Archive of Our Own ^beta

Edie tucked the book—a first edition, signed!—under the loose floorboard in her closet. There wasn’t any real need for her to have such a hiding place, except that it seemed fitting for the world of Carver Edlund’s books. It felt cool and mysterious, like Sam and Dean and their awesome car, and their almost super-human strength and abilities.

They weren’t super-human, though. That was why she liked the books—better than comic books or superhero movies or books written for kids that assumed they were dumb, or not tough enough to deal with all the scary stuff her favorite Supernatural hunters went through. Sam and Dean were just people—people who failed sometimes, and got scared, but always got up and tried again.

The thing was, Edie was pretty sure they were real. Kids at school made fun of her when she said so—even kids who were supposed to be her friends—but she could feel it. She even thought she’d seen a ghost once, and she drew a salt circle around her aunt’s shed, and it had worked! She’d stopped seeing the shape drifting in and out of the shed, the summer she’d stayed with her aunt while her mom was sick. The sounds of the leaf blower turning on by itself in the middle of the night had stopped too. Her aunt was really nice, but she hadn’t believed Edie when Edie told her about the ghostly images and sounds.

“Your uncle Cal was always saying he was going to get to the leaf blowing and raking, and he never did, until I got fed up and did it myself,” Aunt Di said. “You probably heard us squabbling about it when you were little, and your mind made it up because you like those scary books.”

But Edie wasn’t like that. She didn’t get scared at night, and she wasn’t prone to being overimaginative. She knew she heard the leaf blower, until she made the salt circle, and she started hearing it again after the circle got worn away.

So, she did something worse than anything she’d ever done before. She didn’t want to lie to her aunt and do bad things, but what if the ghost started hurting people, like the poltergeist in Home?

So she stole the leaf blower from the shed, took it to a semi-abandoned construction site near her aunt’s house where there were already some holes dug, and set it on fire. It took a lot of tries before she got it to burn—she wished she could find those cool lighters that stayed lit when Sam or Dean tossed them in a grave. The melting plastic smelled horrible and made her feel a little sick, and she wasn’t able to get it to burn completely. So she also took a big bag of rock salt from the shed and covered the leaf blower as completely as she could with it, then buried it with the loose dirt from the construction site. If they dug it up and her aunt or her mom found out about it, she would be in so much trouble, but it had worked. She never saw or heard the ghost again. She hoped Uncle Cal was at peace now.

So, ghosts were real, and the methods Sam and Dean used to fight them were real, so why shouldn’t they themselves be real, too? Edie was determined to find out. It was time to visit the special bookshop again.

Dean knew he should probably take this brief moment where nothing was actively trying to kill him to get some shuteye—sleep more than a couple hours for once—but he couldn’t. Sam was restless too. Dean could hear him typing away on his laptop on the other bed of their ten thousandth crappy motel room, but more than the sounds, he could feel Sam’s nervous energy. Just like his own. After all, the world was about to end, and it was probably their fault.

It was on his lips to snap at Sam to give it a rest so he could rest, but he didn’t. He’d never had trouble sleeping while Sam was researching, anyway. He gave up and rolled over to eye his brother.

“Still awake?” Sam asked without looking away from the screen.

“Yeah. You find anything interesting?”

“Maybe. Actually… yeah. This is a case, and it could be urgent. We could call Bobby or somebody else, but—”

“Nah. Let’s get gone,” Dean said, sliding out of bed and grabbing his duffle. “Neither of us is sleeping anyway. How far of a drive is it?”

“Three hours.” Sam met Dean’s eye finally. He seemed to have trouble doing that lately, but he gave him a half smile as he closed his laptop and stood. “Maybe two and a half with the way you drive.”

“Baby will get us there in two,” Dean bragged, and they left the motel room without looking back, with nothing but rumpled bedclothes to indicate they had ever been there.

Edie liked the old man who owned the dusty old used bookshop. He always greeted her when she came in, and let her stay as long as she wanted, unlike other places who would chase kids out when they could tell they didn’t have any money to spend. He sometimes gave her a piece of gum or hard candy, and when she explained what she was looking for, he’d say, “Well, I might have something for my most discerning customer.” It made her feel so grown-up.

“Hello, Edie,” he said with a kind smile when she walked in. “Looking for a new treasure? I don’t have any Carver Edlund in just now.” He tossed her a Werther’s, and she caught it.

“I want a book about magic,” she told him bluntly, as she unwrapped the candy. She’d thought about trying to find what she wanted by herself, or making up some excuse about doing something for school, but school was out for summer, and Mr. D’Angelo would know that. The book would probably be in the back anyway, and not out on the shelf where she could easily get it.

He eyed her from under his long-haired eyebrows for a moment, and she stood up straighter and added, “Real magic. Not like Harry Potter or fake kid’s stuff. Spells.”

His eyebrows climbed higher, but he made no comment. He turned to the cash register and shuffled over to it, opening the little door in the half-wall that closed the area off from the rest of the shop. The door to the back room, where Edie had never been allowed to go, was behind it. He paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder at her, pausing for a long moment.

“You sure you’re old enough to handle something like that?” he finally asked.

She knew it! She knew Mr. D’Angelo was cool, and wouldn’t tell her magic wasn’t real or ask if she ever wore dresses, or anything stupid like that. “I’m twelve now! Almost a teenager.”

“Ah,” he said, and if there was something a little wolfish about the way he grinned, Edie was too excited to notice it. “In that case…”

Three days later, Edie was thinking of going back to the store and asking for a refund. Except that she hadn’t paid anything for the neat little leather-bound book that had exactly the spell she wanted in it: one that would summon Sam and Dean to her side, and prove that they were real. Mr. D’Angelo had insisted she take the book, saying, “I wouldn’t know what to charge for it anyway.”

The truth was, Edie was lonely. Aunt Di was great, whenever Edie had to stay with her when her mom wasn’t doing well, but she was really busy. Edie had never had that many friends, and lately the ones she did have were pulling away from her. The boys were stupid, and the girls were getting too interested in the boys. They cared more about watching Jersey Shore and laughing at dumb YouTube videos of people falling down than exploring caves or woods, or telling creepy stories inspired by the Carver Edlund books. And none of them believed her anymore, that Sam and Dean were real.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone about the ghost and the leaf blower. It was proof, but they wouldn’t see it that way. Unless it was proof that Edie was a weirdo.

Maybe she was, she thought, her cheeks heating as she tucked the spellbook into her backpack. Maybe they were right, and it was all just stories, and the “spell” she’d done to “call your heroes to your side” was just some candles and symbols on the floor, and a burnt page from her beloved No Rest for the Wicked paperback.

She had been so worried for Dean. That scene at the end of No Rest was the scariest thing Edie had ever read. And Edlund hadn’t released another book yet, to say whether he ever got out of hell—what would poor Sam do without him?

She tried not to cry as she walked to the diner her aunt owned. Aunt Di was good about letting her sit in a booth and read when it wasn’t busy, and she often let her have dessert. Maybe some pie would help her feel better. It seemed to work for Dean.

By the time she got to Di’s Burgers and Pies, her tears had dried, and she was ready to let go of Sam and Dean forever—let them be only stories, a beloved memory from her childhood, like Mulan—her imaginary best friend, once upon a time. Someone to lead her into adventure and importance, to make her strong. Sam and Dean could have been her friends, too, but she was in middle school now. Too old to believe in heroes anymore.

Then she saw the Impala—Dean’s Baby, larger than life—parked by the diner’s front door.

Sam half-heartedly paged through the menu full of good old-fashioned, grease-and-carb filled Americana. There were a couple of salads and vegetable sides, but he wasn’t really in the mood for limp iceberg, or sad broccoli drenched in watered-down Velveeta.

Wonder if they’ve got anything that tastes like demon blood? He frowned hard at the thought. When had he gotten so cynical? Maybe right around the time he was locked in Bobby’s panic room to detox. Again.

He wouldn’t give in. He didn’t need demon blood. He didn’t even want it. All he wanted was to solve this case, and then stop the apocalypse, and then? What, get a job? Finish school?

He eyed Dean over the top of the menu. Dean, of course, was in hog heaven. Or should be. This was just his kind of place—there was a whole 8 by 14 inch page of pie selections alone.

But Dean’s enthusiasm seemed performed, his expressed hunger dimmed by frustration that ran deeper than coming up dry on what had seemed like a blatant, severe haunting case they should have solved by now. They both knew they were only here to avoid thinking about angels, broken seals, and Horsemen, but the distraction, which they had chased down dark highways before dawn at Dean’s signature breakneck speed, had evaporated.

The signs, witnesses, and grisly rumors had vanished like so much smoke from a burning gravesite when they arrived in the damp, green Pacific Northwest town. The oddest part was that Sam couldn’t even find the evidence on his laptop again. His browser cache had been mysteriously cleared, and repeating the searches had been fruitless.

So why were they here? Sam was beginning to think it was to keep them away from wherever they actually needed to be, but before he could open his mouth to say so, he saw that Dean, without moving his head or giving any overt sign, was looking at something behind him.

Your six, said Dean’s eyes. Sam straightened imperceptibly, opening his senses.

Yes. Someone was watching them.

There was a loaded silence, and Edie suddenly felt dizzy at the familiar pressure of it. She drifted outside of her body, feeling she was in multiple places at the same time. She was so intensely there, in the diner she had practically grown up in, but simultaneously, she had tilted over the edge and right into the pages of a book.

When she was younger, she had fallen asleep reading Faith, soon after her discovery of the Supernatural series. She’d stayed up way too late and gotten in trouble twice for reading after bedtime—and on top of that, her reading wasn’t quite up to the level of the books yet. But she just had to know how Sam was going to save Dean after he got electrocuted. Sam was still researching when she passed out, her cheek stuck to the pulpy pages with her own drool. And she had dreamed herself into the scene. She remembered every detail: the neon hum of the motel sign outside the window, Sam’s messy hair gripped in his large, strong hand, the bluish glare of his laptop on his tired face.

Can you see me? she had asked in the dream, only inside her head. And Sam had looked up. He had seen her—and the electric jolt that woke her felt as searing as the one that ruined Dean’s heart.

It was like that now, in the tense, listening silence between the brothers, in the glimpse of a flannel collar and long brown hair over the back of the booth. She was falling asleep. She was waking up. She was seen.

Helplessly, as if reeled in on a fishing line, she moved past the booth—past Sam’s (Sam’s! ) flannel-clad shoulder—and was pinned in place by a pair of cool green eyes.

“Help you with something, kid?”

That voice—low, rough, cynical. Somehow, it was safety. It was home.

Edie burst into tears.

“Do something,” Dean hissed, glaring at Sam’s bemused inaction.

“Don’t look at me. You’re the one that made her cry.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” Dean lost the scowl as he looked at the girl. At least he thought it was a girl—she was dressed more like a boy and had short hair, but in a pretty girly style, as he understood such things. Which he didn’t much.

“Listen, uh, kid,” he tried again, troubled by the loud sniffling and the girl’s effort to hold back sobs. “You—”

“Edie! My name is Edie. Uh, Edith. Edie!” She finally took her hands away from her face to peek at them. “D… Dean?”

Before Dean could ask how she knew his name, she moved closer, peering at him as though looking for something. To Dean’s consternation, tears welled in her eyes again. “You… you made it out of hell,” she said.

She turned to Sam and gave him a brilliant smile. “I knew you would find a way to save him,” she said.

Sam flinched visibly. Dean gave him a quelling look, not without sympathy, but Sam answered anyway.

“I didn’t. It wasn’t me,” Sam said calmly. Dean thought he might decide to play good cop in this scenario, but instead, he was leaning into cool suspicion. Unaccountably, the girl seemed completely unintimidated.

“Who are you?” As Sam spoke, holding the girl’s gaze, he reached for a flask of holy water. “How do you know who we are?”

Dean was tired of beating around the bush here. Sam had the flask hidden under the table, the cap mostly unscrewed. Dean abruptly reached across, snatched it from him, tossed the lid on the table, and splashed the girl in the face.

“Hey!” She spluttered, water dripping down her chin and neck, but then looked… delighted? “You thought I was a demon? ”

Dean produced a silver knife, but Sam hissed at him, “Hey! Put that away! You can’t cut a little kid!”

“Give it to me,” Edie said, and both brothers tensed as she took the knife from Dean, who was too startled to stop her. She unfolded the small blade—carefully, Dean noted, using proper knife safety—and made a small cut on the top side of her forearm halfway to her elbow. She didn’t flinch at all as a bead of blood swelled forth.

“Good enough?” she asked perkily, handing the knife back to Dean—correctly, handle first. “I always thought it was dumb when you guys made big slashes right across your palm, where it would hurt all the time and would almost always get infected. My mom used to be a nurse and she said so.” She took a napkin from the dispenser on the table and began patting her face dry.

Dean exchanged a look with Sam, who, weirdly, seemed more relaxed now. Dean arched an eyebrow at him. Think she’s why we’re here? the look said, and Sam’s look, and gesture that was barely physical but somehow said more than a shrug or nod, was answer enough.

Edie interrupted the silent conversation with a giggle. Sam and Dean both looked at her, nonplussed.

“You really do do that! Talk in code without talking. I…” Her cheeky confidence crumbled abruptly. “I’m… I’m sorry. There’s not a case here. You were probably doing something really important, and I called you here, and I… I just really wanted to know that you were real. I—”

She stopped speaking and jumped, clapping her hand over the cut on her forearm, as another voice interrupted them.

“Edie! What are you doing, honey? I told you not to pester people when they’re eating.” A no-nonsense, matronly woman bustled up to the table, glancing worriedly from Edie to Sam and Dean. Privately, Dean thought she was probably more worried about a couple of rough customers bothering her daughter, or whatever this girl was to her.

“Hi, Aunt Di,” Edie said with a creditable attempt at nonchalance. “I wasn’t pestering, I…”

“She was being really helpful, actually,” Sam cut in smoothly. “She’s been answering our questions about local folklore and urban myths. For my book.”

“That’s right,” said Dean, ready to back Sam’s play as always. “This is Dr. Van Zant, and I’m his earnest but attractively youthful research assistant. Name’s Burns.”

Dean offered his hand with a flirtatious smile that had taken down many a harder target, but Di wasn’t having it. She shook his hand peremptorily, eying Sam with, Dean fancied, even more suspicion than she gave him.

“You don’t look like a professor,” she said cooly. “Doctor of what?”

“Assistant professor, actually. And it’s folklore and comparative mythology, if I can convince Reed College to accept my prospectus for a course this fall.” He gave her a practiced, charmingly humble not-quite-smile, and offered his hand.

Dean hid his smile as the woman visibly thawed. So. Di was a Sam girl, not a Dean girl. Dean could live with that. He went back to perusing the impressive menu and left Sam to work his college boy magic.

Sure enough, they had barely finished their burgers and perfectly crispy, well-seasoned fries when Di brought them pie, having allowed Edie to join them with the stipulation that they were sure, and a reminder to Edie not to make a pest of herself. Dean hadn’t had a chance to ask for his dessert yet, and he wouldn’t have picked the slice of fresh, warm boysenberry with a generous dollop of thick, creamy yellow vanilla ice cream on top, but that would have been his loss. It was amazing.

“You’ve read those books, haven’t you?” Sam asked Edie when Di was safely gone. “The Carver Edlund ones. Look, they’re… OK, they’re pretty accurate actually, but…”

“I’m more concerned with how she got us here,” Dean said. Or tried to say, around an overlarge mouthful of pie that he was trying to suck air around, to cool it. The filling was lava-hot. He quickly stuffed a spoonful of ice cream in too; that should help.

Sam gave him his trademark level, cool look, but he was trying to suppress a smile. “What was that, Professor Piehole?”

Dean gave him a halfhearted glare as he swallowed, gasping a little at his burned throat. “Wow. That,” he gestured at his plate, “is poetry.” He levelled a stern look at Edie, who looked down. Dean guessed that she had understood him just fine.

“Why are we here?” he asked her, and his tone came out gentler than he meant. He should be annoyed—called here for nothing, wasting their time while the world was ending, those damn books. But Edie? She was unexpected. A plucky little tomboy, learning about their world at about the same age Dean had, reading between the lines of his father’s cryptic behavior after too many long absences dressed in thin excuses, too much blood washed down motel shower drains.

Edie instantly wilted. She’d been having a grand time peppering Sam with questions, a process that, oddly, seemed to cheer Sam up, too. Maybe reminders of his past heroics gave him a confidence boost or something. Whatever; he’d leave the psychoanalysis to Sam, but he had to admit it was nice to see his brother almost smile.

He focused back on Edie, who hadn’t answered right away, and then muttered something.

“What was that?” Dean echoed Sam, but sharply, because he had heard enough.

“I did a spell,” Edie repeated clearly, meeting his eye.

Great. Dean clenched his jaw and ignored a warning look from Sam. “And where did you get that spell?”

Glancing at Sam as if he might save her, Edie unzipped her backpack and drew out a thin, leatherbound volume. She flipped it open to the page bookmarked by a tattered, black ribbon sewn into the book’s spine.

The pages were unpleasantly splotched with mysterious substances. Dean suppressed a shudder. Witches, man.

The lefthand page was labeled with fancy script reading Call Your Heroes to Your Side. The spell was very short. In fact, Dean was definitely no expert, but should it even have worked? Sam would know more, but when he looked to him for confirmation, Sam wasn’t reading the ingredients list critically, or frowning like he did when puzzle pieces didn’t fit together right. He wasn’t looking at the spell at all—he was looking at Edie, with an expression so soft, Dean barely recognized it.

Well. He hadn’t seen it years, after all. Maybe decades.

“We’re your heroes?” Sam asked in an oddly small voice.

Edie looked at him, wide-eyed, then nodded firmly. “Well—yeah! I’ve always known you were real. I just really wanted to see you. To prove it, even if… well, I guess I can’t tell anyone.” She looked down gloomily, biting her lip. Sam gazed at her soulfully, and unaccountably, when she caught his eye, she giggled.

“There’s the puppy dog eyes!” she said. Sam looked confused, but Dean brought them both back around to the matter at hand.

“Look, kid,” he said, not unkindly. “There’s no way around it; this is witchcraft. If you’ve read those books, you know that witches aren’t my favorite. Do not go down that road.”

“It’s not! You guys do rituals. I don’t want to be a witch—I want to be a hunter.”

That, Dean thought, was even worse.

Edie had known the lecture about being a hunter was coming. She just hadn’t expected it to work. Or to make Dean so mad that he would leave. She scrubbed furiously at the tears streaming down her face, willing them to stop, and she couldn’t meet Sam’s compassionate gaze.

He looked nothing like the book covers. Neither of them did, but that hadn’t surprised her. How tall they both were had, somehow, although the books talked about it. Maybe it was only that she’d pictured herself closer to their size.

After what Dean said, and the way Sam looked when he said it, she knew she couldn’t be a hunter. It was different now that it was all real. She’d wanted Sam and Dean to be real, and she didn’t mind that ghosts were, but monsters, and demons, and hell? Edie never believed in hell before, or in God, just like Dean didn’t. Only she wondered if maybe he did now…

“I’m sorry,” she said to Sam, when he awkwardly handed her a napkin to dry her tears with.

Sam gave her a half-smile and a shrug. “We’ve driven further for less reason,” he said. “And don’t worry about Dean. He just… doesn’t like talking about hell. And we both want to spare you this kind of life. Truly, Edie. It means a lot—that you believed in us, that we’re your heroes. But all that stuff we did—we did it because we had to. We didn’t feel like heroes while it was happening. And if we can spare someone the kind of pain we’ve been through—the death that comes to every hunter eventually—that’s a different kind of heroism.”

Edie nodded sadly. “I won’t do it now. I just wondered… I don’t know. If I could maybe save—someone.” She shifted awkwardly in her seat.

“Who do you know that needs saving?” Sam asked, sitting forward sharply.

“Well—no one. I mean, it wouldn’t… be right. I know I can’t,” she said hastily as Sam frowned. He gave her a flat look—not mean, but suspicious. She sighed.

“My mom has cancer. Just like Layla in Faith. Well, not just like. She might live a long time with it. Or… she might not. She’s been really tired lately.”

She usually hated the look of pity she got from adults, when they realized just how much she understood about her mom’s disease. But Sam’s eyes... his look was different. He didn’t try to protect her from the truth, or push it aside, or say it shouldn’t hurt. He saw the hurt, and he felt it too. He knew there was no way she could not feel it.

“Faith has always been my favorite of the books, before I really understood why, even. I would save my mom if I could. But I wouldn’t kill someone else to do it, or make a demon deal, or any of those things, because… I mean, Dean’s still here, but—”

“The price is too high,” Sam finished the sentence. “And sooner or later, you gotta pay.”

Edie was silent for a long minute. “What you guys are doing now… what’s happening. Is it really… bad?”

Sam looked at her measuringly for a moment. She could tell he was trying to decide if she was grown up enough for whatever he had to say, and she couldn’t be sure what he had decided.

“Yes,” he said at length. “It’s bad. Look, I don’t know how much you’ve learned from those books about how to protect yourself, but I’m going to have Bobby send you a book of actual lore that I know of that lays out some basics.”

“Awesome,” Edie whispered, and Sam did smile for real, then.

“I’m a little worried about this guy you got the book from,” Sam continued, “but if you didn’t agree to anything in exchange for the book, you should be OK. We still can’t let you keep it. You understand?” Edie nodded glumly.

“OK. Keep your nose clean. Don’t try to do any more rituals, except the protection symbols in the book Bobby will send, if you need them. Keep salt, silver, and holy water handy, but when in doubt, stay clear and call Bobby. I’ll give you his number, and he’ll send a hunter if he thinks you need one. I’d give you our number, but… I think we’re gonna be busy for a while.”

That (maybe literally) haunted look was back. Edie got tears in her eyes looking at Sam, and almost let them fall when she thought maybe she wouldn’t see Dean anymore at all. “I want you to be safe, too,” she said. “Can you stop hunting?”

“I hope so,” Sam said, looking a million miles away. “Soon.”

“Tell Dean I’m sorry, and I promise—”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Dean said, rounding the corner of the booth and sliding in next to Edie abruptly. “As long as you do what Uncle Sammy told you. That what you were about to promise? Good. Also—if something comes to you claiming to be an angel, don’t you believe anything they tell you either. Don’t listen to any of ‘em. And take this.”

He thrust an amulet on a leather thong into her hand. She looked at it, and gasped to recognize the sun-rayed pentagram she knew was tattooed on the brothers’ chests.

She held it to her heart, and she didn’t know what was on her face, but it made Dean look away. He muttered, “Got us some pie for the road.” He held up a clamshell to-go box. “Let’s hit it, Sammy.”

He glanced back at Edie. “We’re gonna have a chat with that book store owner. I know you said he was nice to you, but I’m telling you again—you can never, ever go back there. We clear?”

“Yes, Dean,” she said meekly, and Dean arched an eyebrow, exchanging a look with Sam, who nodded.

Sam stood up, and Dean rapped on the table, giving Edie a thoughtful look and a nod. He stood too, and Edie scrambled out of the booth and threw her arms around Sam, who was half-turned away and froze, startled, before awkwardly hugging her back.

“Be careful,” she said. She moved to hug Dean too. He looked slightly panicked when it was clear he couldn’t avoid it, and thumped her on the back a bit too hard. She grinned at him.

“I’d tell you to be careful, too, but I know you won’t,” she said cheekily.

“Me? I’m always careful. Dean Winchester is the soul of cautious discretion.”

“Winchester,” murmured Edie in awe.

Sam smiled at her. “I hope your mom is all right,” he said. “Take care, Edie.”

“Maybe we’ll see each other again someday,” she said.

Sam didn’t answer for a moment as he followed Dean to the door of the diner. “Maybe,” he said, half turning toward her, and then they were gone. Edie stood there, swelling with the ache of what Sam didn’t say, for a long time after the roar of the Impala’s engine was swallowed by the quiet of the night.

“D’Angelo,” said Dean. He was steering with one hand, turning over the bookmark from the shop that Edie had given them with the other. “Little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Sam stared out the window as Dean drove through the misty, tree-lined town. It was late June, but he wondered if summer ever really touched this place: quiet, empty streets under steel-gray skies, tree limbs hung with grayish moss, their bark black with rain.

“Might be nice if it’s straightforward for once,” he answered.

Not that Sam was keen on being manipulated here by angels, if that was what had happened. But as they had occasion to know, there was worse out there, and he didn’t want any of it anywhere near earnest, innocent little Edie. He wanted to leave her safe, if anything in the world was safe anymore. Including the world itself.

“Well, we’d better find this shop, and make sure it gets out of the business of handing out grimoires to little kids,” Dean said.

They pulled up at the address on the bookmark. The sign over the window proclaimed D’Angelo’s Treasured Tomes in heavily embellished, once-silver script, now peeling to gray like everything else in that town. Beneath it, taped to the inside of the window, was a hand-lettered cardboard sign that read Now carrying YA and bestsellers! Sam wasn’t sure how the simple statement managed to convey as much reluctant distaste as it did.

As soon as he glimpsed the sign, and the empty window below it, Sam knew that they were too late.

The shop, the lock of which gave way before Dean really even got started picking it, looked as if no one had owned it for years. Only the bolt-holes in the floorboards remained where the shelving had once stood. It was utterly empty, save for one discarded, folded box with a bit of cobweb stuck to the packing tape.

Sam caught a whiff of smoke. He and Dean walked the floor in a grid pattern, examining it closely, their footsteps creaking loudly in the echoing space. In one corner, Sam found a small pile of curling black ash. Glimpsing a hint of white, he brushed aside the ash and found a bit of pulpy paper, only partially burned, no longer than his thumb. Around the charred edges he made out the words for you may find your own house divided. At the top of the page was the title: Home.

Dean came and looked over his shoulder. “What book did Edie say she burned for the spell?” he asked.

“Not this one,” Sam answered. As he shifted the scrap of paper slightly to see if he could make out any other words, it crumbled in his hand, and a breeze from the open door plucked the ominous words from his fingers, leaving behind only a faint black smear.

They did their due diligence as hunters. They always would, but Dean knew, just as Sam said, they were never going to find D’Angelo. If he’d ever really existed.

Edie was as safe as their warnings could make her. Dean sincerely hoped that he’d scared her enough to keep her far away from their world. She’d gotten to him, with her feverish admiration of their deeds, her youthful courage, and the feeling she’d brought up in Dean that he was slow to recognize.

It was hope. For as much as Edie had affected Dean, he would lay good money that Sam felt her influence even more deeply. If anything could help Sam resist the pull of demon blood, bolster his resolve to deny Lucifer, and keep him at Dean’s side in their fight to save the world, it might just be the hero worship of one whip-smart, starry-eyed little girl.

Speeding toward Sioux Falls, having left the damp forests of the northwest behind sometime in the night, Dean stopped just after sunrise for gas and coffee at a nameless spot on the empty map of the western plains. He left another message for Bobby about their next case right in his own hometown, not omitting the part about sending the book to Edie. Not after Sam reminded him no less than three times.

“You good to keep driving?” Sam asked, as Dean handed him a lukewarm paper cup.

“Always,” Dean said, settling back behind the wheel.

He glanced at his brother in the rosy morning light as they rolled onto the highway, picking up speed. He left the window cracked and the summer morning air thrummed through, fanning them both. Sam slumped into a practiced huddle against the window frame, settling down to catch a few winks. He looked tired, strained, older than his years, but as Dean watched him relax toward sleep, the years slipped away, and with the asphalt beneath them humming a lullaby, Sam smiled.