something smaller." 

Jay nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah, well... you figured right." His voice cracked, and he quickly looked away. 

Feeling a twinge of guilt, Nadia reached out and patted his shoulder gently, hoping to convey even a small measure of comfort. 

The sound of the doors opening drew her attention. She turned and saw Dean and Sam walking into the lobby. Relief washed over her, and she stood immediately, catching their eye. 

"Hey, you guys all right?" she asked as they approached. 

"Yeah, thanks," Dean replied with a tired smile before leaning in and kissing her briefly on the lips. 

Nadia pulled back and gestured toward Jay. "Well, don't thank me. Thank him." 

"Jay," Sam said, stepping forward. "Thanks for dropping the charges." 

"You mind telling us why you did it?" Dean asked, his brow furrowed as he studied Jay. 

Jay opened his mouth, but no words came out. He swallowed hard, his expression tightening, and Nadia stepped in. 

"Charlie's dead," she said quietly, her voice heavy with the weight of the revelation. 

Both boys froze, their gazes snapping to each other in shock. 

"We have to talk," Jay urged, his voice shaking. Without waiting for a response, he turned and led them out of the lobby. 

They ended up at a small, dimly lit bar near the hotel. Jay wasted no time ordering a stiff drink, his hands trembling slightly as he downed it in one gulp. The boys and Nadia waited, giving him a moment to collect himself. 

Finally, he began. "I was just a kid when I met Charlie," Jay said, staring down at the empty glass in his hands. "Back then, all I knew was how to cheat at cards. Charlie... he got me out of more scrapes than I can count." His voice cracked, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "Hell, I would've been dead by the time I hit twenty if it wasn't for him." 

He looked up at them, his eyes rimmed red with grief. "He was more than my friend. He was my brother." 

Sam leaned forward, his voice gentle. "I'm sorry, Jay." 

Jay nodded in thanks, then exhaled deeply. "Look, I should've listened to you guys when you told me my show was killing people." 

"Well," Dean said, leaning back in his chair, "you weren't the one pulling the trigger." 

Jay shook his head. "Yeah, but someone did. And I want to find out who did this to Charlie. I'll do whatever you guys say. Just tell me what to do." 

Dean and Sam exchanged a wary glance. They didn't have definitive answers yet, but the pieces were starting to fall into place. They both knew there was only one person who fit the profile. 

"Jay," Sam started carefully, "whoever's doing this... they like you. They're probably close to you." 

Jay frowned, confused. "What are you saying?" 

"Did Charlie and Vernon get along?" Sam pressed. 

Jay hesitated, his brow furrowing as he considered the question. "No," he admitted, shaking his head. "No, it's not Vernon." 

"He's the only one that makes sense," Dean pointed out, his tone firm but not unkind. 

"Think about it," Nadia added softly, her voice steady. "Charlie and Vernon were your family. And now Charlie's gone." 

Jay's face twisted, a mix of disbelief and denial. "Yeah, but... they butted heads sometimes, sure. But Vernon could never do something like this."

"It's a whole lot like crack," Dean explained, his tone grim. "People do surprising things once they get a taste of it."

Sam's face tightened, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown as he looked away. Nadia noticed his reaction, but she said nothing, filing the moment away for later.

Jay, however, was too focused on the conversation to catch the shift in mood. He shook his head, his jaw clenching. As much as he didn't want to believe Vernon was the killer, the idea of letting Charlie's death go unanswered weighed heavier.

"You better be damn sure about this," he said, his voice low and tense. "Vernon's all I got left."

"You can trust the boys," Nadia interjected softly, her tone steady and reassuring. "Don't worry."

Dean turned to her, his eyebrows raised. "You're not coming with us?"

"After that show?" she replied, shaking her head. "I'm done with magic—for tonight, at least. I'll see you guys back at the motel."

Dean studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Come on," he said, tapping his knuckles on the table and glancing at Jay. "I've got a plan."

Jay hesitated briefly, his eyes flicking between Nadia and the brothers, before quickly finishing his drink. He pulled out some cash, slapping it down on the bar to cover the tab, and got to his feet.

With a final, uneasy glance at Nadia, he left the bar with Dean and Sam, the three of them disappearing into the night.

Following Dean's plan, Jay called Vernon to meet him at the theater for a private conversation. While the two of them hashed it out, Sam and Dean made their move.

Outside Vernon's hotel room, Sam knelt by the door, pick lock in hand, while Dean kept watch down the hall. After a few clicks, the lock gave way, and Sam pushed the door open quietly.

Inside, they were greeted by what could only be described as a magician's paradise.

"Wow," Sam muttered, looking around. "It's like a magic museum in here."

Dean stepped inside, his eyes scanning the cluttered room. "You must be in heaven," he quipped, smirking.

Sam rolled his eyes. "This guy doesn't travel light."

"No kidding," Dean replied, kicking aside a stray top hat. "Looks like he packed up an entire magic shop."

Sam moved to the desk, where an assortment of magician supplies—wands, coins, and silk scarves—were scattered like forgotten relics. "He's been on the road his whole life," Sam remarked, opening a drawer and finding a stack of vintage playbills. "Probably everything he owns is in this room."

Dean nodded, glancing at the shelves lined with books on sleight-of-hand tricks and stage illusions. "Well, let's get started. Sooner we crack this, sooner we figure out if Vernon's pulling more than rabbits out of hats."

They both began searching the room, rifling through drawers, bags, and stacks of old posters.

"This is just a bunch of old-timey magic stuff," Dean muttered, flipping through a pile of dusty books. "None of it magic magic."

"No herbs, no candles, no tarot cards," Sam added as he zipped open one of Vernon's bags.

Dean moved to the bed, where a few framed photos and posters were scattered. His eyes fell on one in particular.

Dean picked up the poster, staring at it as the realization dawned on him. "I'll be damned."

"What?" Sam asked, stepping closer.

Dean turned the poster around, holding it out for Sam to see.

Sam frowned, not immediately recognizing the face of the man standing in the background. "Look like anyone we know?" Dean asked.

Sam studied the image more closely. The longer he stared, the clearer it became. His eyes widened. "Wait a second . . . that's Charlie. Only . . . fifty years younger."

"Exactly," Dean said, his voice grim.

The brothers exchanged a look, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. They bolted out of the room, heading straight for the theater.

When they arrived, they found themselves too late. Charlie had already revealed himself to Jay and Vernon.

On stage, under the glow of the theater lights, the three men stood in a tense confrontation in front of the Table of Death. Charlie looked impossibly young, his age reversed to match the version of himself in the old poster.

Jay stood frozen, his face pale as he stared at his former best friend, alive and well despite the grisly death they'd both witnessed. Vernon, meanwhile, appeared torn, his expression shifting between shock and temptation as Charlie tried to convince them to join him.

Dean and Sam interrupted, coming down the aisle with their pistols ready.

At the sight of their guns, Vernon and Jay step back toward a calm Charlie.

Dean gestures for them both to move aside with his pistol and addresses Charlie.

Charlie steps back and a noose comes out of thin air, wrapping itself around Dean's neck and lifting him off the ground.

Sam shoots at him.

Catching the bullet in his mouth, Charlie puts up a finger, telling him to wait, and spits it into his hand.

Sam fired his gun at Charlie, the bullet whizzing through the air. But Charlie caught it with ease, plucking it from the air with his teeth and spitting it into his hand. "Hey, bullet catch," he said smugly, tossing the bullet up and catching it again. "Been working on that." He flashed a cocky grin before tossing the bullet away and vanishing in a blink.

"Get him!" Dean choked out, struggling against the ropes tightening around his neck. His face was flushed as he clawed at the bindings, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.

Sam scanned the room, his jaw tight as he gripped the gun in his hands, eyes darting for any sign of Charlie. Suddenly, Charlie reappeared near the Table of Death, leaning casually against one of its poles, his expression smug. He gave a mocking wink at Sam, as if daring him to make the next move.

Sam whipped around, his gun trained on him as he began to advance. "Let him go—now!"

Charlie raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, stepping away from the table. "Whoa, easy, tiger. Just leave me and my friends alone, huh? That's all I'm asking."

"I said now!" Sam's tone was cold, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to fire.

"All right, all right," Charlie said, lowering his hands. "I'll give it up." His lips curled into an insincere smile. "The spells, the hexes—this is the last time. Scout's honor. I promise."

Sam hesitated, his gun lowering slightly as he searched Charlie's expression. Maybe, just maybe, he was serious.

But the pause was all Charlie needed. In one smooth motion, he disappeared and reappeared behind Sam, his smirk now sharper, more sinister. Before Sam could react, Charlie pushed him forward with a quick gesture. Sam stumbled against the Table of Death, and in the blink of an eye, the restraints clamped down on his wrists and ankles.

The rope starts to break and Sam struggles to get free, nervously eyeing the sharp swords.

Charlie looked at his work with pride while Jay stood to the side, struggling to make a move.

Jay made his decision in a split second, his trembling hand gripping the dagger tightly. He glanced at Vernon one last time, his eyes filled with sorrow and regret. Without a word, he plunged the blade into his stomach.

The room fell silent, as if the air itself had been sucked out. Blood spilled from the wound, staining Jay's shirt and dripping to the floor. Across the room, Charlie let out a sharp gasp. His hands flew to his stomach, where an identical wound appeared, blood seeping through his pristine suit. He stumbled back, his expression twisted in shock and betrayal.

Charlie dropped to his knees, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as he stared at Jay. His voice cracked with disbelief. "Jay... You picked these strangers over me?"

Jay's face was pale, his lips trembling as he pulled the Ten of Swords Tarot card from his pocket. He held it up, the card smeared with his own blood. Across the room, Charlie shakily reached into his own pocket and retrieved the Magician card. His bloodied hand hovered over it for a moment before the card fell to the floor, landing face up.

Charlie's final words hung heavy in the air before his body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Vernon stood frozen, his hands shaking at his sides. His face twisted in horror as he looked between Jay and Charlie. "What have you done, Jay?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Jay's ragged breaths.

Dean, still dangling from the noose, suddenly gasped, his chest heaving as life rushed back into his body. His hands scrambled to loosen the noose, the coarse rope scraping against his skin. Finally, he fell to the ground with a heavy thud, coughing and choking as he ripped the noose away from his neck.

Sam rushed to his brother's side, his hands gripping Dean's shoulders. "You okay?" His voice was panicked, but his grip was steady.

Dean wheezed, his voice hoarse as he nodded. "I'm all right" He blinked hard, trying to focus as his body trembled from the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Jay, still clutching the dagger embedded in his stomach, swayed on his feet. He looked at the brothers, his expression a mix of pain and relief

December '08

I've never really thought about getting old. In this life, every day a hunter survives feels like a miracle. Why focus on dying when all you can do is take it one day at a time? 

But after talking to Jay, I can't help thinking about it. 

Do I really want to be fighting demons at sixty-five—or later? I don't know. But I also don't know if I could sit back and do nothing, knowing the evil that's out there. Especially now that I'm an angel. 

I feel everything. The pain and joy of strangers and loved ones alike. I hear the prayers of the broken, the hopeless, the desperate. I carry their burdens because I was made to serve them. Humanity. That's my purpose. It's hard—impossible, really—to turn that off. 

Helping others is all I've ever known. 

Maybe that's why I've never thought about what I want or need. 

Meeting Dean changed that. With him, I've started asking the "what ifs." But let's be real—neither of us knows what we want. Not for ourselves, and definitely not for each other. 

And with the apocalypse hanging over us, is there even a point to asking? 

Can we really win this fight? 

On the off chance that Ruby isn't the monster I believe she is, and Sam killing Lilith truly does save the world, what then? Could we actually have a happy ending? 

And if Dean says yes—to him—will the world even have a future? 

Even if we don't?

Nadia closes her journal and locks it with a soft click. She sets it on the nightstand along with her pen and leans back against the headboard with a weary sigh. Her thoughts are heavy, swirling with uncertainty, but before she can linger on them too long, the doorknob jiggles. 

Dean steps inside, his exhaustion apparent in the slump of his shoulders and the dullness in his eyes. 

"Hey," Nadia greets him gently, her voice cutting through the quiet. "How'd everything turn out?" 

Dean tosses his keys on the small motel table, shrugs off his jacket, and crosses the room. Instead of answering right away, he crawls onto the bed and lays his head on her stomach with a tired groan, closing his eyes. 

"Where do I even start?" he mutters. 

Nadia's hand instinctively finds his hair, her fingers threading through it in slow, soothing motions. "Start wherever makes sense." 

Dean exhales deeply. "Turns out Vernon wasn't our guy. It was Charlie." 

Nadia's brows furrow. "Charlie?" Her hand stills for a moment. "Charlie's dead." 

Dean smirks faintly without opening his eyes. "Yeah, he's dead now. But before that, he was killin' people to stay young forever. Tried to get Vernon and Jay to join him." 

Nadia's fingers resume their gentle path through his hair. "Jay said no, right?" 

"Yeah," Dean replies, lifting his head slightly to meet her gaze. "And he saved our asses. Killed the son of a bitch himself." 

Nadia shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That couldn't have been easy for him." 

"It wasn't," Dean admits, propping himself up on his elbow. His green eyes linger on her, filled with something softer than his usual sharp-edged humor. 

"What?" she asks, tilting her head slightly, searching his expression. 

"Nothin'," he says, a faint smile curling his lips. "I just like comin' back to you after a long day." 

The warmth of his words makes her smile, even as her cheeks flush slightly. 

Dean sits up, brushing a kiss against her lips before getting off the bed. 

"I'm gonna take a shower," he announces, stretching as he heads toward the bathroom. 

"Good," Nadia teases, her grin playful. "Because you smell like jail." 

Dean pauses at the door, glancing over his shoulder with a mock-offended look. "Hey, don't act like you don't like it." 

Nadia chuckles, shaking her head at him as he disappears into the bathroom. 

"Hey, Batman," she calls out before the door fully closes. 

Dean peeks back out, eyebrows raised. 

"We should stop by and see Jay before we leave," she says softly. "He killed his best friend to save two strangers. He didn't have to do that. The least we can do is check on him." 

Dean nods, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something serious. "Yeah. You're right. We'll stop by tomorrow night." 

He winks, a quick, familiar gesture meant to make her smile, before retreating into the bathroom. 

As the door clicks shut, Nadia leans back against the headboard again, her smile lingering. For a moment, the weight of the day feels lighter.

The following night, they found Jay sitting alone at the corner of a dimly lit bar. A nearly empty glass of whiskey rested in front of him, and in his hands, he shuffled a deck of cards with absentminded precision. His movements were fluid, but his expression was heavy, each card a reflection of something he couldn't stop replaying in his mind.

From the doorway, Dean and Sam hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Jay's hunched posture and the sorrowful air about him made it clear he was in no mood for company.

"You think we should just leave him be?" Sam murmured, his voice low.

"No," Nadia said firmly, her tone gentle but resolute. She gave them a small nudge, stepping forward to lead the way. "He deserves to hear it."

Reluctantly, the boys followed.

"Hey, Jay," Dean addressed him first as they approached the table.

Jay glanced up slowly, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. His despondent gaze lingered on Dean for a moment before dropping back to the cards in his hands.

"We wanted to thank you," Dean said, his voice steady but sincere, "for what you did yesterday."

Jay let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. He set the cards down on the table and leaned back in his chair.

"I killed my best friend yesterday," he said bitterly, the words dripping with disbelief and self-loathing. "And you want to thank me?"

The weight of his words hung in the air, the sharp edges cutting into the silence. Nadia's chest tightened, and she stepped closer, but before she could say anything, Sam broke the pause.

"Where's Vernon?" he asked quietly, his concern evident.

Jay stared down at the cards for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching in a grimace. "Gone," he finally answered. "Said he didn't want to speak to me again after what I did to Charlie."

His voice cracked slightly at the end, and he reached for his glass, draining the last of his whiskey in one quick motion.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "Listen, Jay," he began, his tone softer than usual. "You know Charlie was never gonna give up what he was doing. Ever."

Jay nodded, his expression resigned.

"Are you sure about that? You know, Charlie was like my brother. And now he's dead... because I did 'the right thing." Jay stood up from his seat, anger flashing in his eyes as tears welled up. "He offered me a gift, and I just threw it back in his face. So now, I have to spend the rest of my life old and alone."

His voice cracked as he slammed the empty glass down, his frustration palpable. He left the cards untouched on the table, a sharp contrast to his usual carefree demeanor.

"What's so right about that?" he snorted bitterly, turning toward the door, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Jay," a waitress called after him, holding out the deck of cards he'd left behind. 

"Throw them away," he muttered, never slowing his pace, and walked out of the bar.

The three of them sat in the quiet aftermath, each processing the heavy moment in their own way. Nadia cleared her throat, feeling the sting of the moment. "That was brutal," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

"Well," Dean said after a beat. "I don't know about you two, but... I could go for a beer."

Sam, looking deeply unsettled, gulped before speaking. "I'm gonna take a walk," he said quietly, standing up and heading toward the door, his shoulders slumped.

Dean watched him leave, fighting the urge to run after him. Instead, he turned his attention to Nadia, noticing the look of concern on her face.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice softening.

Nadia sighed, sinking deeper into her chair. "I shouldn't have proposed we come here."

"No, it's fine," Dean reassured her, pulling a seat out for her at the bar. He sat beside her, trying to offer comfort. "The guy's mourning, you know? He just needs time. Come on, let's sit. Two beers, please," he called to the bartender.

"I feel like I helped people more before I had wings," Nadia said quietly, staring down at the counter, lost in her thoughts.

"Robin, you haven't even been an angel that long. Besides, you've said it before—you can't save everyone. Let alone make them see the bright side." Dean's voice was steady, but he reached out to gently squeeze her leg.

"I know," she sighed, looking up at him. "It's just... sad."

Dean nodded, his gaze softening. "Yeah."

The bartender slid their beers over. Dean took a long pull from his glass, looking lost in thought.

"Have you talked to Sam?" Nadia asked, her voice thoughtful as she studied the countertop.

"About what?"

"Just in general," she said. "He seems down lately."

"So you see it too?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"More like sensed..." Nadia met his gaze, studying his face carefully. "You talked. Is he okay?"

"I don't know, Robin," Dean replied, his voice a bit uncertain. "This case got him thinkin' about us getting old and still fighting monsters. He hopes—or, I don't know, maybe he wants—this idea that we could end all of this for good."

"Did he say how?"

"Just 'cut the head off the snake,' whatever the hell that means." Dean took another long swig of his beer, his eyes on the empty bottle in front of him.

"And what'd you say?" she pressed, her voice soft but insistent.

"I said that the problem with evil is, you cut one head off, and another one grows."

"So, you don't believe we could end all of this?" Nadia asked quietly.

"Babe, what's up with the third degree?" Dean chuckled lightly, trying to brush off the tension, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

"Just answer the question," she said, her tone sharp yet pleading. "Please?"

Dean sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "I mean, I'd like to believe we could end all of this. But considering how crappy my life's been, I'm sure it's less than likely."

Nadia pushed her beer away, her face reflecting her frustration. "Okay. So, what does that mean for you?"

"What do you mean?" Dean frowned, confused.

"I mean, do you plan on fighting monsters until you're Jay's age? Or, let me guess, you'll be dead before then?" Her words were sharp, her voice tight with emotion.

Dean's shoulders sagged slightly. He shrugged, his voice distant. "Fifty-fifty."

"Fifty-fifty?" Nadia scoffed, incredulity rising in her chest. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Oh trust me, you've said it," she replied bitterly, taking a long sip of her beer. "And you know what? I'm getting tired of hearing it."

Dean's eyes widened in confusion. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"Yeah, you did," Nadia snapped, her frustration boiling over. "Because if you're fifty-fifty about you, you're fifty-fifty about us. I mean, where are we going, Dean? We haven't been together that long, and I am not asking you to marry me. But I need to know... is there hope for us? For a life beyond hunting? Is our relationship confined to hours in your car, sketchy hotels, and monsters? To go the distance until you die? Are we just renting time?"

Dean stared at her, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion. "Okay, where is this coming from?"

Nadia's face softened, and she lowered her eyes, hands buried in her face. "I'm sorry," she muttered, her voice cracking. "It's just... with the apocalypse and thinking about what life will look like when I'm older. I want more. I want to live. I deserve it. We deserve it, Dean. And if we're not careful, we'll end up like Charlie—alone, bitter, and stuck in this hell we've made for ourselves."

She looked at him, her eyes searching his. "Is that what you want?"

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't come right away. He sat in silence, his brow furrowed, deep in thought. Nadia waited, but the question hung in the air, unanswered, as he considered her words—his mind a whirlwind of what-ifs and truths he wasn't ready to face.