Nadia flips onto her back with a frustrated sigh, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. She runs her hands over her face, rubbing her eyes as if that might erase the thoughts that keep swirling in her mind. She pulls the vial of grace from inside her shirt.

She holds it in her hand now, watching the pure, swirling energy inside the vial, its glow faint in the dim light of her room. She watches it for a long time, mesmerized by its rhythm, wishing, more than anything, that Vanessa was there. Her mother. The one person who truly understood what it meant to hold this kind of power.

Nadia bites her lip, torn. Her family had offered their advice, and she'd appreciated it, but they didn't understand the weight of what she was considering. Vanessa would have. She would have known exactly what to say, exactly what to do. After all, her mother was an angel. She knew the intricacies of grace, of divinity, of what it meant to wield power like this.

Nadia's thoughts flicker to Anna. She'd thought about reaching, praying for guidance, but she knew it wasn't safe. Not yet.

Things were still too fresh, too raw. She couldn't trust her—couldn't trust herself around Anna after everything that had happened.

Nadia sits up, feeling the weight of indecision drag at her limbs. She flips the switch on the nightstand lamp, bathing the room in warm, amber light. The small, comforting glow does little to ease the turmoil inside her, but at least it provides some semblance of clarity in the otherwise dark room. 

Her gaze lands on the crate tucked away in the corner—an old, weathered thing that had once belonged to her mother. It had been sitting there for weeks now, full of things her mother had left behind in the attic, full of pieces of a life she didn't fully understand.

Nadia had promised herself she wouldn't look through it until after Thanksgiving, but the pull is too strong now. She stands, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. She barely even notices when her feet move on their own, taking her toward the crate without thought as if her body knew what her mind couldn't yet accept.

As she walks across the room, she hears voices from the other side of the door. She freezes for a moment, listening, instinctively pressing her ear to the wood.

"You really don't have to go through all the trouble," Dean's voice drifts through, soft but tinged with that familiar reluctance.

"Don't be ridiculous," Irene's voice follows, light but firm. "I married a hunter and helped raise one. Sleepless nights are normal around here. Sit, sit, sit. I'll make you my special drink. It'll put you right out."

Nadia smiles to herself. She knew exactly what that "special drink" was—chamomile tea with milk. Simple, yet always effective. It had worked wonders for her countless times, calming her nerves after long, sleepless nights. She rarely acknowledged how much Irene had taken care of her in those moments, the quiet support she provided. It had taken years for Nadia to accept that love, but now she could see it for what it was.

As a step-parent, it was never easy to fully embrace a child that wasn't your own. Nadia understood that. Still, Irene had never backed down, always there when she needed her—even when Nadia hadn't been ready to accept it.

Nadia's thoughts turn darker for a moment. She wonders how things might have been if she'd been more patient if she'd let go of the bitterness that had clouded her judgment for so long. But she couldn't change the past, and she knew that Irene, like her, had suffered her own brand of grief.

Shaking her head to clear the thoughts, Nadia pushes aside the guilt that threatens to weigh her down. She drops down onto the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the crate. The lid creaks as she opens it, the smell of old paper and leather filling the air.

The first thing she pulls out is two thick books. She runs her fingers over the covers, feeling the weight of history in her hands. They contained brief knowledge of archangels, Lucifer's fall, her mother's journey with humanity, and her abilities. 

There's a thick binder detailing her mother's teachings—how she had healed, protected, and guided people over the years. How she had been a bridge between humanity and her Father.

Nadia swallows, her heart heavy. There had been so much her mother could do. Manipulating the weather, mental projection, dream-walking like Michael, creating energy blasts, and fire. Her mother had been an unmatched force of nature. She could even conceal her true self, and hide her grace from other beings when she needed to.

Nadia's eyes linger on the books, the wealth of knowledge her mother left behind. But it's not the books that draw her attention now—it's something else. Something far more personal.

She reaches into the crate again, this time pulling out an object wrapped in cloth. Slowly, she unwraps it, revealing a sleek, bronze blade. It's an archangel blade, but unlike any other she's seen before. It's shorter, with a ridged spiral pattern running along the length of the blade. There's power in its shape, in the design that seems to hum with a low, electric pulse.

This weapon is more powerful than an ordinary angel blade, one of the most formidable tools in existence. But it's not just any weapon. In the hands of an archangel, and it can be used against another archangel.

She places it aside, her fingers lingering on the cold metal for a moment before she continues rummaging through the crate. Her gaze lands on the letters her father had mentioned, a small stack neatly tied together with a fraying ribbon. She had expected them to be from her mother to her, but as she pulls them out, she realizes they're not.

Letter #1

I know you'd be upset if I reached out, and rightfully so. I do not find joy in leaving you all behind. If you would just give me a chance, I'll explain everything. Maybe we can meet in person. I heard you have a daughter now, and you're married. I'd love to meet her—after we reconnect, of course. I'm not angry with you. If I was, I'd only be a hypocrite. I hope to hear from you soon.

Letter #2

It was really good to see you. I knew if there was anyone who would understand my actions, it was you. It felt good to finally show someone my work, the things I've been doing. I know you're unsettled by me watching it all unfold, but trust me—it's best for everyone to find themselves, to find their own way. I know you don't understand, but I appreciate you lending your ear. Thank you for the pictures, too. She's beautiful. You shouldn't worry, you know. He always keeps his word. You'll be able to see her grow up into an amazing woman.

Nadia pauses after reading the second letter, the words sinking in slowly. The writer speaks with such intimacy as if they were closer than just someone who knew Vanessa in passing. Her mother's influence was evidently wide-reaching, but who was this person?

Nadia couldn't recall her mother ever mentioning anyone like this, certainly not in the way the letters implied.

She flips through a few more letters, which were all similar to the first two. 

Letter #6

I can't stop smiling. She is so beautiful, so innocent, and so pure. I'm so proud of you. For centuries, you mothered this world and fought for it through the good and the bad. And now, you get to mother your very own. Her existence goes against the laws, but when I looked into those eyes, I couldn't help but think, "Rules really are made to be broken." She's special, just like you. I can't wait to see you both again. I'm working on something new and can't wait to show you.

Nadia frowns, the letter's content causing an uncomfortable knot to form in her stomach. She—the writer—had met her before? When? How? Was this person someone she knew? Was it someone her mother had known intimately? Nadia felt a mix of confusion and unease rise in her chest. She couldn't quite place it. There was something about the phrasing, the obsession with Vanessa's daughter, that raised more questions than answers.

Nadia wrestles with the possibility of her mother being involved in something... complicated. The idea of her mother in an affair—an adulterous relationship, even—is an almost impossible thought to stomach. She hated the mere suggestion of it, but as she reread the letters, the intimacy of the writer's words, the way they spoke of her mother's choices as though they shared something far more personal, made her wonder.

The letters were too vague, and too indirect, leaving more questions than answers. There were no names, no specifics, just a constant reminder that the writer was holding back. The secrecy was suffocating.

Nadia can't push the question aside, but at the same time, she feels an uncomfortable tug in her gut. No, there was no way her mother would have visited someone like this—at least not in that way. It couldn't be true, could it? But she can't stop herself from wondering.

Letter #60

Ani, you're probably surprised to get this letter from me. I didn't think you'd fall. Family drama aside, you've always believed in our role to help and guide humanity. You've always done it with your heart, not to please Father like someone we both know. But never mind that. I've heard some chatter among our brothers and sisters. Ralph's planning your demise. I know what you did is considered one of the worst crimes, but I know it's no accident that you've lived this long. Michael must be looking after you. After all, he knows how close you were to Father. Please take care of yourself. I know I usually opt out of family drama, but if you need me, I'm there.

— Gabe

Letter #61

You can't be ridiculous. Taking on Raphael alone? Without your grace? Don't be a martyr. You have a family. A daughter to think about! I'll admit, you're right. If you don't face Ralph, he'll go for your family. After all, what he's doing isn't for justice, it's pure malice. He's trying to make a point, and assert his dominance now that Father is gone. Let me help, please. If not for you, for your daughter.

— Gabe

Nadia's heart skips a beat as she reads Gabe's signature. He cared deeply for her mother, and the urgency in his words speaks to a kind of closeness that she didn't have with Michael and Raphael especially. 

The mention of Raphael troubled her. The idea that her mother had been willing to face him without her grace is, in some ways, brave but also reckless. It's clear she was doing whatever she could to protect her family.

As she lays all the letters out, like a puzzle with pieces that didn't quite fit, Nadia begins to feel the weight of what her mother must have endured. But she's still left with so many unanswered questions. Why had her mother kept so many secrets? Why didn't she let Gabriel help? Who was the mysterious other figure that she'd taken Nadia to visit with as a child?

Nadia pushes those thoughts aside for the moment. She picks up the letters, folding them neatly before setting them aside. Her head aches, the weight of all these revelations pressing down on her. There are photos too, she remembers, still tucked in the crate. She flips through them, each one showcasing her mother over the years, always surrounded by people—always happy, always ageless.

Her heart swells as she looks at the pictures. She hadn't fully realized the scope of her mother's existence, how long she had lived—how long she had fought for humanity. Vanessa had been one of the first angels created, before creation itself had even come into being. In every picture, Vanessa looked timeless, ever-present, and full of life.

Nadia pulls out a particular photo—a black and white picture from the late seventies. In it, her mother stands between a blonde woman and a man with dark hair, in front of a very familiar-looking car. The memory stirs within her, but she can't quite place it. Was that the Impala?

The smell of freshly brewed coffee couldn't compete with the delicious aromas of Thanksgiving dishes wafting through the cabin. Nadia ignored the instinct to inhale deeply, instead grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.

Her mind was racing, and she couldn't find peace in the anticipation of a hearty meal. After going through her mother's things the night before, she found herself more restless than ever and hadn't slept a wink.

She yawned as she filled the mugs with coffee, one with sugar and cream, the other left plain.

"Still tired?" Dean emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed for the day.

"Yeah. Didn't sleep well last night," she said, handing him his cup and leaning against the counter with her own.

"Hm. You should've asked Irene for some of that tea she made me. Knocked me right out."

Nadia brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. "You do look well-rested."

"I could run a marathon."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Dean sipped his coffee, looking around. "Where is everyone?"

"Irene and my dad went into town for a few things. Our brothers went for a hike."

"Oh, I bet Sammy's loving that."

"Mhm," Nadia murmured, blowing at her coffee, her thoughts far away.

Dean set his cup down and gently caressed her neck. "Hey."

"Hm?" Her eyes drifted to his, distracted.

"You okay? It's starting to seem like if it's not me, it's you, ya know?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I've just been thinking. You've never shown me a photo of your parents."

"No?" Dean frowned. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I think I'd remember."

Dean stood, heading for the living room. "Hm," he muttered as he retrieved his father's journal from his duffle bag. He set his coffee aside and began laying out a few old photos on the counter.

"There isn't a lot because of the fire," he explained.

Nadia swallowed as she picked up a photo of a young Dean with his mother, Mary. She was in her middle ages, a blue-eyed blonde with delicate features. Next to it was a photo of Dean, Sam, and their father, John, sitting on the hood of the Impala. John, too, was in his middle ages, with dark brown hair and eyes that were strikingly similar to Sam's.

"Why the sudden thought?" Dean asked, sensing there was more to it.

"Nothing. Well, I don't know... It's Thanksgiving. I guess it just got me thinking about family. Those we've lost, and those we still have."

"Missing your mom?"

"Yeah." Nadia nodded, setting the photos down. "I was going through her stuff last night."

"What'd you find?"

"A lot..." She hesitated. "I thought I was finding answers, but now I just have more questions."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Later. It's Thanksgiving. We're supposed to be happy today, and we've got a pie to bake."

"You sure?"

"Yes! I'm sure. Come on!" Nadia grinned, nudging him toward the kitchen.

As she started setting up, Dean put the photos and journal away. She prepped the fillings while Dean worked on the crust and lattice. At first, he was apprehensive about his lack of baking skills, but once the kneading started, he really got into it.

Nadia stood at the stove, spicing up the apple filling. She had already done the cherry and pumpkin. Pecan was next.

"How you doing over there?" she asked, looking back to see Dean tossing the ball of dough in the air and catching it.

"This is way more fun than I was expecting," Dean beamed. He threw the dough onto the floured counter and pounded it with his fist. "It's kind of therapeutic."

"It is," Nadia agreed. "When my dad would force me to bond with Irene, she'd always drag me into the kitchen to bake something. I'd pretend to hate it out of spite, but there was something kind of relaxing about icing cupcakes. I'd feel so accomplished afterward, especially when Ben and my dad would scarf them down."

Nadia cooled some of the fillings before letting Dean try. "What do you think?"

"Hm," Dean thought for a moment. "More cinnamon."

"That's what I thought." She returned to her station.

"You know, I had a good talk with Irene last night," Dean said, flattening the dough with a rolling pin.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She told me about her family. How her parents had her in their later years, so she was kind of a black sheep—most of her siblings were already married with kids."

"Mhm?"

"Long story short, writing is how she coped with her feelings. It helped her heal, but it was also her passion. And I just couldn't help but think about what my passion in life is."

"It's not hunting?" Nadia glanced over as she took the apples off the heat and turned off the stove. She joined him at the counter. "You're good at it. You definitely get a thrill out of taking the bad guys down."

"Yeah, but those are the cards I was dealt. I didn't have a choice, you know? It's what I know. It's all I know. Sam had school, law, and I just got hunting."

"Okay, well, let's say you weren't dealt these cards. Who would Dean Winchester be, huh? Leader of a rock band?"

"Maybe," Dean shrugged.

"Model."

"I am adorable."

Nadia grinned. "Maybe you could be a chef or a mechanic. You're good with your hands. I mean, from the looks of it." She raised an eyebrow. "Not that I'd know, personally."

"I could give you a preview," Dean teased, holding out his arms.

"Ah, ah, ah," Nadia said, smirking as she tossed flour in his direction. "Hands on the dough."

"I'm sorry, what did you say? Hands-on, Nadia?" Dean grinned as he grabbed her face, leaving floury handprints on her cheeks.

Nadia gasped, squeezing her eyes shut in disbelief.

"Payback sure feels good," Dean chuckled, rubbing the flour into her cheeks like lotion.

"Okay," Nadia laughed, pushing his hands away. "You win! You win!"

Dean laughed obnoxiously, washing his hands. "Come here." He cleaned her face with a towel. "So, what would you be if hunting wasn't a part of your life?"

"Hmm," Nadia thought for a moment, her eyes twinkling. "I guess I'd just follow in my mom's footsteps and be a CNA. Stay in Canaan, be a small-town girl, marry a small-town guy, get a house near my dad so his grandkids could just run up the street to see him."

She chuckled. "Look at us, dreaming, imagining another life like children."

"It's stupid, isn't it?" Dean tossed the towel down, shaking his head. "Especially with the apocalypse underway. I shouldn't have asked."

"Hey, don't do that." Nadia rubbed his arm. "What you're feeling... it's hope. And that's a good thing. Try to hold onto it. It's hard for people like us. The moment we let it go, we lose our drive. I haven't dreamed of anything outside this life since I was a child. So, you're not alone. I get it. I also think my family's doing a number on you."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Dean chuckled, leaning his forehead against hers. "I'm glad I came."

"Me too," Nadia smiled, and they shared a kiss.