Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

FAMILY.

How ironic that this one simple word can breed such complexity. This one word which is supposed to stand for love and unity can also cause so much discourse and hatred.

But, I suppose, it's not all bad.

In fact, many times, it is family that keeps us from stepping too close to that great precipice, from going over the edge. Although, sometimes they are the ones that can push you over that same cliff.

Over the course of my long life, I have come to believe that we are bound forever to those with whom we share blood. And while we may not choose our blood relations, their bond can be our greatest strength, or… our deepest regret. This unfortunate truth has haunted me for as long as I can recall.

They say blood is thicker than water… but blood can only run so thick when you’re related to vampires, witches, and werewolves… and God knows what else.

However, one thing is certain. Whether we are mortal or immortal, a human or a supernatural, we all need a family. 

For over a thousand years I have defended my family. Until one moment when the actions of one of our own nearly wiped us all out.

But allow me to take you back to where it all started and show you the beginning of the end.

Chapter Text

It was an early morning in Sioux Falls and Bobby Singer was in his kitchen cooking breakfast wearing a "kiss the chef" apron over his standard flannel and jeans attire and a worn-out blue baseball cap when all of sudden, he heard a voice behind him say, "I need your help."

Bobby instantly jumped and whirled around to see who had snuck into his house, pointing the spatula out in front of him defensively. However, when he saw who it was, he relaxed slightly, though he was still rather miffed about the intrusion.

"Dammit, Elijah! How many times have I told you to knock before coming into my damn house?" Bobby groused, lowering the spatula.

Elijah Mikaelson quirked his lips upward in a smirk. "Far more times than I'm sure either of us care to remember, old friend. Besides, you permitted me to enter your home decades ago. Why shouldn't I come and go as I please?" he replied.

"Yeah, and I'm startin' to regret that decision," Bobby grumbled.

"It hasn't been all bad, has it, Robert?" Elijah mused, his eyes fixating on the hunter. "All those cases over all those years? Seems worth it, don't you think?"

"Not if it gets the livin' daylights scared outta me at the most random times," Bobby snarked with no real bite in his voice. Then he quickly turned around and finished scooping the last bit of eggs onto his breakfast plate before he turned off the burner and went to sit at the table. "Well, since you're here, you mind grabbin' me a beer from out of the fridge?" he asked.

Elijah rolled his eyes in annoyance, because of course one of his few human friends was a day drinker. Nevertheless, he opened the refrigerator and grabbed one of the beers, and cracked it open before giving it to Bobby.

"If you keep drinking like this, you'll end up dead before you turn 70," he commented.

"Yeah, well, I already got one foot in the grave 'cause I'm a hunter. Hell, I'm lucky I even made it this far. At least if I go, I might as well go out on my own terms," Bobby remarked, taking a swig of the bitter liquid. "Now, you said you needed my help?"

Elijah had moved over to Bobby's liquor cabinet and helped himself to a glass of the 1824 Glenlivet that he knew Bobby kept stashed away in the back of the cabinet. "Do you remember Marie Kessler?" Elijah began.

"Yeah, I remember her," Bobby nodded. "She was that special type of supernatural hunter, right?"

"A Grimm, yes," Elijah affirmed. "She came from a lineage of hunters who could peek behind the veil so to speak, and see the true faces of monsters, remember?"

"Right, right. And she was a real spitfire last I checked. How is she?" Bobby said.

"She's dying," Elijah answered simply.

Bobby's eyes went wide in alarm. "What?"

"She has cancer, Robert. Stage IV, and it's spreading quickly," the Original explained. "She doesn't have a lot of time left, and what little of it she does have she plans to spend with her nephew."

Bobby listened to what the vampire said intently, but he also heard the things that he didn't say. "The boy is coming into his powers, too, isn't he?"

"If he hasn't already," Elijah remarked. "But that's not the main problem. Two weeks ago, Marie called me right as she was getting ready to leave, and told me she was being followed."

"By who?"

"She didn't say. Although, I could hear the edge in her voice, but if my informant is correct, I'd say it was the Reapers," the vampire informed him.

Bobby grimaced at the mention of the Wesen assassins. He hated them and has hated them for a very long time. and with good reason. After all, the Reapers had been one of his first cases once he became a hunter. In fact, it's how he met Marie, and, subsequently, Elijah.

The last time that he and Marie worked on a case involving Reapers was in 1981 when they, Rufus and Rufus's wife Cheyenne came across a rare supernatural artifact that once belonged to the Grimms. A case that ended with a Pyrrhic Victory.

"Knowing her luck, she's probably got a whole damn squad on her ass," Bobby huffed. "Who’s your informant, are you sure they're reliable?”

Elijah huffed lightly in response. “My informant has been known to be… unpredictable; however, he owes me a favor since I recently saved his life and he is fiercely loyal to a fault. At least to the people he cares about.”

“And you're one of those people, huh?” Bobby noted.

“Well, I should hope so. I've known him since before you were born,” Elijah quipped.

“Alright, alright. Point taken,” Bobby waved off snarkily, wanting to get back on track. “Has Marie contacted you since then?"

Elijah's eyes narrowed as he shook his head. "She said she would check in every 48 hours, and then she went radio silent. I tried to track her down from her last known location, but I lost the trail somewhere in St. Louis," Elijah exhaled. "I figured she's using some sort of charm or talisman spelled to mask her scent so that she couldn't be tracked by a supernatural being."

The old hunter nodded in understanding as the realization hit him. "Which is why you're here."

"I was hoping that you would help me find her before the Reapers do," the vampire implored.

"Well, you couldn't have picked a worse time," Bobby started. "I've kinda been in the middle of somethin'. Something big."

"How big?" Elijah frowned.

"Apocalypse: Round 2 kinda big,” Bobby replied.

Then he stood up from the table and led Elijah into the living room, where he had a book opened on the desk with ancient Sanskrit writing scrawled into the pages. As Bobby rounded the desk to sit down and flip through the pages, he noticed Elijah turning up his nose in disgust as he examined the pages of the book.

"Are these pages made of what I think they are?" Elijah cringed.

"Sadly, yes," Bobby nodded. "But anyway, take a look at this."

Then he turned the book around so that Elijah could read the ancient text. A deep frown set into the Original vampire's features the more he studied it.

"Mother of All?" Elijah voiced in inquisition. "What does that mean?"

"That's what me and my boys have been tryin' to figure out," Bobby replied. "So far we got nothing, but I've been trying to do more research to get ahead of this thing. The one thing I do know is that every monster in existence has been coming out of the woodworks since we started looking for Purgatory."

"Purgatory?"

"Supposedly, it's the afterlife for supernatural creatures... er, one of them at least. However, judging by how old this text is, I'm guessing it was the original afterlife for supernatural beings," Bobby elaborated. "Predating the Other Side."

"Well, clearly you've had your hands full. Had I known that, I wouldn't have bothered you," Elijah sighed, as he turned to leave.

"Now hold on," Bobby cut off, getting to his feet. "Just because I've been bogged down in this doesn't mean I ain't gonna help you or Marie."

"But if you are unable to assist me, then who can?"

"Don't worry," Bobby grinned through his mustache and beard. "I know just the people to call."

Chapter Text

As they drove down the empty road, Dean couldn't help but scrunch up his face as a ripple of anxiety slithered down his spine, and thoughts about what to do about his and his brother's current situation swarmed through his head. He could practically hear the gears turning in Sam's mind as he slowly came back to his senses and shuffled through his most recent memories, despite Dean's warning. And that only made his anxiety worse. 

Dean had had just about enough of his brother's sleuthing. Didn't he realize how dangerous it was to go poking at that damn wall inside his mind? Of course, he did. Because Dean told him a hundred fucking times already! And yet he kept digging anyway, despite Dean's warnings. If he didn't find a way to get Sam's mind off of this whole "I spent a year without a soul" thing, Sam's mind was going to end up in the blender.

And the best way to do that was by finding another case in another town. Preferably one where Sam has no previous memories of being in that town last year. But at this rate, Dean wasn't exactly sure which case would trigger Sam and which one wouldn't. It was like a game of Russian Roulette where the consequences were far more devastating than getting shot. And besides, working a case so soon after the last one probably wouldn't do any good for Sam after the meltdown he had back at the motel.

No, what they needed was a distraction and a damn good one. 

“Dean, your phone’s ringing,” Sam spoke, jolting Dean from his thoughts.

Dean blinked several times and straightened his posture before he reached into his pocket to grab his phone and answer it. “Yeah?” he said as he answered the call. “Hey, Bobby.” 

At the mention of Bobby’s name Sam perked up and stared at his brother curiously. “What's going on?” Sam asked. Dean shushed his brother softly while he continued to listen to Bobby.

“What do you need, Bobby?” Dean inquired. “Wait, who's missing? Okay, okay, sure. We'll look into it. We just got done with a case anyway. Alright, we'll call you if we find out anything. Bye.” Then Dean hung up the phone and set it down absently on the car seat, as he gazed out at the road with a frown. 

“Dean,” Sam prompted, snapping his brother out of his thoughts again.

Dean shook his head slightly and looked at his brother. “Huh,” he said.

“Something up?” Sam pressed.

“Oh. Yeah. Bobby, uh, wants us to look into the disappearance of one of his old hunting buddies or something,” Dean answered.

“Who is it?” Sam queried. 

“A woman named Marie Kessler.”

Back at Bobby’s house, Elijah's phone buzzed in his pocket while Bobby was talking with the boys. The vampire reached into his pocket and fished out his phone to see who was calling him; however, when he looked at the screen, he was unnerved when it said Unknown Number. Despite his suspicion, the Mikaelson Patriarch answered anyway and stepped outside of the house to take the call. 

"Hello?" he said.

"Am I speaking to Elijah Mikaelson?" the voice on the other end asked. 

"That depends on who I'm speaking with," Elijah replied warily. 

"My name is Dante, the Alpha of the Guttierrez Pack in Argentina," the man stated. "My predecessor once told me that you made a deal with our pack and should we ever call on you, you would do us a favor."

Already sensing where this was going, Elijah exhaled deeply, and said, "What do you need of me?" 

"One of our youngest members has recently discovered that some of her original pack members are alive and have reclaimed their territory. She wishes to go back to see if the rumors are true. I ask that you make sure she gets there safely and see if the rumors are true," Dante queried. 

The vampire’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And who is this young Beta looking to reunite with her long-lost pack, if I may ask?” he inquired.

"Her name is Cora Hale," Dante answered.

Elijah felt his breath catch in his throat as his undead heart hammered in his chest. 

Could it be? After all this time?

"How do I know what you say is true?" Elijah replied, struggling to keep the strain of emotion from breaching his voice.

"What reason do I have to lie?" the Alpha retorted. "Listen, the only reason I’m cashing in this favor now for this reason is because I currently don't have enough pack members to send her an escort, and she has already made it clear that she’s going with or without one, and I’d rather she go with one to ensure that she’s safe. The poor girl has gone through enough as it is."

Elijah thought for a moment before closing his eyes and concentrating his effort on hearing Bobby's conversation with Sam and Dean inside.

"Her name is Marie Kessler. She's an old friend of mine and I think she might be in some trouble. You think you boys can find her and keep her safe for a little while?" Bobby said over the phone. 

"Okay, okay, sure. We'll look into it. We just got done with a case anyway. Alright, we'll call you if we find out anything," Dean answered.

Elijah reopened his eyes, sagging his shoulders slightly in relief. They were going to find her. At least that was one less thing to worry about.

"Hello? Elijah?" Dante called out.

"Yes, I'm still here. And yes, I agree to escort your Beta back to her home and figure out if these rumors are true," Elijah responded. "If they are not, I will return her to your pack safely. You have my word."

“Thank you. We'll be awaiting your arrival on the 14th of May,” Dante replied. Then he hung up the phone.

*                              *                             * 

Just as Bobby got off the phone, Elijah walked back into the house, having just ended his own phone call. "Hey, I just got off the phone with the boys. They agreed to track her down and watch her back. They'll call if they get any leads," Bobby informed. 

"Good. Keep me posted," Elijah nodded before finishing the drink that he had left sitting on the counter. "I have to go. Something else has come up. There's an old business deal that I need to handle and I need to get some of my affairs in order before I do. I'll return when I can. And keep me posted on this "Mother of All" dilemma, if things get to be too difficult."

"Sure thing," Bobby remarked. "I'll hold down the fort here and let you know if something changes."

"Thank you, old friend," Elijah smiled softly.

"Don't get all mushy on me now, Mikaelson. You and I both have reputations to uphold," Bobby waved off snarkily even as he smiled to. Elijah conceded Bobby's point with a small gesture before disappearing in a blur of motion.

Chapter Text

GREAT FALLS JUNIOR COLLEGE

PATERSON, NEW JERSEY

It was late at night a few hours after the last night class had ended, and the janitor was making his rounds and cleaning the rooms. He had finally made it to the last science lab on his final round around the school and quickly got to work mopping the floors. But unfortunately, he failed to notice the mannequin representing the muscular system staring at him eerily. 

Just then, he saw drops of red falling onto the floor from where he had previously mopped. It began slowly at first, but soon it became a light trickle as a stinging pain spread across the man’s forehead. He reached up to touch his forehead and was surprised to find that it was wet and warm. When he pulled his hand away, the janitor’s eyes widened and his heart leaped in his chest as he gaped in horror at the sight of his own blood. 

“What the—” he gasped.

A sudden chill swept over the room, and the man’s rapidly increasing breathing materialized right in front of him. The lights flickered erratically as the man whirled around desperately trying to find the culprit of this attack. That's when he saw the chain where the mannequin was SUPPOSED to be hanging from was empty. In an instant, the janitor threw the mop down on the floor and bolted towards the nearest exit. However, he stopped short when he saw the mannequin blocking his escape. “No! Please, no!” the janitor cried, right before the mannequin lunged forward and sliced into his neck with a scalpel, causing blood to splatter everywhere. 

About a week later, Sam and Dean were up in the southern parts of New Jersey trying to recover from their latest hunt before they began their search for Marie Kessler. It was early in the morning and they were currently in a park and Sam was sitting on a bench while his brother got them both something to eat at a nearby food truck.

While he was waiting for Dean, Sam suddenly scrunched up his face as a dull ache reverberated through his skull. He lifted his hands and massaged his temples to try and rub away the pain to avail. 

“How do you feel?” Dean asked, appearing at his brother’s side with bags of food in tow. 

“Like I got hit by a planet,” Sam groaned, taking one of the to-go cups of coffee from his brother. In response, Dean said, “Well, lucky for you, I'm a doctor. I got Joe, grub, and…” He finished by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small vial of pills and showing them to Sam.

“What are they?” Sam inquired.

“Effective,” Dean stated, offering the bottle to his brother. 

Sam eyed the vial warily before shaking his head and saying, “I’m okay. Thank you.” His older brother shrugged and put the vial back in his pocket. “Suit yourself.”

“So how long was I out again?” Sam said, taking a swig of his coffee. “Like I said, two or three minutes. Why, what’d it feel like to you?” Dean replied. Sam huffed airily and frowned. “About a week. Give or take,” Sam answered.

Dean set his coffee down on the table in front of them before taking a seat next to his brother. “You want to talk about it?”

Sam raised his eyebrow suspiciously at Dean. After all, the last time he tried to get Dean to talk about something as emotionally or psychologically damaging as going to Hell, it didn't exactly go well. “It?” Sam remarked, pretending to be confused. 

“Yeah, whatever the hell that was back there,” Dean pressed. “I mean, it was like you were friggin’ electrocuted.”

Sam let his shoulders sag as he stared into Dean’s apprehensive gaze. “Look, I mean, it wasn’t… fun, but I'm-I’m fine.”

”Fine,” Dean scoffed. “It was Hell, wasn't it?” Sam swallowed thickly as he looked away from his brother. 

“It was,” Dean declared. “You got a big fat face-full of Hell. Ever cross your mind that you could have died?”

“Oh, come on,” Sam sighed, rolling his eyes.

“I'm serious. And none of this “it's just a flesh wound” crap,” Dean glared. “Because we did it your way, we let you go explore… and every bad thing that I said would happen, happened. So guess what? Past stays past. We're not kicking that wall again.”

“So, I'm supposed to ignore it?” Sam protested, returning his solemn gaze to his brother. 

“Yes!” Dean asserted. 

“Dean, I might have done… who knows what. And you just want me to forget about it?” Sam questioned. 

“You shove it down and you let it come out… in spurts of violence and alcoholism,” Dean responded. 

“That sounds healthy,” Sam snarked.

“It works for me. This is not a joke,” Dean fired back. “Your life is on the line here, Sam. This is not a debate. I mean, first you were a soulless dickbag, and now you're not. So we good?”

Still feeling the residual pain in his head and now no longer in the mood to debate this with his brother, not that he was to begin with, Sam nodded in agreement. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Dean let out. “Now, what do we got so far on this Kessler lady that Bobby wants us to find?”

“Well, Bobby said the last place he could find her was somewhere in Missouri, but I combed through some of the info he sent over about her including some of her more well-known aliases. I put a few of them into the government databases and none of them checked out except for one that recently popped up in Paterson, New Jersey,” Sam informed his brother. “The paper trail is still fresh only a few days old.”

“Paterson, huh? I think I saw something about Paterson in the paper,” Dean pondered, pulling a rolled-up newspaper out of the inside of his jacket. He opened it up and flipped through it, his eyes flitting over the pages rapidly until he found what he was looking for. “Aha! Here we go,” Dean exclaimed before reading off the article to his brother. “There was a janitor murdered in a college lab a few nights ago. Doors were locked. Nobody else in or out of the building.”

“So you think Marie Kessler went to investigate it?” Sam queried.

“I think she was trying to lay low, like Bobby said, but something was after her and tryin’ to lure her out. Or she was trying to investigate it, or she just so happened to show up around the time that the murder happened. Either way, I think will find the answers we’re looking for if we go see for ourselves,” Dean answered. “And who knows, maybe we might get to gank a monster or two. We might even get a Snooki sighting.”

“What's a Snooki?” Sam asked. 

“I have no idea,” Dean shook his head. “That's a good question.”

Without any more talking, the two men grabbed their food and their drinks and headed back to the Impala, racing off to track down the missing Grimm. And maybe slay a monster while they're at it.

Chapter Text

It was a day later when Sam and Dean arrived in the town and the first thing they did was go to check out the crime scene to see what they were potentially up against before they searched for Marie.

“Check it out,” Dean voiced as he and Sam made it past the yellow police tape and walked towards the mannequin representing the human muscular and organ systems. “These things are friggin’ awesome.” 

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s childishness while Dean chuckled as he pulled out the plastic heart from the mannequin and held it out to Sam. “Be my Valentine?” he joked.

“Dude, we're working. Put it back,” Sam sighed. 

“Aw, come on. Have a heart,” Dean snickered.

“Dean,” Sam said warningly. 

“Buzzkill,” Dean pouted, tossing the fake heart into the air before looking around the room curiously and sniffing the air. “You smell sulfur?”

“Yeah, we're in a science lab,” Sam deadpanned.

“Right,” Dean nodded, as he tossed the heart up one more time before setting it down on the nearby table.

Just then, the chorus of a phone ringing diverted the boys’ attention as Dean fished his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. In an instant, Dean’s bright grin dissolved when he saw the name Lisa pop up on the screen.

“Who is it?” Sam asked from behind him.

Dean remained silent as he rejected the phone call and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

Sam nodded in realization as he said, “So… Lisa.”

Dean let out an exasperated huff as he turned around to face Sam. “Maybe you should mind your own business.”

“What's wrong with just talking to her?” Sam questioned.

You mean other than the fact that you used me as vampire bait, which led to me nearly killing her and Ben? Dean sneered inwardly.

Despite knowing that it wasn't Sam’s fault, the elder Winchester still felt bitter about the whole thing whenever he thought about it. However, instead of voicing his thoughts, he did what he always did.

“Thanks, Dr. Laura, that’s very insightful,” Dean deflected sardonically. “Look at that, our time's up.”

Sam chuckled dryly before looking back down at the EMF when he noticed it was picking up some strange readings on the biology mannequin. The Winchesters frowned as they watched the EMF Spike dramatically in the presence of the mannequin. 

“Ghosts Gone Wild,” Dean quipped, eyeing the dummy suspiciously. “Something’s up in here.”

“Question is, what?” Sam replied. 

Dean turned away from the science prop and searched for any other signs of paranormal activity in the classroom when he looked up at the wall across the room and paused.

“Hey, Sammy, I got good news,” he said, getting his brother’s attention, as he pointed at the camera hanging from the wall. “Big Brother’s watching.”

*                             *                              *

The brothers made their way to the security room in the admin hall of the campus and combed through the footage to find any clues as to what might have killed the janitor. They watched the footage leading up the man’s murder, until the video cut out and cut back on moments later after the man was dead in a pool of his own blood.

Sam and Dean shared a knowing look.

“Well, so much for that,” Dean griped.

*                             *                              *

Later after they left the campus, Sam and Dean split up to find out more information about the case. Sam went to go talk to the victim’s girlfriend while Dean hit up the local library and asked around town.

Neither of them found anything of worth.

Dean was just about to leave the park and head back to his car and go to pick up his brother when he stopped and turned back around to talk to the woman he had spoken with earlier, pulling out his phone as he did. 

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I was wondering if you had seen this woman around town recently,” he queried, showing the woman a picture of Marie Kessler on his phone. “She was one of our informants who tipped us off about the murder case here in town. Her name is Marie, but she may have been going under an assumed name; undercover identity reasons.”

The woman stared at the picture for a moment before her eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, yeah, I know her,” she announced. “Marie van Halen. Yeah, she carted around this old trailer attached to her minivan and she was living in a Motel 10 just down the street from my apartment building. Asked me to use my address for postage since the motel didn't provide it.”

Dean brightened significantly. “Really?” he inquired. “Can you give me the address? I really need to talk to her.”

“Well, actually, she left town about a day or two ago. Said it was urgent,” the woman answered, causing the hunter to deflate. “But she did come by before she left and asked me to hold a package for a guy named Barry? No, Billy.”

Dean blinked in realization. “Bobby?”

The woman snapped her fingers in recognition. “That’s the one! Do you know him?”

“Yeah, he’s our supervisor and he put us in touch with Marie as our contact,” Dean nodded, the half-formed lie falling from his lips with a bit too much eagerness.

However, the woman was none the wiser as she smiled and said, “Well, hey, you can follow me back to my place and I can give you the package. Maybe she left you something to help with the investigation.”

“Thank you so much,” Dean remarked graciously. “You’ve been a big help.”

Then the two of them left the park to head back to her apartment and get whatever package Marie had left for Bobby.

*                              *                              *

Dean was parked outside of the victim’s house staring intently at the seat next to him in the car where he placed the small wrapped package while he waited for Sam to come out. The package, whatever it was, had a small yellow note attached to it and the more Dean re-read it, the more confused he got. 

“A storm’s coming, figured I’d break out the raincoat. Still need to get the others before the Eve of the hurricane. Don’t forget to tell E. You know how much he liked to look at his reflection in the puddles. — Marie”

Obviously, it was a special code between her and Bobby, but since Bobby taught Sam and Dean most of the hunter codes, Dean figured he could at least decipher half of it so that Bobby wouldn't have to. 

But apparently, Marie had other plans, because absolutely none of this shit made any kind of sense to Dean. Whatever the message was, Marie had made sure that the only one who would be able to decipher it was Bobby. 

Or whoever the hell this “E” guy is could do it. Dean thought. 

Too bad he didn't know who that was either.

He was about to pull out his phone and call Bobby to let him know what he found when Sam came out of the house of the victim’s girlfriend.

“Hey,” Dean greeted, moving the package out of the way as Sam opened the car door and slid into the passenger’s seat. “So what’d you find out from the mop jockey’s girlfriend?”

“Nothing. Just how great he was,” Sam huffed. “He went to church. Donated to charity. Rubbed her feet during Glee.” 

Dean cringed and looked away from his brother. “I think I threw up in my mouth.”

“Sorry,” Sam apologized, shaking the horrid image out of his head. “Anyway, uh, I checked his record, spotless. What did you get?”

“Built in ‘05. Nothing weird about the land. Before this whole thing, the biggest mishap was some genius accidentally spilled sulfuric acid on his crotch,” Dean answered, furrowing his eyebrows. “They also don't dissect anything good in there; if it's bigger than Kermit, they use an iPad.”

An audible grumble escaped Sam’s throat as he rolled his eyes. “So we got nothing?”

“On the case? A big steaming pile of it. On Marie?” Dean said knowingly, picking up the package and passing it to Sam.

Sam raised an eyebrow as he took the package from his brother. “What is it?” 

“No clue,” Dean replied with a shrug, before pointing to the small yellow note. “Whatever it is, Marie sure as hell didn't want anyone to understand what it was meant for outside of Bobby.”

Sam looked over the note and frowned in confusion. And the more he re-read the note, the more confused he got.

“The Eve of the hurricane? E? Reflections in the puddles?” Sam scoffed. “Are you sure this isn't a prank? I mean, none of this matches any of the code words that Bobby taught us when we were younger.”

“I know,” Dean agreed. “I was just about to call Bobby to see if he could make any sense of it when you came out of the house.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Sam responded. “Let’s head back to the motel and ask him to help us figure this out.”

Chapter Text

The following days passed in a blur. Sam and Dean called Bobby to inform him about the note left by Marie and the package it was on, resulting in Bobby agreeing to send Elijah over to see what Marie left them. And then a few towns over, another man was found dead in Salzman and Sons’ Clothing and Textiles Factory with a metal rod shoved in his chest.

As the boys searched through the history of the latest victim of the Haunted Mannequin Killing Spree, they struggled to connect the dots between the two victims and their deaths.

“Well, this guy’s as squeaky-clean as the last dead guy,” Dean groused, rubbing his temples. “I can't find nothing on him. You?”

“Nothing,” Sam said, letting out an exhausted sigh, matching his brother’s dour energy, as they both reached the end of their ropes. But before they could call it quits, Sam stumbled across information regarding a missing person’s case from a year and a half ago.

“Hold on,” Sam brightened. “Here’s a speck. A seamstress named Rose Brown went missing over a year ago. The cops just gave up on her. Last seen at the factory, presumed dead… and survived by sister Isabel.”

Dean nodded in approval. “Fifty bucks, vengeful spirit,” he remarked. “Pay sis a visit?”

Just then, Dean’s phone rang, drawing both of their attention. However, when they saw the name on the caller ID, Dean froze. 

“Answer it,” Sam cut in sternly.

Dean was about to protest when he saw the look on his brother’s face. He swiped the answer button and steeled himself for an argument with his ex. 

“Lisa?” Dean said, shifting awkwardly in his seat.

“Finally!” Ben huffed in exasperation. “I’ve been calling.”

“Ben? What are you—” Dean never got a chance to finish his question before Ben cut him off.

“Something’s wrong with Mom,” Ben snapped, looking back towards the top of the stairs in the direction of his mother’s room, his brown eyes flitting nervously trying to search for Lisa.

Dean glanced at Sam before saying, “What are you talking about?”

“It's bad, Dean,” Ben exhaled.

“Define ‘bad’,” Dean questioned from the other end of the phone. 

“I don't know, she won't talk to me,” Ben sniffled.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, put her on the phone.”

“She won't come to the phone,” Ben countered.

“Ben, get your mom and put her on the phone,” Dean insisted. 

“I can't, her door’s locked,” Ben replied. “She barely gets out of bed. I'm not kidding. Please just— just come help me. I don't know what to do.”

Back in the factory, Dean felt his stomach churn as his mind and heart warred against each other.

Finally, he said, “Let me call you back.”

“Dean!” Ben called out.

“Five minutes,” Dean said.

Then he hung up the phone. 

“What’s going on?” Sam asked curiously.

*                             *                              *

Note to self: NEVER share personal drama with Sam!

“Oh, come on, man,” Dean groaned, as he followed Sam out of the factory. “I can't just leave!”

“Dude, you gotta leave,” Sam retorted.

“But we’re talking life or death here,” Dean argued, as they reached the Impala.

Sam chuckled sardonically at his brother’s resistance as he opened the driver’s door. “Yeah, right. I can handle it for 24 hours,” Sam said. “Look, I get you wanna bury it, but I had to deal with my past year… you gotta deal with yours.”

Dean balked at this and narrowed his eyes. “And that worked so great for you.”

Sam clenched his jaw and folded his arms over his chest, as he stared down his brother until Dean got into the car and drove off. 

*                             *                              *

The rest of Sam’s week found him getting a rental car until his brother returned and interviewing Isabel Brown about her sister. 

While interviewing the sister, he learned some interesting things.

“Wait, you work at Salzman and Sons’, too?” Sam inquired, gazing at one of the photos in Isabel’s photo album depicting an office Christmas party.

“Yeah, well… everybody works at the factory,” she replied leaning over the table to look at the photo. “And that's Rose.”

And Rose wasn't the only one in that photo.

When Sam looked over to the top left corner of the picture, he caught sight of two familiar faces.

Later, as he walked out of Isabel’s house and headed back to his car, he dialed Dean’s number and waited for him to answer the phone. 

“Dean. Hey, get this. That college janitor? He worked at the factory too,” Sam informed him. “Until last year. Apparently, quit right after Rose’s disappearance.”

Meanwhile, 20 miles outside Battle Creek, Michigan, Dean was walking back to his car with a cup of coffee in his hand and the phone pressed against his ear.

“So, fair bet something happened to that girl around that factory,” Dean hinted. “Let's call that ground zero.”

“Right, but it still doesn't explain how a ghost ended up in another zip code,” Sam debated.

Dean shrugged, despite knowing his brother couldn't see him. “It's not like she hopped the Blue Line.”

“I'm headed back to the factory now. I’ll call you when I get the whole scoop,” Sam sighed, opening the car door.

“Yeah, and, hey, if I don't get back in time, be sure to let me know when Bobby’s friend gets there,” Dean reminded him. “I wanna know what that message means and what’s in that package.”

Sam nodded and agreed, “You got it.”

Sam spent the better part of a day questioning workers at the factory about any information they had on Rose, but as the day dragged on, he made little headway in the case. Some barely knew her, others didn't even know she worked there. The ones that did, didn't provide anything substantial that he could use to figure this thing out. 

He was down to his last person of interest for the day, and despite his diligence, Sam was about ready to throw in the towel.

“And how long have you been working here?” Sam asked, fighting off the tiredness in his voice.

“About three years now,” Jonny responded.

Sam nodded and wrote down the information, not catching the man fidgeting in the seat across from him. 

“I'm sorry what’s this got to do with me?” he asked, his voice wavering slightly, making Sam perk up.

The hunter studied the man’s behavior, taking in every awkward shift in movement and gesture that he could.

Oh, this guy definitely knows something. He thought.

”Relax. It's just a routine questioning,” Sam smiled gently at Jonny, even as his eyes narrowed in a predatory gaze.

Yeah, he’s definitely guilty of something. Sam pondered.

“Uh, well, did you know Rose Brown?” Sam inquired.

Jonny hesitated, causing alarm bells to go off in Sam’s head. And when he finally decided to answer, whatever his response was fell on deaf ears. All Sam could hear from that point on was a voice in his head going, “Guilty.”

“You seem nervous, Jonny,” Sam stated, noting how the other man tensed up.

“Well, those other guys were my friends,” Jonny huffed shakily. “Of course I'm gonna be upset.”

Sam smirked. “I didn't say upset, I said nervous.”

That seemed to shut down any other excuses Jonny tried to come up with and the two men fell into an uncomfortable silence as Sam studied him intensely.

When he finally let up, Sam pulled out a card with his number on it and gave it to Jonny… in case he “remembered” anything.

“Guilty!” the voice from earlier repeated.

Chapter Text

Dean stood outside Lisa and Ben’s door ringing the doorbell, while trying and failing to calm his nerves.

This was all his fault.

He put Lisa and Ben in a vulnerable position and now she was depressed and Ben was practically by himself and helpless.

He needed to fix this. Somehow.

Even if it meant telling Lisa to forget about him.

However, what he saw when the door finally opened was quite the opposite of what he expected to see.

It was Lisa. 

And she was fine.

“Dean, what are you doing here?” Lisa asked in shock.

Dean gave her a quick once-over— he was checking for injuries or deformities and definitely not taking in how beautiful she looked in that black dress that she had worn on their first date after he moved in with them— and frowned in puzzlement.

“Well, you look absolutely fine,” Dean said.

Lisa narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What's going on?” 

Dean saw the confusion etched in her features, and, coupled with her dressy appearance and Ben’s noticeable absence, managed to put two and two together.

“We’ve been Parent Trap’d,” Dean chuckled wryly. “Ben sent out a 9-1-1.”

Smart-ass kid. Dean mused.

“Why would he do that?” Lisa questioned, still not getting it.

Dean once again took in her appearance and his expression softened. “Let me guess: date night?”

The realization hit her like a volcanic eruption, causing her to let out a resigned exhale as she gestured for him to enter the house.

She lead him into the kitchen and grabbed him a beer, without looking at him as she awkwardly stepped out of the kitchen and paced in front of the kitchen island while he watched her cautiously.

When it became apparent that she wasn't going to speak first, Dean Winchester did what he does best: put his fucking foot in his mouth.

“So who’s the guy?” Dean quipped bitterly.

She paused mid-pace and glared at him.

Well, at least it worked. She's paying attention to me. He thought.

“Who’s the guy?” she repeated sardonically, shaking her head. Nevertheless, she answered his question. “His name is Matt. He's a doctor.”

“Oh, Dr. Matt,” Dean snorted dryly. “How respectable.”

“Don’t do that,” Lisa admonished. “Is this really how we’re gonna do this? I called you six times, Dean.”

“And I almost called you a hundred,” Dean replied, his voice seeping into a growl.

“Good to know,” Lisa snarked turning away again.

“Lisa, Ben called me, and I dropped everything to come see if you guys were okay,” Dean explained. “So if this is some test to see if I care—”

Lisa quickly whirled back around, seething in frustration. “It doesn't change anything.”

“Then what do you want from me?” Dean sighed throwing his hands up in the air.

“I'm not asking you for anything,” she responded haughtily.

“Then, damn it, ask for something!” Dean snarled, raising his voice.

Just then, Ben slowly crept into the kitchen, drawing the warring adults’ attention.

“Um…” he started.

“Go to your room,” they said in unison.

Ben quickly scurried back out of the kitchen and rushed back upstairs, leaving the adults in silence.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and took a sharp breath through his nostrils. This was not what he was expecting to face when he got here. Hell, this wasn't something he was used to dealing with at all.

He didn't know how to be in a stable relationship. He didn't know how to raise a kid.

Hell, he barely knew what it meant to have a family.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't realize Lisa was sitting next to him until he felt her hand gingerly brush over his shoulder and heard her call out his name.

Hesitantly, he looked up and tilted his head in her direction. “Lis, I—” 

“I can't ask you for anything,” she started shakily. “I know what I want, but I can't have it, not the way you live.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off with a raised hand, before continuing to say, “Every time I hear the phone ring, I think, tiny chance it's you. Big chance it's Sam calling to tell me you're dead.”

“Lisa—” 

“No, don't,” she stated. “Don't apologize or anything. It's just… I get to this place where I’m okay and then you show up at our door. You keep doing that. Every time I think I won’t see you again. I am trying to get over you. What are you trying to do? What do you want from us, Dean?” 

To be the man you deserve.

A man that you can love and be proud of.

A man that your son could look up to.

A man that can break the endless cycle of pain and maybe have some fucking peace in his life!

Dean remained silent despite the voice in his head hammering against his skull screaming at him to tell her the truth.

I love you. He wanted to say. I love Ben and I want to be a father to him. Even if I don't know how.

Sam continued on his investigation and went back to the factory later that night, knowing that Jonny was going to be the next victim.

And he saved him just in the nick of time.

Sam pulled him into an empty room in the factory after finding one WITHOUT mannequins, and salted the windows and doors, ignoring all of Jonny’s frantic questions. 

When that was done, Sam finally turned to look at Jonny and said, “That was a ghost trying to kill you for being a dick.”

“What?” Jonny floundered.

“And you know what?” Sam continued, as though Jonny never even spoke. “You’re lucky you are the most suspicious interviewer of all time. I figured something like this would happen.”

“Figured something like what would happen?” Jonny cried.

“Buddy, I don't have time for the big speech,” Sam swore, sending the other man a withering glare that sent a shiver rolling down his spine. “So brass tacks: Rose is back. Now either you cut the bullshit and tell me what the fuck you and those other guys did to her. Or else, I might start having second thoughts about saving you.”

Jonny gulped audibly and wrung his hands while Sam stared him down. 

Finally, he caved in and took a seat in a nearby chair.

“It was just a stupid joke. You played jokes before, right? We didn't think it was that serious,” Jonny stammered. 

Sam let out a huff and sat down across from him. “What did you do?”

“We made Rose think she had a secret admirer,” Jonny revealed. “She was always kind of shy and soft-spoken. She didn't really have any friends at the factory. I don't think the girl had ever been asked out in her life.”

“So you did what?” Sam pressed.

“We started leaving her gifts in her locker, and eventually a note asking for her to meet with her crush. Honestly, it was kind of pathetic,” Jonny exhaled. “We knew she would take the bait. But then, once she did, things started to go wrong. It was mean, but you know how it is— a group of guys get together and suddenly they turn into a bunch of jackasses. It was a prank, but we never tried to kill her. It all happened so fast.”

Sam closed his eyes and lowered his head as his mind began to fill in the blanks of what happened. 

“Steve put the fear of God into all of us. Said there was only one option,” Jonny sniffled, wiping the tears brimming in his eyes. “I wish I could take it all back.”

Sam scoffed, “I'm sure you do.”

“I didn't kill her,” Jonny protested.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me none of this is on you,” Sam demanded rhetorically.

The room was plunged into heavy silence as Jonny was forced to confront his actions and lowered his head in shame.

“Look, I— I’m not my brother,” Sam said.

You're worse. A voice in his head reprimanded.

“I don't believe you deserve to die,” Sam continued, ignoring the voice in his head.

Liar! You want to kill him yourself. The voice countered swiftly.

“I can help you,” Sam pushed on. 

But should you? The voice queried.

Sam resisted the urge to shake his head and clenched his teeth as he said, “Tell me where the body is buried.”

“In the woods, up Canyon Run Road,” Jonny answered.

Sam moved to get up and Jonny followed his lead, however Sam stopped him in his tracks.

“You stay here until I say you're safe,” Sam ordered.

No, let him come. I hope he gets himself killed. The voice urged.

“You just want me to stand here all night?” Jonny whined.

Sam sneered at the shorter man.

I want you dead! Sam growled internally.

Aloud, he said, “Consider it getting off easy.”

Back at Lisa and Ben’s house, Dean’s conversation with Lisa led nowhere and it was only a matter of time before “Dr. Matt M.D.” showed up for date night. So Dean decided to stop wasting everyone’s time and went upstairs to check on Ben. 

They talked. Ben almost cried… several times.

He begged Dean not to leave, to stay. To be a part of their family. 

To be the father he always wanted.

Dean sat there staring at Ben, his green eyes welling up with tears as a phantom pain pushed against his ribcage. He opened his mouth to speak and as soon as the words began to flow out of his lips, he knew there would be no turning back. 

“Just because you love someone… doesn't mean you should stick around and screw up their life. I can't be here with you and your mom,” Dean said, his voice wavering slightly toward the end. 

“So what, you think something will follow you home?” Ben asked, calming down albeit slightly. 

Something already did follow me home. Dean thought darkly. 

Instead, he let out a short huff and said, “No. But I think my job turns me into someone who can't sit at your dinner table. And if I stayed, you’d end up just like me.”

Ben furrowed his brow and shot up off his bed and stood in front of Dean. “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“Trust me, kiddo, I am not someone that you wanna emulate,” Dean reasoned.

Ben’s expression softened as his let his shoulders sag. “Don't I get a vote?” he asked.

“No,” Dean replied. 

He spent the next handful of minutes trying to explain to Ben why turning out like him was not a good thing and why having a normal life was. But in the end, all he did was hurt them both.

“You're a liar, Dean!” Ben snapped.

Dean blinked and leaned back in shock.

“Excuse me?”

“You say you care so much about family,” Ben started. “But what do you call people who love you and care about you even when you're a jerk? You're walking out on your family, you know that?”

Chapter Text

A Day Later…

Jonny was dead.

It didn't work.

Salting and burning the bones didn't work. 

Which obviously meant something else was keeping Rose tethered to the mortal realm.

“I'm heading to the sister's now,” Sam said after explaining everything to Dean. “Call me back.”

*                              *                              *

“And you're sure this is it?” Sam asked, looking in the box of Rose’s effects.

“Yes,” Isabel replied. “I gave most of her clothes to the Goodwill. She didn't have much.”

Sam nodded in understanding as he looked around in the box once more, before catching a glimpse of a couple of chemistry textbooks stacked on the table out of the corner of his eye. 

Chemistry.

Wait a second.

“Are these yours?” Sam inquired, pointing at the books.

”Yeah,” she answered.

“Are you in school?” Sam pressed.

She nodded in affirmation.

“Where?” Sam continued.

“Uh, Great Falls,” she replied.

Oh, God.

“So, let me guess,” Sam began. “You were at the chem lab and the factory this week.”

“Well, yeah,” she responded.

“Did you happen to stop by a bar called McOwen’s last night?” Sam queried.

Isabel frowned. “Everybody from the factory goes there. I stop in maybe three times a week. Why?”

That was it.

That was the connection. 

Somehow, Rose had attached herself to her sister.

And when he asked Isabel what she had of Rose’s, the answer was far from what he could have imagined, least of all what he was hoping for.

“When I was 16, she gave me one of her kidneys,” Isabel said.

Fuck.

That was…

Fuck!

“You’re kidding,” Sam groaned under his breath.

“Will you please tell me what this is about?” Isabel inquired.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna need you to come with me,” Sam nodded.

It was almost midnight by the time Dean made it back in town at the factory where Sam had told him to meet. 

Sam was standing outside leaning against the hood of his rental and perked up as he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine. 

Once Dean stepped out, Sam walked up to meet him halfway. 

“So is that the girl with the haunted kidney?” Dean remarked, looking behind Sam to peer at Isabel in the car.

“Yeah,” Sam huffed.

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all,” Dean chuckled dryly. “What do you wanna do? We can't exactly burn it, she kind of needs it.”

“Well, we can’t let her walk around with it either,” Sam argued. “The spirit is attached, and if my count is correct, there’s still one more guy that Rose needs to bump off before she gets her full payback.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

As though his life wasn't already complicated enough, now he has to deal with this shit.

“So what? We cut it out of her?” Dean sneered, not liking where this conversation was heading.

“And then what? Leave her in a bathtub of ice with a phone taped to her hand?” Sam scoffed.

“What about Dr. Roberts?” Dean suggested hopefully. “Maybe he's got a lead on some non-haunted black market replacement kidneys.”

“He works out of a butcher shop,” Sam countered.

“It's clean, you'd be surprised,” Dean reasoned. “Besides I don't hear you coming up with any bright ideas.”

“Hoodoo, maybe?” Sam shrugged.

Dean’s eyes nearly exploded out of his skull. “HOODOO?” he gawked. “That's more of a Band-Aid than a cure.”

“It buys us a minute,” Sam explained.

“Fine. Louisiana it is,” Dean grumbled.

Just then, their conversation was interrupted by Isabel who had gotten tired of sitting in the passenger seat of Sam’s car and approached them.

“Voodoo? What the hell are you talking about?” Isabel questioned.

Dean began to awkwardly explain the difference between Hoodoo and Voodoo when Dean’s car suddenly roared to life of its own accord. 

“Oh, hell no! She possesses sex dolls. This is not a sex doll!” Dean yelled as the engine revved louder. “You leave my baby out of this!”

Then the ghost-possessed car barreled towards them causing them to scatter in different directions. Dean led the car away from the others before stopping in front of a large window pane.

“I'm so sorry, Baby,” Dean said. Then he jumped out of the way seconds before the car crashed through the building, causing glass to fly everywhere.

Thankfully, neither he nor Sam were injured. However, the same could not be said for Isabel who had a large shard of glass protruding from her lower abdomen.

The boys were at her side in an instant as she collapsed to the ground, coughing up blood as she went. Then the ghost of her sister appeared before them flickering in and out of vision, as her tether to the human world faded. 

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean for this.”

Then she burst into flames and disappeared. 

“Isabel, we need you to hold on,” Sam encouraged softly. “Dean, call an ambulance.”

“Sam,” Dean started somberly.

“Move out of the way,” a new voice said, startling the boys as they witnessed an impeccably dressed gentleman approach them.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean interrogated shifting to hover over his brother and the dying girl protectively.

“Someone who can save the girl if you move out of the way,” the mysterious man said.

However, that did nothing to ease Dean’s suspicion. 

“And how are you gonna do that?” he asked.

The man quirked his lips upward. “Well, it would be better if I showed you,” he replied, crouching low to the ground, without dirtying up his suit, and removing the shard of glass from Isabel’s stomach. 

He then opened his mouth and bit into his wrist before lifting Isabel’s head slightly and placing his bloody wrist against her mouth forcing her to drink.

And all too late did Dean realize who he and his brother were dealing with. Or rather what they were dealing with.

“He’s a freaking vampire!” Dean yelled, setting Sam into fight or flight mode.

“Yes, I am,” the vampire said calmly. “And if you try to attack me before I finish healing her, the girl is as good as dead.”

“So letting you turn her is the better option?” Dean replied sardonically, wishing that he had his machete on him.

“I'm not that kind of vampire. In order to turn her I would need to kill her while she has my blood in her system,” the vampire exhaled, rolling his eyes slightly as he took his wrist away from the girl’s mouth and helped her to her feet. “Good Lord, I thought you two were Robert’s boys. Didn't he teach you both better than this?”

Sam and Dean shared a surprised look before turning back to the vampire. 

“Robert? As in Robert Singer?” Sam inquired.

“Yes, Samuel, the very same,” the vampire answered. “Now give me a second to clean up your mess and I will be happy to answer all of your questions.”

He then faced Isabel and whispered something to her and the brothers watched as she went into a sort of trance-like state before turning and walking away from the three men.

“Isabel?” Sam called out as he started after her.

However, Isabel ignored him and kept walking away toward the bus stop nearby.

“Isabel?” Sam yelled again.

“She won't respond,” the man cut in. 

“Why the hell not?” Sam snarled, whirling around to glare at the vampire.

“Because I compelled her to forget everything that happened in the last few days and sent her home,” the vampire said nonchalantly.

In an instant, the vampire bolted out of the way as Dean grabbed a nearby plank of wood and swung it at his head.

Sam and Dean looked around frantically, both of them drawing their guns, knowing they would be no use against a bloodsucker, but still not wanting to be completely defenseless.

“Did you see where he went?” Dean whispered. 

“No,” Sam shook his head. “I don't think I’ve ever seen a vampire move that fast before.”

“That's because I’m not the typical vampire that you boys are used to hunting,” the vampire drawled slowly as though speak to a small child. 

Without hesitating, the brothers fired their guns at the vampire who once again blitzed out of the way in a blur of wind and shadow. Then he suddenly reappeared right in front of them and snatched their guns out of their hands, dropping them on the ground before grabbing them up by their necks.

“Now, Robert sent me here because he said you had a message from Marie. I would much rather talk this out like adults instead of being forced to kill you and then explain to my friend why I had to murder his sons,” the vampire sighed, giving the brothers the most unimpressed look he could muster (the one he usually saved for Niklaus). “If I let you go, will you two behave?” 

The Winchesters nodded frantically as black spots began to cloud their vision.

Before everything faded to black, they felt the vampire loosen his grip on their necks and they both collapsed to the ground gasping and wheezing for air.

“You— son of a… a bitch!” Dean heaved, massaging his throat.

“That would be an insult… if I didn't hate my mother,” the man replied coolly. “Now, shall we reconvene at your motel room, or would you be more comfortable meeting me back at Robert’s junkyard?”

“Wh-Who… are you?” Sam wheezed.

“My name is Elijah Mikaelson,” the vampire declared. “I'm the one who asked Robert to get you to look into Marie Kessler’s disappearance.”

Chapter Text

“That would be an insult… if I didn't hate my mother,” the man replied coolly. “Now, shall we reconvene at your motel room, or would you be more comfortable meeting me back at Robert’s junkyard?”

“Wh-Who… are you?” Sam wheezed.

“My name is Elijah Mikaelson,” the vampire declared. “I'm the one who asked Robert to get you to look into Marie Kessler’s disappearance.”

Sam and Dean stood there trying to process what they just heard.

Bobby was friends with a vampire?

More importantly Bobby had them running an ERRAND for a vampire?

“Okay, let’s say we believe you, which… I’m not sure we do yet, why would Bobby agree to help you track down another hunter?” Sam stammered. 

“Because she is an old friend of ours and she’s being hunted by some very powerful and very dangerous supernatural creatures,” Elijah answered, straightening out his cufflinks as they moved away from the shattered glass. “If you would like to call Robert and verify this information, I have no problem with that, and I will be happy to answer any and all questions you may have in order to speed this process along. Now, again I’ll ask where would you like to meet, since I presume you would prefer to be in a more secure place.”

Before either of the brothers could speak, both of their stomachs growled ravenously.

“Well, I guess there’s my answer,” Elijah smirked, turning to walk away from the boys. “Come on, boys, let’s get you fed. God knows Robert will stake me if I don't make sure you’ve had a proper meal. And, truth be told, I could use a midnight snack.”

“Not on us!” Dean called out.

Elijah lowered his head in exasperation.

This was going to be a long night.

After their spat in the parking lot, the boys and Elijah left the factory and headed to a Denny’s located a few blocks away from the McOwens bar. Once they sat down in the booth and placed their orders, Sam and Dean harassed the 1,035-year-old vampire with several questions ranging from how he knew Bobby to what kind of vampire he was. Ultimately, to stave off the oncoming headache rising in the back of his skull, Elijah exhaled deeply and explained the basics of his origins, vaguely describing certain parts, like his weaknesses. 

He may trust Robert with his life, but the Winchesters were still unknown factors. Plus they just found out that the world of the Supernatural is a hell of a lot grander than they thought it was. 

Wait until they find out about all the other types of creatures that go bump in the night. He mused to himself.

Sam would probably have a hernia if he ever saw a Hexenbiest.

And if Dean ever discovered that there was a THIRD species of vampire, arguably stronger than Elijah’s… well, that actually might be entertaining to see.

Maybe at some point I should introduce the boys to my informant. He thought with a smirk, picturing the little devil on his shoulder egging him on.

“So let me get this straight,” Dean started, rubbing his temples, unnerved by the smirk the vampire in front of him was wearing. “You are one of five Original Vampires from the Viking era—”

“Technically six if you count my father, but yes,” Elijah cut off, regaining his mantle of stuffiness. 

“And you guys are not the kind of vampires that are descended from the Alpha Vampire, but your own separate species with your own superpowers and special abilities that make you different from the ones we’re used to hunting,” Sam continued.

“Basically,” Elijah nodded. 

“And as of now, the only Originals left alive are you, your sister, and your half-brother who is also a werewolf,” Dean summarized.

“That is correct,” Elijah affirmed, clapping his hands together with a sharp exhale. “Now, tell me about this package Marie left you. What was it?” 

Dean reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small unopened package and the note that came with it, while saying, “We didn't get a chance to open it, because we were caught up in trying to figure out the note and the case, but here you go.”

Dean slid the items across the table toward Elijah, who promptly picked up the note and read it to himself.

“A storm’s coming, figured I’d break out the raincoat. Still need to get the others before the Eve of the hurricane. Don’t forget to tell E. You know how much he liked to look at his reflection in the puddles. — Marie”

The table was silent for several moments as Elijah re-read the note, knitting his eyebrows together each time he did, muttering the words raincoat, reflection, and puddles, while the Winchesters watched him expectantly. Then he set the note down and quickly tore open the package revealing a small wooden box. As he opened the lid, he noted the intricate markings and engravings on the lid and around the sides.

The same markings as the Sanskrit text from Bobby’s grimoire, or something else, he couldn't remember.

“Well,” Sam started. “What's in the box?”

“It's a sheath,” Elijah replied simply, still looking at the contents in the box.

Dean arched his eyebrow. “Please tell me you mean a sheath for a dagger?” 

Elijah raised his head and shot Dean an unimpressed scowl before removing the metal sheath from the box. “Seriously?”

“Hey, you kept muttering about a damn raincoat,” Dean shrugged defensively.

Ignoring the hunter’s remark, Elijah placed the relic back inside the box along with the note, and rose to his feet. 

“Whoa, where are you going?” Sam inquired.

“Out,” Elijah answered.

“Out?” Dean queried, furrowing his eyebrows. “Out where? We didn’t even get any answers.” 

Elijah raised a single dark eyebrow. “We just played 20 Questions and that's the story you're going with?”

Dean leaning forward over the table with his forearms. “Well, we’re fucking hungry, too,” he argued. “We haven’t even eaten yet. It's already been paid for.”

“Not by you,” Elijah countered smoothly, tapping his fingers against the backrest of the booth.

“Well, can we at least get it to-go?” Dean begged. “They’re already cooking it.”

Elijah sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Get your food while I go outside to call Robert.”

“Alright,” Dean nodded.

Without another word, Elijah turned around and walked towards the exit, pulling out his phone.

Once the restaurant door closed behind him, Sam turned to Dean and said, “So… are we sure this is the right guy?”

Chapter Text

A few days later, Bobby and Elijah were sitting next to each other on the front porch in the middle of the day, nursing a beer and a glass of whiskey respectively while they waited for the Winchesters.

It had been a few hours and Bobby was starting to get worried.

“You know, not that I don’t enjoy your company, but didn't you and the boys come here together?” Bobby asked.

“Yes, we did,” Elijah said, taking a swig of his drink.

“Then where are they?” Bobby replied.

Elijah turned his head in Bobby’s direction and smirked, “They didn't want to lead me to you, if I wasn't who I said I was. So, I took the lead and told them to keep up.”

Bobby paused for a moment, before the realization dawned on him. “You used the shortcut?” 

“Indeed,” the vampire nodded.

“And you didn't bother to tell them?” Bobby griped.

“Well, how was I supposed to know they didn't know about the shortcut,” Elijah retorted. “They’re your boys.”

Bobby opened his mouth to say something when they heard the familiar rumble of the Impala as it pulled into the lot.

“Oh, look! There they are!” Elijah called out impishly.

Bobby grumbled under his breath as he set his beer down next to his chair before standing up just as the brothers got out of the Impala. 

“Bobby, are you okay?” Dean shouted as he and Sam darted towards the porch.

“Ah, gentlemen!” Elijah greeted with a smile. “So glad you could join us.” 

Dean leaned to the side to look past Bobby at the vampire who was still lounging in his chair and snarled. “You!” he snapped. “You ditched us.”

“No, I told you to keep up,” Elijah quipped. “You couldn't.”

“You were right in front of us and then you made a wrong turn,” Sam pointed out.

“No, boys, he just took the shortcut he always takes,” Bobby chuckled.

“There’s a shortcut?” the boys gaped in unison.

“Yes,” Elijah confirmed, finally standing up and walking towards the others. “Robert told me about it during the earlier years of our relationship.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “You always make it weird between us when you say that,” he grumbled.

Elijah clapped Bobby’s shoulder and chuckled softly. “But that's half the fun.”

Sam and Dean watched the scene before them in disbelief, their mouths hanging slightly open. 

“Okay, this is weird now!” Dean lamented. “I don't know what kind of demon you are but you better get the hell out of Bobby. Now.”

“Wha—” Bobby sputtered. “Dean, I’m not possessed.”

“Sam, get the salt. Just get out of him now!” Dean said, still not believing. 

Elijah arched his eyebrow curiously. “You have a strange obsession with penetration as of late,” he pondered, thinking back to their early conversation at the diner.

*                              *                              *

A short while later, Dean had just finished tuning up the Impala when Sam came outside holding a couple of beers.

“How is she?” Sam asked, handing his brother one of the opened bottles.

Dean took the beer from his brother, his hand tingling slightly from the coolness of the glass, and brought the bottle to his lips. 

“Well, considering she got carjacked by a poltergeist… could be worse,” Dean grouched. “What exactly did we do back there, Sam?”

Sam sighed and gave an awkward shrug. “Yeah, I almost didn't put it in the win column either,” he agreed. 

“We saved a few dicks and almost got an innocent girl killed,” Dean said with a frown. “I'm actually kinda glad Elijah showed up when he did. This could have had a whole different ending.”

“Guess it pays to have a vampire as your father figure’s best friend,” Sam huffed.

Dean snorted and shook his head. “I still can’t believe Bobby never told us that he was friends with a vampire.”

“I can't believe he never told us that there was more than one type of vampire,” Sam added. 

“Strange world we’re living in now,” Dean pondered. “Speaking of… how’s it going in there?”

“They’re both still huddled together over that package Marie left,” Sam answered.

“Oh, yeah? How far have they gotten?” Dean queried.

“It didn't look like they got very far, but they almost got dinner ready,” Sam responded, quirking his lips upward when he saw the scowl lift somewhat from his brother’s face.

Dean barely waited for the others before he dug into his plate, as the others sat down at the table, groaning in delight as he devoured his food.

“Damn, Bobby. You really outdid yourself this time,” Dean praised, his words half-distorted by the food in his mouth.

Bobby grinned knowingly as he looked at Dean before turning to Elijah and saying, “Thank you for making dinner, Elijah.”

Dean nearly choked on his food, causing Sam to snicker under his breath.

“Yeah… uh, what he said,” Dean croaked. “So where are we with the whole secret message and magic raincoat?”

“Well, we managed to figure out that the Eve of the hurricane phrase was referring to the Mother of All,” Elijah said.

“Eve? As in Adam and Eve?” Sam balked. 

Elijah nodded in affirmation. “The very same.”

Dean swore under his breath in amazement. “Well, at least we know what we’re up against now,” he said. “Or rather who.”

“Well, that still doesn't help us if we don't know where to find her, least of all where to find the dagger that goes to the Sheath that's meant to kill her,” Bobby huffed.

Just then, Elijah stood up from his chair, startling the others at the table as his eyes went wide in realization. 

“Jesus, Elijah,” Dean muttered. “What the hell?”

Ignoring the younger man, Elijah turned to look at Bobby and said, “That’s what she meant when she said I love to stare at my reflection in the puddles.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam questioned.

“Robert, do you remember where I put the Mirror?” Elijah asked urgently.

Bobby knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. “Which mirror?” 

“The one that hides my… valuables,” Elijah replied pointedly.

The second those words left his mouth, Bobby popped up from his chair and practically jogged to the other end of the house where he had his books stacked up on his desk. He muttered to himself as he sorted through each of them until he finally let out a triumphant “a-ha” and held up a brown leather bound book with a red ribbon poking out from the top from where it was bookmarking the center page. 

“Now let’s see,” Bobby grumbled, flipping the book open to the bookmarked page, before reading the passage aloud. “Follow the currents west to the Sunset Coast. Head north into the forest where the roots are strongest and you’ll find what you seek at the Hale and hearty Oak.”

“Beacon Hills?” Elijah inquired.

“Beacon Hills,” Bobby echoed with a nod, closing the book again.

Now Sam and Dean got up from their seats as the older men flitted around the house rambling about needing to pack and potentially call someone known as “the Alpha.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean started. “First, what is this mirror that you guys are talking about and what does it have to do with what Marie said? Second, what the hell is a Beacon Hill?”

“Beacon Hills is a town that’s essentially run by Werewolves and Shifters; not werewolves and shifters as you know them,” Elijah explained, before they could ask more questions. “These werewolves have special abilities that separate them from the ones you hunt, and they don't feed on hearts which is why you never ran into one. As for the shifters, they are descended from these werewolves but take the form of other animals instead.”

“And you're saying there is an entire town crawling with these things?” Dean gaped, not believing what he was hearing.

The vampire narrowed his eyes and stalked toward the hunter. “Take care how you speak,” Elijah warned. “Not all monsters do monstrous things, and many of these people live normal everyday lives and are upstanding members of society. There are still those who break the laws and harm humans, and those that do are dealt with, swiftly and effectively.”

“And how do you know that?” Sam queried stepping towards his brother protectively, even though he doubted he’d be able to do anything against the 1,000-year-old vampire.

“Because if they weren't, you would have already known about them,” Bobby chimed in, stepping in between Elijah and the Winchesters. “Now, Elijah and I are gonna be gone for a few days, no more than a week-and-a-half. You two stay here dig up all you can on that Sheath and Eve, you hear me?”

Dean stepped back and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright,” Bobby sighed, looking to his friend. “I'm gonna pack a bag real fast and then we can leave.”

“I’ll fix your food up for the road,” Elijah remarked with a small smile.

“Eli,” Bobby grouched in exasperation.

“You’re not eating healthy enough, and I refuse to stop at any of those fast food restaurants so you can gorge yourself to an early grave,” Elijah declared. “Think of the children, Robert!”

Bobby rolled his eyes as he turned to head upstairs. “I don't ever remember us signing a marriage certificate, jackass!” 

Sam and Dean all but gasped at how crudely Bobby was addressing the vampire, expecting Elijah to lash out. However, instead, the Original tutted haughtily and shook his head, throwing them even more off guard.

“You wish I had walked down the aisle with you,” Elijah called after Bobby.

Then he walked past the brothers and went into the kitchen to pack up Bobby’s food.

“Sammy, this is officially the weirdest thing that I have ever seen,” Dean muttered.

“You’re telling me,” Sam snorted. “What's next, we get transported to an alternate reality?”

*                             *                              *

A FEW DAYS LATER…

“That's all the time we have gentlemen,” Balthazar said, just as he finished painting the symbol on the window and pulled a storage locker key out of his blazer pocket and handed it to Sam.

“What do I do with this?” Sam asked.

“Run with it!” Balthazar ordered.

Seconds later, one of Raphael’s cronies burst into the house and knocked Balthazar to the ground before charging at the Winchesters. 

However, before he could get to them, Balthazar used his powers to push Sam and Dean through the window and into a whole different reality.

And the rest, as you know it, is history.

Or is it?

Chapter Text

The wind howled outside as thunder boomed in the distance. The hammering of rain on the windows kept distracting Dean from the books he was supposed to be concentrating on. He rubbed his eyes, grumbling to himself, just as Sam walked in carrying five more books in his arms. 

“How do you think they’re getting along?” Sam asked, setting the books down on the table.

Dean looked up at his brother with a conspiratorial smirk. “Did you see the way Elijah looked at Bobby’s truck? What do you think?”

Sam quirked his lips upward knowingly. “Yeah, I bet he did that as payback for not letting him eat any fast food on the way there.”

Dean chuckled at his brother’s remark. “Yeah, well, at least we’ve got all the junk food we like and we got some hunter’s helper to wash it all down,” he said, grabbing the nearby bottle of whiskey and chugging it down.

Just then, there was a flash of lightning outside that rattled the foundations of the house followed by an ethereal whoosh. 

“Hello, boys,” came the posh and arrogant voice of Balthazar, as he appeared in front of the hunters, startling them. 

Dean jumped up from his seat behind Bobby’s desk while Sam inched closer to his brother, as the angel quickly darted around the living room of Bobby’s house grabbing random ingredients from the shelves.

“You ever seen The Godfather?” the angel inquired frantically.

“Balthazar?” Dean groaned, as a feeling of dread sunk into his gut.

“You know the scene at the end,” Balthazar continued, ignoring Dean’s question as he grabbed a bowl from the kitchen and began mixing the ingredients. “When Michael Corleone sends his men to kill his enemies in one bloody swoop.” 

“Hey, dude!” Dean called out trying to get Balthazar’s attention, as the angel picked up a box of salt from the shelf behind Dean. 

“Dead Sea brine! Good, good, good,” Balthazar exclaimed in relief, before shaking the box over the bowl vigorously. “Then Moe Greene gets it in the eye. Don Cuneo gets it in the revolving door.”

“I said, hey,” Dean snapped.

Balthazar stopped what he was doing and sneered at the Winchester patriarch. “Yes, you did. Twice,” he snarked, patting the top of Dean’s head like he was a dog. “Good for you. Now, blood of lamb. Blood of lamb. Where is that blasted…” the angel trailed off before he disappeared with a flap of his wings before re-appearing in the kitchen next to the refrigerator.

He opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a jar of lamb’s blood before teleporting back over to the table where he had left the bowl and emptied the whole jar into it. 

“Why you talking about The Godfather?” Sam asked, watching him stir up the odd mixture of ingredients.

“Because we’re in it. Right now. Tonight!” Balthazar declared. “And in the role of Michael Corleone: the archangel Raphael.”

“You mind telling us what you mean?” Dean interrogated, even as he suspected what the angel was saying.

Balthazar let out a frustrated sigh, as he set the jar down. “We’re missing something,” he announced.

In a whirlwind of frustration, Balthazar tore apart the desk drawers until he found the last ingredient that he needed for whatever the hell he was making. 

“The bone of a lesser saint,” he grinned, crushing the bone in the palm of his hand and sprinkling it generously over the bloody concoction. “This vertebra will do quite nicely. Your Mr. Singer does keep a beautiful pantry.”

“So Raphael is after you?” Dean questioned.

“Raphael is after us all,” Balthazar corrected. “He’s consolidated his strength and now he's on the move.”

“And where’s Cass?” Sam queried.

“Oh, Cassie’s gone deep, deep underground,” Balthazar answered, picking up the bowl as he walked toward the window, once again stirring the paste together with his fingers. “So good old Raphie put out a hit list on every last Samaritan who helped our dear Cass, including you two and, especially, me!”

Dean’s frown twisted into a look of fear. “Oh, God! Bobby,” he realized.

“Don't worry about him. He’s my next stop,” the angel cut in, scooping the bloody paste onto his fingers and painting it onto the window. “I just need to get the two of you out of here first.”

“And you expect us to just believe you?” Sam scoffed.

“Oh, don’t,” Balthazar snorted as he continued painting the symbol. “You’ll go where I throw you either way.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean demanded.

Just then, another earth-shattering thunderbolt flashed in the sky startling Balthazar.

“That's all the time we have gentlemen,” Balthazar said, just as he finished painting the symbol on the window and pulled a storage locker key out of his blazer pocket, before handing it to Sam.

“What do I do with this?” Sam asked.

“Run with it!” Balthazar ordered.

Seconds later, one of Raphael’s cronies burst into the house and knocked Balthazar to the ground before charging at the Winchesters. 

However, before he could get to them, Balthazar used his powers to push Sam and Dean through the window and into a whole different reality.

Chapter Text

Sam and Dean groaned as they crashed through the window and landed on solid pavement.

They had been sucked back into their world by Raphael. 

“You two have the strangest luck,” Raphael sneered, as he stalked towards them.

The brothers scrambled to their feet as they took in the visage of the dark-skinned woman approaching them. 

“Raphael?” Sam questioned clutching onto the key protectively.

“Nice meat suit,” Dean snarked, before whispering to his brother out of the corner of his lips. “Dude looks like a lady.”

In an instant, Sam and Dean doubled over in agony and coughed up their own blood, as Raphael clenched his fist. “Give me the key.”

Sam cried out in pain, instinctively releasing the key from his grasp, clutching his stomach.

Raphael used his telekinesis to take the keys and smiled.

“And that will open you a locker at the Albany bus station,” Balthazar suddenly voiced from nowhere.

The trio quickly turned their heads in the direction of his voice as he suddenly appeared from the shadows. 

“Is that so?” Raphael said, releasing the Winchesters from his death grip.

“Well, of course,” he smirked. “After all, I needed a sizeable decoy to make it more convincing.”

“Give me the weapons, little brother,” Raphael demanded.

“Sorry, darling. They’re gone,” Balthazar replied.

“What?” the archangel snarled, eyes flaring blue as his fingertips sparked with electricity.

“You see, they were so well-hidden that I needed time to find them. So I volunteered these two marmosets for a game of fetch with Virgil. And you two truly were an excellent stick. Thank you,” Balthazar explained. 

“You’ve made your last mistake,” Raphael declared.

“Oh, I don't think I have,” Balthazar fired back. “You see… I brought back-up, honey.”

Just then, a bolt of divine light rained down from the heavens and blasted Raphael several yards back.

“Stand down, Raphael!” Castiel ordered, his gravelly voice booming with authority. “I have the weapons now. Their power lies with me.” 

In the background, Sam and Dean struggled to get up, as they spit out more blood and blinked their eyes trying to clear their vision. However, they still gaped in awe as they heard the loud crash of thunder echo above Castiel as the shadow of his true form appeared behind his human visage. 

“No,” Raphael murmured shaking his head in disbelief. “No, this is impossible.”

“I'm afraid not,” Balthazar retorted. “And you're not going anywhere.”

Just then, a blur of motion surrounded Raphael before fading away to reveal Elijah carrying an ancient pottery pitcher in his hand, seconds before he pulled out a lighter and threw it on the ground, igniting a circle of Holy Fire around the archangel.

“What is this?” Raphael queried, looking around in honest-to-God fear.

“Well, it's what I told the boys earlier…” Balthazar grinned. “We’re in The Godfather.”

The second the words left his mouth, Raphael turned around just in time to see Castiel step through the fire, unscathed, twirling the brandished Sword of Kenaz in his hand.

The flaming bronze blade cut through Raphael before he could raise a hand to defend himself, splitting him right down the center vertically. Then, for good measure, Castiel swung at him again; this time through his stomach.

Beams of silver light shot out of every orifice of Raphael’s vessel, followed by a violent crash of lightning, signaling the archangel’s demise. When the beams diminished and the lightning faded, Raphael’s vessel finally peeled apart and collapsed onto the ground in quarter chunks, her blood spilling over the pavement creating a large dark red puddle.

“Well, that was…” Elijah paused, furrowing his eyebrows. “Anti-climactic.”

Castiel said nothing and instead let out a short huff.

Meanwhile Balthazar chuckled and muttered, “Asshole.”

Chapter Text

Now, let’s pause again.

You saw the beginning of the story.

You got the end.

Now, let’s see what happened in the middle.

The night was pitch black, save for the faint glimmer of angelic grace illuminating the surrounding trees. Bobby crouched low behind a fallen log, shotgun at the ready, while Elijah lowered himself beside him, exuding a calm that bordered on unsettling. He held a silver angel blade in one hand, the other resting casually behind his back.

“Tell me, Robert,” Elijah said, his voice unhurried despite the chaos around them, “is your habit of being at the center of angelic warfare simply bad luck, or do you actively seek it out?”

“Why you blamin’ me?” Bobby complained. “Hell, maybe I am lucky like that. After all, that means I got at least one angel on my side, don't it? Plus, the more angels try’na kill me, the more practice I get in shootin’.”

Elijah rolled his eyes, fighting back the feeling of fondness that tried to tug at his lips. 

“Robert, you truly amaze me,” he sighed.

The ground trembled as two more angels descended, their glowing forms manifesting into vessels. Without hesitation, Elijah lunged forward, dispatching one with a precise jab of his angel blade. The other raised its hand to smite him, but a golden streak of light erupted from the trees, sending the angel flying into a nearby boulder.

Balthazar emerged from the shadows, his smirk as sharp as the blade he twirled in his hand. “Ah, Mr. Singer and…” he paused. “Elijah Mikaelson. Fancy meeting you here. Anyway, did someone order a guardian angel?”

*                              *                              *

It had taken them nearly two days to get to Evanston, Wyoming and the Original Vampire and the drunken hunter were bickering like an old married couple... Yet again.

“I'm merely saying that if you had turned right when I said to, we wouldn’t have had to loop back around to find the highway again,” Elijah reasoned coolly.

“And I'm telling you that the backroads are easier to navigate,” Bobby argued stubbornly. “And often a helluva lot faster, too.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Robert!” Elijah groaned in frustration. “Even now, you absolutely refuse to listen to me when it comes to directions.”

“Hey, it's my truck we’re in,” Bobby sassed. “I think I’m entitled, Princess.”

Elijah snorted derisively and rolled his eyes.

Bobby glanced at Elijah from the driver’s seat of his rusted pickup truck. “So why now?” he said suddenly.

“Pardon?” Elijah asked. 

“I still don’t get why you suddenly decided to come back after all these years,” Bobby clarified. “I mean, you say you needed my help to find Marie, but if you really wanted to find her, you would have found a way without my help. So why’d you really come back, especially after what I said to you in Omaha?”

Elijah’s frustrated sneer softened as his deep brown eyes lingered on Bobby’s form. “When I saw you again, in Omaha after all those years, it was… one of the few times in my immortal life that I genuinely felt joy,” he confessed, still staring at Bobby. “Admittedly, the circumstances were less than ideal, but I still felt as though no time had passed.”

Bobby turned his head to look at Elijah and felt his chest tighten when he saw Elijah staring at him as though he would disappear.

“I won’t lie to you, what you said to me after the Omaha case… it hurt. But I let you go because I knew that you needed time,” Elijah sighed. “You’re right. If I actually applied myself and all my resources, I probably could find Marie on my own. I suppose I just didn’t want to.”

Bobby swallowed thickly, acutely aware that Elijah could probably hear his rapidly increasing heart rate. A gnawing suspicion seeped into his bones as the old hunter guessed where the conversation was headed, even as he waved off the feeling with a wry laugh. 

“Yeah? So what, after almost 30 years, you show up again ‘cause you miss me?”

“Yes,” Elijah deadpanned, his eyes still wistful and doe-like.

Bobby let out a sharp huff and shook his head, trying and failing to fight off the grin splitting across his face, as he looked back at the road.

“So when you gonna start asking again?” Bobby queried, glancing back at the vampire.

Elijah beamed impishly. “Marry me, Robert.”

Bobby chuckled, “Not on your life, Mikaelson.”

Just then, a dark stormcloud rolled in and seconds later a thunderbolt came down and blasted the pavement in front of the truck, sending it flying back and rolling over into the woods.

*                              *                              *

Balthazar led Bobby and Elijah to a hidden safe house, an old church on the outskirts of Evanston, where Castiel was waiting inside, his trench coat rumpled and his expression grave.

“Bobby! Thank Father, you're alright,” Castiel greeted, his voice low. “Raphael’s forces are closing in.”

“Listen, we can worry about whoever the bloody hell this Raphael character is later,” Elijah snapped, clearly at the end of his rope. “Now can someone please explain why this man looks exactly like my deceased father?”

“Because my vessel is your father’s... twin,” Balthazar said, as though it were obvious. 

Elijah’s eye twitched. “What do you mean… twins?!”

“Well, Elijah, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much…” Bobby joked, earning a manic glare from the vampire and a chuckle from Balthazar.

Castiel rolled his eyes and moved toward the center of the group with a exasperated sigh, his coat billowing behind him as he walked. 

“Look, we don't have time for this!” Castiel growled. “Raphael’s angels won’t stop until we are all dead. We need to find Heaven’s Armory now.”

“Firstly, I haven't done anything to your Raphael, so I am not his enemy,” Elijah began haughtily, though, his voice resonated in a low, deadly tone. “And second, I’m not going anywhere with that man until I get answers.”

“Oh, for Dad’s sake!” Balthazar groaned, throwing his head back. “Alright, fine. Here’s your answer: once upon a time, a long time ago in Norway, your daddy Mikael was born. However, he was only one of two sons who were born to your grandparents. The second was your uncle, whose name isn't that important. So blah, blah, black sheep of the family. Blah, blah, emergence of Christianity in Viking culture. He was ousted from his family for not following the Nordic pantheon and submitted himself to God and asked to be used for Heaven’s glory…”

“And that's when you came in and possessed the poor bastard,” Bobby surmised, crossing his arms and frowning at the angel.

Balthazar shrugged nonchalantly. “Basically. So are you done asking 20 Questions about my pretty, pretty face?”

Everyone looked to Elijah expectantly, who was standing there clenching and unclenching his jaw as he forced himself to relax, his right eye still twitching.

The old hunter noticed how close his friend was to losing his shit and decided to step in because angels or not, Elijah’s wrath knew no bounds when unleashed.

“Alright, so tell us again why you nabbed us?” Bobby asked.

“Actually, we were just trying to save you, Bobby,” Balthazar explained. “Elijah, here was just a plus-one.”

Having cooled off from his previous near-meltdown, Elijah tuned in to what the angel wearing his father’s face was saying. “What do you mean? Why was Bobby in danger? Why is Raphael sending angels after him?” he interrogated.

“Because he is one of dear old Cassie’s allies, and, well… we’re in The Godfather,” Balthazar elaborated.

Castiel made an annoyed sound as he slapped his forehead. “Again with The Godfather?” he complained, before pausing. “Unfortunately, my brother’s not wrong.”

Bobby’s eyes widened in fear. “Oh, God! The boys!”

“Don’t worry about them, Bobby,” Castiel cajoled. “We got them out before Raphael’s agents could get them. They're safe.”

Bobby searched the angel's eyes for a moment and found nothing but sincerity in them, causing his shoulders to slump. “Okay,” he breathed, barely taking notice of Elijah’s hand on his shoulder, steadying his body. “Alright, so what do you need from us?”

“We need your help to get to Heaven’s Armory and get the weapons before Raphael does,” Castiel responded. “With them, we can finally kill the bastard and end this war once and for all.”

“And Robert and his boys will be safe?” Elijah piped up, his eyebrow arched inquisitively.

Castiel looked at the vampire and nodded.

“Very well,” Elijah relented. “We will do everything we can to help you.” 

“Yeah, ‘cept it's gonna be a bit difficult to get to wherever the hell we’re going without my damn truck,” Bobby grouched.

“Oh, don't worry about that, we’ll take you with us,” Balthazar waved off.

Wonderful. Elijah sneered inwardly.

“So where is Heaven’s Armory?” Elijah said aloud.

“Buda,” Balthazar answered simply.

As if they were in a movie, the tension in the room deflated, as though there had been a loud record scratch. Elijah blinked slowly while Bobby stood beside him with his mouth agape and Castiel tilted his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows.

“I beg your pardon,” Elijah queried, uncertainly.

“I said, Buda,” Balthazar repeated.

“As in the Buddha?” Bobby emphasized.

“Well, there is only one in Texas so… yes?” Balthazar snorted.

“Oh…kay,” Bobby huffed. “Well, where in Buda, Texas is it located? Is there a landmark? Will we know it when we see it?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Balthazar responded. “It's called Heaven’s Armory.”

“Balthazar, we know what we are searching for. What we are trying to get out of you is where it is!” Castiel snarled impatiently.

“Calm, down, Cassie! Don't get your feathers in a bunch,” Balthazar shot back. “I already told you where it is. It's in a place called Heaven’s Armory.”

The room went dead silent as the trio once again looked at Balthazar in amazement at his… ingenuity. 

“Are you saying that you hid Heaven’s armory in a place called “Heaven’s Armory” in a town named after a different religious figurehead?” Bobby questioned.

“Hey, it wasn't my idea to name it that,” Balthazar defended.

Elijah pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “I thought angels were supposed to be intelligent,” he pondered.

“That part is relative,” Castiel remarked, leering at his brother with a scowl. “It depends on the angel.”

Balthazar scoffed indignantly. “First of all, fuck you! I saved your life. Secondly, fuck you some more,” he started pointing his finger in Castiel’s direction. “Third, fuck off! And finally… HEY!”

Bobby snorted to himself. “Yeah, you two are definitely brothers.”

“Shut up, assbutt,” Castiel said to Balthazar as he continued to rant. “Let’s move it before Raphael gets wise to your stupidity.”

Then, without another word, Castiel reached out and grabbed both Elijah and Bobby’s shoulders and teleported them out of the church in a blaze of white light.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Chapter Text

“Wow…” Bobby gaped, taking in the visage of the warehouse and the flickering red sign emblazoned on the roof. “It really was called Heaven’s Armory.”

“Well, of course, it was!” Balthazar scoffed. “You really think I would make that up?”

“I was hoping you had,” Castiel grimaced. 

Before the angels could start arguing again, Elijah urged them forward to go into the building.

As they entered the building, they walked by the clerk’s desk and walked around trying to find the secret entrance. 

“It's down this way,” Balthazar informed the others, leading them down another aisle, towards the back of the warehouse.

He came to a stop in front of a full-length mirror wall, halting the others’ movements. 

“Here we go,” the angel said.

Then he walked into the mirror, causing it to ripple like a reflective pool of silver and vanished. The others didn't waste any time, and followed after him through the looking glass portal. 

When they reappeared on the other end, they were greeted with the sight of a large, cavernous hall filled with an array of weapons, tomes, and relics from the old world.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bobby muttered in awe.

“Actually, Robert, I believe what we're seeing is what it’s like not to be damned,” Elijah remarked, marveling at the Armory as he wandered around taking in the many mythological sights.

“So, we found the weapons,” Bobby said, coming out of his stupor somewhat. “Now what?”

Castiel walked over to the armoire that held the glistening bronze Sword of Kenaz and took it off the rack, twirling it with expert precision in his hand.

“Now, we kill Raphael,” Castiel smirked.

“Easier said than done, Cassie,” Balthazar warned, coming up to his brother. “You may have the weapons, but it won't mean anything unless we come up with a plan to use them on him.”

“Alright, well you have any suggestions?” Bobby inquired.

“I do, actually,” Balthazar perked up with a grin. “And it involves your Winchester boys.”

Bobby and Castiel narrowed their eyes and said, “How?”

As Balthazar explained his plan, Elijah caught sight of something shimmering out of the corner of his eye and went to investigate it. He could still hear the others plotting behind him, but he gasped in shock when he finally reached the shimmering object and discovered that it was actually…

“Robert!” Elijah exclaimed, drawing the others’ attention.

The remainder of the group rushed towards him in a panic, but none more so than Bobby.

“Elijah, what happened?” the hunter asked frantically, checking over the vampire for any sign of injury while Balthazar and Castiel free their weapons to face some sort of threat.

Elijah turned around and walked towards them holding a gem-encrusted hilt (minus the dagger) with a bright blue sapphire in the pommel of the hilt and several smaller sapphires decorating the outer edges of the pommel.

“What is that?” Castiel asked.

“This is what Robert and I were looking for when you found us in Evanston,” Elijah answered. “It was an item in my collection of valuables that I had stored away in a pocket dimension for safe-keeping. A dimension that could only be accessed by me… through a mirror. At least up until now.”

“Oh, so you have the other mirror,” Balthazar realized at once. “That explains why so many ancient witch tomes and amulets have found their way into this place. Who would have guessed?”

“Wait a second?” Castiel blurted out. “You let an Original vampire gain access to the Armory of Heaven and you did NOTHING?” 

“Well, clearly he didn't know about it, otherwise I would have known. Besides, if any Mikaelson is going to have access to the power of God, wouldn't you think the one named Elijah would be the one best fit for it?” Balthazar snickered. “At least for the aesthetics of it, if nothing else.”

Castiel was fuming with disbelief and unadulterated frustration as he stretched out his sword hand towards his brother and snarled. “You… I… y— I’m going to find a place to sit down. And if you know what’s good for you… don't follow me!”

Elijah gripped the hilt tightly in one hand and picked up another artifact—a long broken piece of wood— in the other. “What is this?” he queried, his eyes never leaving the shattered wooden stick.

“That is what’s left of the Staff of Moses,” Balthazar replied casually. “Do be careful with that. It's delicate.”

Elijah’s eyes widened and he, much to everyone’s surprise, and concern, started laughing. 

“Uh, Eli… you okay, partner?” Bobby asked worriedly.

“The Staff of Moses,” Elijah chuckled airily. “All this time, I had access to the Staff of fucking Moses!”

“Aw, shit!” Bobby winced. “He done started swearin’. Nothing ever ends well when he starts swearin’.”

“1,000 years I have suffered endlessly at the hands of my siblings, and, despite my eternal youth, I have grown many a gray hair in my head due to their foolishness and reckless behavior!” Elijah yelled waving the remaining half of the Staff in his hand as he began to storm about angrily, causing the other two to duck out of the way. “Do you know how many catastrophes I could have averted? Do you know how many times I could have brought Kol to heel or made Finn shut the fuck up about how miserable his life was. Do you know how many times I could have gotten Rebekah to snap out of whatever lovestruck stupor she lulled herself into and grow up? Do you know how many times I could have reined in Niklaus if I had simply had the Staff of Moses?!”

“Are you out of your mind?” Balthazar screamed, dodging out of the way of Elijah’s rant, not wanting to get blasted by accident.

“Do you really want him to answer that?” Bobby retorted.

“For what it’s worth, Elijah—” Castiel started, still sitting on the floor. “I doubt it would have worked on your siblings. It sure hasn't worked on mine.”

Balthazar narrowed his eyes sharply. “And again, I say, fuck you!”

Just then, Bobby snatched that staff out of Elijah’s hand and tossed it to the side, before anyone could get hit by it. 

“Alright, enough!” Bobby shouted, gaining everyone’s attention. “Now, look, we all got what we came for, and clearly this has been a weird experience for all of us. But if you’re right then in a couple of hours, my boys are gonna be coming back from wherever you sent ‘em, and I prefer to be there to greet ‘em instead of your psychotic older brother. Now, we are gonna finish figuring out this plan to defeat Raphael, and we are gonna keep our wits about us as we do it, am I clear?”

The room was plunged into silence as the three immortals looked at each other then back at the human in their midst and nodded.

But, of course, Balthazar had to have the last word and leaned in to whisper to Castiel, saying, “Not gonna lie, Bobby’s kind of sexy when he goes all domineering like that.”

Elijah narrowed his eyes at Balthazar and growled, nearly lunging at the angel. However, Bobby held his hand out in front of him. 

“Down, boy,” Bobby griped.

“Okay,” Castiel sighed. “So, let’s figure this plan out.”

NOW…

“Well, Cass…” Balthazar said, extinguishing the ring of fire and stepping into the circle, avoiding Raphael’s remains. “Now that you’ve won your crown, try not to die from it.”

“I never wanted the crown,” Castiel replied. 

“I know, hot wings,” Balthazar smiled sadly, clapping his brother’s shoulder. “But now you have it. Do better things with it than your predecessors.”

Castiel nodded somberly as he embraced Balthazar in a brotherly hug. “Thank you,” he let out.

Balthazar chuckled as he pulled away, ruffling Cass’ already messy hair.

“What are big brothers for?” he winked. 

Then with a flap of his wings, he was gone.

Cass smiled to himself before turning to the Winchesters and their allies and teleporting them back to Bobby’s house with a wave of his hand.

“Wait. Wait, you were in on this?” Sam sneered. “Using us as a diversion?”

“It was Balthazar’s plan,” Cass explained. “And it worked out rather nicely, you must admit.”

“Yeah, except for the part where we got stuck in an alternate dimension and nearly got killed by a half-crazed angel!” Dean snapped.

“I would have done the same thing,” Cass remarked. 

“That's not comforting, Cass,” Dean replied.

Cass let out a frustrated sigh and whirled around to look at them. “What part of I was fighting a civil war to prevent Raphael from re-starting the Apocalypse and forcing the two of you idiots back into your God-given Fates do you not understand?” he demanded, rendering both men speechless, while Elijah and Bobby watched. “Even now after I finally managed to defeat Raphael, I still can't make you understand.”

“Yeah, because that's about all you’ve told us,” Dean argued.

“And that should have been enough!” Cass yelled, causing the electrical grid to shut down momentarily, before he regained control of his temper. “But I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. Raphael is dead and his followers will soon be given a choice.”

“And what choice is that?” Sam snarked.

Castiel narrowed his eyes dangerously. “To live the rest of their lives free from Raphael’s influence…” he started, before pivoting his head to look at Dean. “Or die fighting for a pipe dream.”

Dean’s blood turned to ice in his veins. Sam gulped thickly, and even Bobby and Elijah shifted uncomfortably from where they stood in Bobby’s living room.

Dean hadn't heard Castiel speak so… so coldly since, well, since Dean first met him.

He didn't have time to comment on it though, because soon, Castiel was gone with a flutter of his wings.

“Well, that was terrifying,” Dean exhaled.

“I suppose it’s understandable,” Elijah responded.

“How do you figure that?” Sam inquired, tilting his head.

“With Raphael dead, there is a power vacuum that Castiel needs to fill. He isn't just an angel anymore. He’s a king,” Elijah elaborated, as his thoughts traveled to his and his family’s lives back when they ruled New Orleans all those decades ago. “And heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

The air crackled with tension as the realization of Elijah’s words sunk in. 

Not wanting things to get too heavy, Bobby let out an exaggerated cough and cleared his throat. 

“So… anyway, why didn't you guys call to let me know what happened?” Bobby piped up.

Sam and Dean let out a disgruntled snort.

“What?” Dean said.

“Huh?” Sam questioned.

“You heard me, ya idjits!” Bobby groused. “Me and Elijah have been going through all this hell and you two couldn't even be bothered to pick up the damn phone? We were really starting to worry about you guys.”

Sam and Dean tried to explain that they were stuck in another reality where their lives were a TV show, but Bobby snorted and rolled his eyes. 

“But you just heard what Cass said. He sent us there!” Dean reasoned.

“Cass was only doing what you always want Sam to do: listening to his older brother. And God knows the stress that poor boy’s been under tryin’ to keep us safe without you two going and blaming him for your screw-up,” Bobby retorted, fighting off a grin. “Sent you to another reality; yeah right. No really, where’d you go, fucking Peru?” 

“We were in another dimension!” Sam and Dean replied. “Our cell service doesn't cover interdimensional travels!”

Bobby waved them off and said, “Yeah, yeah. I spent all these years looking after you boys, and this is what I get as a result. You don't call, you don't write.”

Elijah chuckled, adding, “If this is how you treat your father after all he’s done for you, you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

At that point, the boys realized that Bobby and Elijah were just giving them a hard time, and decided to let it go.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Dean griped. “At least we’re back home. Real moldy, termite-eaten, home, sweet home. Chock-full of shit that wanna skin ya. Oh, yeah, and uh… we’re broke again.”

“Yeah, well, at least we’re talking,” Sam sighed, looking around at everyone in the room. “At least we got each other.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Bobby agreed.

“Here, here,” Elijah agreed.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had gone by since the brothers’ inter-dimensional travels and Bobby and Elijah’s road trip of doom and they were still no closer to finding out where the other pieces to the dagger might be than they were before. 

On the bright side, though, Raphael was dead and Elijah paid for Bobby’s window to be fixed after Balthazar made the boys crash through it to get to the… alternate reality.

However, the group had mostly ridden that high into the ground, and Dean, especially, was starting to get ornery. More so than usual.

“Ugh!” Dean growled, slamming the book shut before running his fingers through his hair. “This is pointless! Who the hell even breaks a dagger of mythical power up into pieces?”

Sam looked over his computer screen at Dean and snickered at his brother’s tantrum before returning to his own research.

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps and Elijah and Bobby’s bickering distracted the boys from their current task, as the older men came down the stairs.

“The answer is still no, Elijah,” Bobby said, heading towards his desk carrying four more tomes and a large rolled-up map in his arms. “You keep askin’, and I keep sayin’ no.”

“Well, you did tell me that you wouldn’t say yes until I got to 1,000,” Elijah smirked, giving Bobby a once-over. “I'm just doing what you said.”

Bobby floundered, a faint red blush creeping up his neck. However, he quickly masked it with a cough as he slammed the books down on the table. 

“Well, good luck with that,” he challenged. “‘Cause I’ll keep sayin’ no until you get to 1,001.”

Sam and Dean had been observing the old men argue in amusement; however, Sam didn't miss the impish yet fond (longing?) look on Elijah’s face as he leaned in close to Bobby and said, “Careful, Robert. I'm a lot closer to that number than you think. If you’re not careful, I’ll make you keep your end of the bargain.”

Bobby seemed to notice how close they were to each other and swallowed thickly as he took a step back. 

“Hey, boys,” Bobby called out, startling his nosy sons. 

“Yeah, Bobby?” Dean replied. 

“Come in here a sec,” Bobby said.

The boys meandered their way over to Bobby’s desk expecting to be chewed out for eavesdropping on his conversation, but instead, Bobby set down the map he’d been holding and spread it out across the table. Then he pulled out a red marker and started circling different spots on the map.

“What are those?” Sam inquired.

“I been gettin’ blasts from hunters all week,” Bobby began, circling more areas in red. “Nest of vamps, werewolf dance party. Shifters, six of them. Two hunters died taking them out. Ghouls, ghouls, ghoul-wraith smorgasbord.”

“Is it just me or is that a straight kick-line down I-80?” Dean realized as he analyzed the pattern with a furrowed brow.

“Exactly,” Bobby affirmed, as he drew a straight line through each of the circles connecting them to each other.

“Looks to me like it’s a Sherman March monster mash,” Dean quipped.

“Yeah, but what are they marching to?” Sam questioned.

“That is what we need to uncover for ourselves,” Elijah sighed, as he took Bobby’s marker and circled another area at the end of the highway.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“This guy, John Ellis, bashed his family’s heads in,” Bobby explained.

“It's like I told the cops,” John Ellis cried, as he sat across from Sam, Dean, Elijah, and Bobby. “I blacked out.” 

“Just tell us what you do remember,” Sam prodded gently.

The man let out a shaky breath and nodded. “I was driving my regular route and then I—” he cut himself off, a new wave of emotion threatening to drown him in his grief. “I woke up in my truck at work.”

“And where do you work?” Elijah questioned.

“Starlight Cannery,” Ellis answered. “I didn't remember how I got there, so I called home. When no one picked up, I went there and I found…” he huffed wetly, as tears stained his orange-clad torso. 

“Anything unusual before you blacked out?” Bobby queried. “Sights, smells, anything off about the routine?”

John Ellis was about to shake his head but he stopped, his glistening wet eyes lighting up in remembrance. “Well, there was this kid that asked me for a ride,” he started. “I gave her a ride from the truck stop, but she took off. At least, I think she took off.”

“Anything else?” Dean asked.

The man shook his head as the last vestiges of his sanity left him and he broke down in tears. “I swear, I didn't mean to do it,” he sobbed. “I loved them.”

*                              *                              *

After they left the interrogation room, Elijah, Bobby, Sam, and Dean went to hit up the computer lab to sift through the security camera footage from the night John Ellis murdered his family.

Elijah and Bobby stood behind the boys, who were seated in front of the computer desk, looking over their shoulders as Sam typed a few keywords into the search bar.

“Okay, so demon possession or ghosts?” Dean piped up in confusion. “I thought that this was a monster thing.”

All right, here we go,” Sam announced, clicking on the video. “Truckstop, the night of the murders.”

Elijah and Bobby leaned in close to see the footage as Sam sped through it to find Ellis.

“That's our guy,” Dean said, once Sam slowed down the footage.

Just then, a young woman wearing a white dress and no shoes walked into the frame and made a beeline for Ellis. 

“And that's our girl,” Elijah pointed out.

Dean quirked his lips upward as he ogled the woman on the screen. “A pretty girl.”

However, his daydreaming was soon cut short by the sharp feeling of a hand slapping across the back of his head.

“Ow! What the—” Dean grunted, looking back to see Elijah calmly retracting his hand, even as he fixed the hunter with a stern glare.

“That girl could be a minor,” Elijah warned.

Dean looked back at the screen just in time to see the once-beautiful girl’s face morph into that of a hideous monster’s, causing Dean to nearly jump out of his seat.

“Or she could be a freakish nightmare,” he gasped. “What the hell is that?”

“Bobby?” Sam asked, looking up at his mentor.

Bobby shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,” he answered, turning to Elijah. “You?”

“No, but I have an inkling as to what or rather who it is,” Elijah theorized. “All of the Evarien monsters traveling down I-80… they seem to be following this young woman, almost like a duckling following its mother.”

Dean let out a sharp exhale and got up from his seat. “Okay, um…” he started walking around the table. “So if that's Big Mama or whatever the hell she is… we got zero on ganking her, guys. What do we do if we run into her? Throw salt and hope?”

“We have the Sheath, thanks to Marie; and the Hilt, thanks to Elijah,” Sam supplied.

“All of which mean nothing without the Blade to match,” the vampire countered with a sigh. “Your brother’s right. We’re out of our depth.”

“Exactly!” Dean chimed, nervously. “We need to get some real info on this bitch before we do run into her.”

Out of nowhere, a bunch of officers started scrambling toward the exit, alerting the four men. 

“Hey, what’s the ruckus?” Bobby called out to one of the officers. 

“A guy just went postal down at the cannery,” he replied before rushing out.

The hunters and the vampire shared a knowing look as they remembered what Ellis said about waking up at the cannery.

“Alright, Eli, you're with me,” Bobby stated, heading for the exit. “The two of you finish up here.”

By the time they got down to the cannery, several squad cars and emergency vehicles had already beaten them there. Bobby and Elijah stepped out of the sleek black car Elijah had driven— because by God, he was not going to be caught in another of Bobby’s motorized death machines by a supernatural creature— and walked towards the crime scene. 

“FBI,” Bobby stated as he and Elijah sidled up to the sergeant showing their badges (and, yes, Elijah does have one). “Willis and Capulet. How many are in there?”

“Six dead,” the sergeant answered, causing both Bobby and Elijah to cringe.

“My God. What happened?” Elijah inquired.

“Apparently a guy walks in, pulls a hunting rifle, and just opens fire,” the sergeant answered, before waving over his superior. “Captain, this is agent—”

“What, there a fed convention in town or something?” the captain griped as he walked towards the fake FBI agents.

Elijah bristled at the insult, despite not being a real agent while Bobby arched his eyebrow in confusion. 

“I beg your pardon?” Bobby questioned.

“Agent Willis,” came the familiar voice of Rufus, as he strutted towards them with a smile. However, the smile nearly died on his lips when he caught sight of Elijah standing beside Bobby. “And Agent…”

“Supervisory Special Agent Capulet,” Elijah completed with emphasis, shaking his hand firmly, squeezing a bit harder than necessary. “It's been a while since I’ve had the chance to go out in the field with you, so I’ll forgive your lapse in memory, Agent Fitzgerald.”

Rufus chuckled, though, not kindly. “Oh, I didn't forget you. I was just surprised to see you out of your office for the first time in years,” Rufus replied, looking over to the police officers. “He never leaves it. To him, that office is like a coffin to a vampire.”

Elijah’s eyes glinted dangerously in the faint light of the sun peeking through the thick veil of clouds.

“As I said, it's been a while since I’ve been out in the field and when Agent Willis came to me with this case, it seemed serious so I said, why not stretch my sea legs?” Elijah lied seamlessly. “I suppose my supervisor put out the call for all hands on deck, which is why you're here?”

“Yes, sir,” Rufus said, barely restraining the growl at the back of his throat.

“Good, then since you got here first, I’ll be expecting your report on my desk first thing once we return to Washington,” Elijah smiled as he turned back to the cops. “Gentlemen, would you excuse us. I need to brief my agent.”

The cops seemed to get the message and made themselves scarce as Elijah and Rufus continued their pissing match.

“Well, well, well. Elijah Mikaelson,” Rufus huffed once the cops were out of ear-shot. “I was hoping you would have gotten a stake through the heart by now.”

“And I thought you would have died from alcohol poisoning by now,” Elijah fired back. “Sadly we were both mistaken.”

Rufus nearly lost control and took a swing at Elijah’s face until Bobby stepped in between them.

“Knock it off, you two,” Bobby grumbled. “We're supposed to be working. Now, Rufus, what the high holy are you doing here?”

“Same as you, tracking 31 flavors of crazy…” Rufus responded, eyeing the Original suspiciously as they started walking away from the cannery. “Well, 32 flavors now.” 

“Still have that podunk sense of humor, I see,” Elijah sneered.

“And you're still leeching off a poor widower, I see,” Rufus retorted.

“Hey, don't make me have to separate you and put your asses in the corner somewhere, ‘cause I will,” Bobby barked, causing the other two men to quiet down. “Now, can we talk to the perp?”

“We can try, but he probably won't talk back,” Rufus remarked. “The cops put eight bullets in him.”

“Damn,” Elijah swore.

“That’s exactly what I said,” Rufus agreed. “So…”

Bobby and Elijah looked at each other in confusion before looking back at Rufus. 

“So?” they inquired.

“So are we teaming up on this or not?” Rufus clarified, as though it were obvious. “Come on, now, it's not rocket surgery. We’re here, let’s do this.”

“Even though I’m here?” Elijah scoffed.

Rufus eyed the vampire with a tinge of annoyance. “Sure, why not?” he snarked. “Just like old times.”

“As long as I get to drive,” Bobby joked.

Rufus chuckled heartily before saying, “Hell, no.” Then he walked away, leaving Elijah and Bobby standing there by the docks.

“Just like old times, eh, Robert?” Elijah chuckled wryly.

“Yeah,” Bobby mused. “All who’s missing is Marie and…”

Elijah pressed his lips together tightly and clapped Bobby on the shoulder, and squeezed it tightly. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let's follow Rufus before he gets himself killed.”

30 YEARS AGO…

“This is all your fault!” Rufus yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at Bobby. “If you hadn't rushed in guns blazin’, she’d still be here!”

Elijah stepped in front of Bobby protectively. “He is not the one you're angry at. I am,” he said.

“You’re right,” Rufus nodded with a sneer. “He got her killed and you didn't save her when you could have. You preach about making alliances with hunters, but the truth is… you don't give a damn about any hunter that ain't him or Marie. You're selfish! And that’s why you always gon’ be alone.”

Chapter Text

The second Rufus unveiled the corpse, Elijah scrunched up his nose slightly as the stench of dead blood punched him in the nostrils.

“Bloody hell,” Elijah gagged.

Rufus snorted. “I thought you bloodsuckers liked the smell of blood.”

Elijah glared at the dark-skinned hunter. “Not when it’s rotten,” the vampire sneered. “That's like asking you whether you like to eat moldy bread or spoiled meat. It's disgusting and unhealthy.”

“Thought dead man’s blood didn't work on you,” Rufus replied, furrowing his eyebrows.

“It doesn't,” Bobby smirked. “Eli’s just being a prissy, pink Princess.”

Elijah rolled his eyes but said nothing, returning his focus to the corpse in front of him.

“So do you think the Mother-of-Whatever-the-Hell is wrapped up in this, Bobby?” Rufus asked, analyzing the body.

“So far as we know,” Bobby confirmed.

“The men who've been getting targeted by Eve seem to follow a pattern,” Elijah declared. “The trucker was by all accounts an upstanding man and when we interrogated him, I couldn't discern any apparent type of villainous tendencies within him that would cause such a reaction. I'm sure if we looked into this man's background, we would learn the same thing.”

“These guys are just going berserk—” Rufus scoffed, shaking his head, “how is that a monster thing?” 

“I don't know,” Bobby said with a shrug. “That’s why we’re cutting him open.”

Just then, Elijah noticed a dried-up black substance in the cadaver’s ear opening, and tilted the deadman’s head to the side to get a better look. “Robert, hand me one of those swabs over there.”

Bobby did as Elijah requested and passed him a swab. Elijah stuck the swab in the corpse’s ear and wiggled it around before pulling it back out, exposing the thick gooey, black tip.

“Is that ecto?” Rufus queried.

“No,” the vampire responded, curling his nose up at the foul stench of the goo. “But whatever it is, it's nothing like any creature’s remains I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe it’s something new,” Bobby suggested.

“New?” Rufus gaped. “No such thing as new, Bobby?” 

“Thirty years ago you would have said that about me,” Elijah retorted.

“Eli’s right. Just because we’ve never seen it before doesn't mean it's not real,” Bobby agreed. “I think we all learned that lesson during the damn Apocalypse. And he’s right about the pattern. These guys that snapped, as far as we know, they have one other thing in common…”

Elijah’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Bobby was implying. “They both worked at the cannery.”

Later that night, Elijah, Bobby, and Rufus reconvened at the cannery with the Winchesters.

“I don’t even know why you have a driver's license,” Rufus complained, glaring daggers at Elijah, as they walked towards the boys.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dean smiled, reaching out to hug Rufus.

“It really is good to see you, Rufus,” Sam said, grabbing Rufus’s forearm and pulling him into a tight hug once his brother stepped back.

“I can believe it,” Rufus joked. “It must get old, dealing with this miserable cuss and his boyfriend here all by yourselves.”

“The boys didn't even know me until a few weeks ago,” Elijah scoffed.

“I rest my case,” Rufus sassed, causing the younger men to stifle a guffaw.

“I beg to differ,” Elijah argued coolly. “I am a delight to be around.”

“For him, maybe,” Rufus snarked, nodding to Bobby much to the Winchesters amusement.

Bobby rolled his eyes and pulled Elijah closer to him by his shoulder, saying, “Why don't you all get a room?”

Sam and Dean finally relented and the five of them prepared themselves to venture into the cannery. Elijah went in first, his nocturnal eyes guiding the others through the labyrinth of metalwork and machinery.

They searched every floor, taking the gated elevator to each of the different level, but found nothing. 

Finally, they got to the basement level of the cannery that was nearly filled to the brim with packaged goods and storage containment units, and a small break room. And that is when things got interesting.

All of a sudden, they heard a noise coming from the break room and all pointing their weapons towards it.

However, when the door opened the only intruder they saw was…

“Gwen?” Dean asked, looking at his maternal cousin.

“Dean,” she replied, squinting to cover her eyes from their flashlights.

Elijah was still on edge, but when he saw Bobby lower his weapon, he reluctantly stood down.

Just then, Dean saw someone inside the break room behind Gwen Campbell and snarled.

Samuel. He growled inwardly.

He launched himself toward the door, bursting into the break room with his gun cocked and ready to fire at his so-called grandfather without hesitation. 

“Welcome to next time,” Dean sneered, putting his finger against the trigger.

Sam jumped in at the last second and grabbed Dean’s wrist and pushed it down, stopping him short of killing their mother's father.

“Wait a second. Hold on,” Sam pleaded.

“I said I’d kill him!” Dean snarled.

“Just a second,” Sam begged, stepping in between them.

“I take it you know each other,” Rufus called out from behind the boys, as he, Bobby, Elijah, and Gwen cloistered in the back close to the exit.

“He’s our grandfather,” Dean staring down the man who sold him and his brother out to Crowley.

“Oh… someone needs a hug,” Rufus quipped.

Elijah observed the situation in silence, despite readying himself for a showdown between Dean and his grandfather.

“Why are you here?” Bobby gritted out.

“We’re working,” Samuel grunted. “You?”

Dean lunged forward again, but Sam held fast against his brother. “None of your damn business,” he snarled.

“Good Lord,” Elijah huffed. “You remind me of my father and brother.”

“Sam, take Dean for a walk,” Bobby ordered.

Dean twisted his head to look back at his adoptive father with betrayal and disbelief carved into his sharp features. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Elijah stepped forward, sending Dean a warning glare. “Don’t swear at your father,” he replied. 

Sam grabbed his brother and started pulling him towards the door. “Look, Dean, it's fine,” Sam said, soothingly.

Dean returned his hard gaze to the man who sired his mother and scoffed. “Oh, yeah? How?”

The room fell silent as Sam eventually led Dean away from Samuel and back out to the hallway.

“What is wrong with you?” Dean blurted out once they were alone.

“Maybe he knows something,” Sam reasoned.

“You don't remember what he did. I do,” Dean snapped.

“I'm not saying don't, I’m saying not yet,” Sam clarified.

Instead of responding, Dean let out a frustrated grunt and walked off.

Back inside the break room, Bobby, Rufus, and Elijah eyed Samuel suspiciously while Gwen stood off to the side trying to figure out what was going on.

“So you're Samuel,” Bobby said gruffly.

“You must be the guy pretending to be their father,” Samuel griped.

“Well, it doesn't seem like you're doing it, so someone has to,” Elijah cut in evenly, straightening the links on his cuffs.

Samuel looked over at the Original and quirked his eyebrow. “And you are?”

“The last thing you’ll see on this earth should any harm come to Robert or his boys,” Elijah retorted swiftly.

As if on cue, Sam re-entered the room and came to stand behind Elijah and Bobby and glared at his namesake.

“Sam,” his grandfather nodded. “You’re looking well.”

“Save the bullshit, alright?” Sam replied curtly.

Samuel gave his grandson a once-over and furrowed his brow.

“You seem different,” he said.

“I got my soul back,” Sam explained pointedly. “No thanks to you, I hear.”

“You hear?” Samuel asked, before the realization hit him. “You don't remember?”

Sam tilted his head slightly, his hazel eyes darkening into a vengeful glower.

“I remember enough.”

Just then, the door behind Samuel and Gwen opened up, causing everyone to turn their heads and raise their weapons. However, what stepped through the door was no monster.

It was an old friend.

“If you boys are done measuring your rulers, I think we all ought to focus on the case,” came the gritty feminine voice of…

“Marie!” Bobby, Rufus, and Elijah said in unison.

Elijah was the first one to her, zipping past the other hunters to hug her tightly, uncaring about Samuel and Gwen’s reaction to his impossible speed.

“What the hell? How did he?” Gwen stammered.

“Oh, yeah, by the way,” Sam smirked, looking Samuel dead in the eye. “That’s Elijah Mikaelson, one of the Original Mikalaen Vampires.”

Samuel’s eyes widened in fear and he instantly reacted aiming his gun at Elijah who was suddenly right in front of him. In a blur of motion, Elijah snatched Samuel’s gun and pushed his hand onto Samuel’s chest, sending him flying back into the wall.

Gwen called out to him before aiming her weapon at the 1,000-year-old.

“Darling, do yourself a favor…” Elijah started, slowly rolling his head to the side to look at her. “Don’t piss me off.”

Gwen’s hand shook as she cocked her shotgun. 

“Gwen,” Sam called out warningly. “Don’t. Take it from me… don't.”

Gwen looked between the two men frantically before uncocking her weapon and slowly lowering it to her side. 

“Smart girl,” Elijah smiled arrogantly.

Gwen ignored his comment and went to go help Samuel up off the ground while Elijah turned his attention back to Marie who was approaching him and Sam with Bobby and Rufus.

“You’ve had me worried sick,” Elijah said, letting out a deep sigh as he hugged her again, his hand cupping the back of her bald head. “What happened? Where did you go? Why didn't you reach out to me?”

“I couldn't. I had a gaggle of Reapers on my ass, had to disappear for a while,” Marie answered once they separated. “You get my message?”

“Yeah, we got it,” Bobby chimed in. “Though you could have been a lot less “code” about it.”

Marie rolled her eyes and snorted. “Well, I couldn't have any-old-body knowin’ what the fuck it meant now, could I?”

The older men chuckled softly at the woman before them while Sam looked at them in amazement.

“Now that is a podunk sense of humor,” Rufus said with a grin, hardening back to his and Elijah’s earlier téte-a-téte.

“At least it's one I can tolerate,” Elijah quipped.

“Ahem!” Samuel cleared his throat, garnering everyone’s attention. “I really hate to break up this circle of love… but since we’re here, let’s talk shop. What are you guys hunting?”

“A creature from Purgatory,” Marie said, stepping forward. “She goes by Eve. But the monsters call her mother, and once upon a time… so did we.”

“Eve,” Samuel repeated. “So we’re basically hunting the same thing.”

Marie nodded simply. “Seems like.”

“So what's the lore?” Sam asked. “I mean, if we are talking about the Eve from the Bible, how’d she end up like this?”

“Eve was originally the second wife of Adam after Lilith was outcast from the Garden. However, when the snake deceived her, she was cursed with an opposing desire to her husband and the pain of childbirth,” Marie started.

Sam nodded in recognition. “Yeah, right. She was the mother to Cain, Abel, and Seth.”

“Yes, and from them, the rest of humanity sprung up,” Marie nodded. “But that’s not where her story ends. You see, whereas Lilith, Adam’s first wife was cursed to be barren, Eve’s curse was to be overly fertile. She was trapped by Adam to be his broodmare, and got tired of it, so she tried to use magic from Lilith to curse her womb and make her barren. Instead, it corrupted her and turned her into the world’s first monster. Fearing God’s wrath, she fled and hid away in the far reaches of the land of Nod, where she grew stronger. She eventually realized that the curse Lilith put on her didn't sterilize her. Instead, it gave her the capacity to procreate on her own or with a lover.”

The temperature in the room dropped as the revelation of Eve’s origins hung over their heads.

“She got lonely and bitter, and eventually…” Marie trailed off.

“She made more,” Gwen surmised.

“The first was a man from the Sub-Saharan named Ettan. She fed him her blood and killed him, but he came back to life with the speed and strength of a thousand men and an insatiable bloodlust. The Alpha Vampire,” Marie continued. “Then she made him her husband and from their bloodline came the Alpha Shifter, the Alpha Wesen, the Alpha Ghoul, and the Alpha Djinn. The rest she made on her own.”

“And then what?” Rufus questioned.

“And then she and her monsters set out to ravage the earth, turn every human soul into a mindless beast enthralled by her control. This… pissed off a lot of people both upstairs and down below. As you know, when a human dies, they go up to Heaven or down to the Pit. Eve’s plan threatened to undo that since monsters don't go to Heaven or Hell, they go to Purgatory,” Marie answered, sitting down in one of the chairs. “Lilith, Baphomet, and Azazel made a pact with Michael, Raphael, and Hanniel to stop Eve before she took over everything. This war between them lasted for ages until Michael and Lilith tracked down one of Seth’s descendants and got him to forge a weapon powerful enough to kill her and send her to Purgatory.”

Elijah’s eyes gleamed knowingly. “The Dagger.”

“What Dagger?” Samuel queried.

“The one that got broken up into pieces,” Bobby groused.

“How did you learn all of this?” Gwen inquired.

“From my ancestors,” Marie stated. “According to a journal entry from one of them, a man named Simeon and his brother tracked down the Alpha Wesen to the base of Mt. Vesuvius. Apparently, the bastard was trying to make a bunch of blood sacrifices to bring her out of Purgatory, but they stopped him before he could finish the ritual.”

“How’d they manage that?” Rufus queried.

Marie’s expression darkened. “They used their Earth Magic to destroy the Alpha Wesen and his work,” she exhaled.

“Doesn't sound too bad,” Sam remarked.

Marie glared at the tall man pointedly. “Oh, really? Why do you think we still teach our kids about the tragedy of Pompeii?” she shot back. “You know those pumice and ash casings of the two lovers’ bodies facing each other that they show off in those museum exhibits? Those were actually Simeon and his brother.”

There was a long, heavy silence in the room, and for a long time, nobody said anything.

“So, to put a long story short, she didn't get put down until about 10,000 years ago and every freak that walks the face of the earth can be traced back to her,” Samuel summarized. 

“And now she's back,” Sam huffed.

“Well, we know how Marie knows about this stuff,” Bobby began, still keeping his eyes trained on Samuel. “The question is how do you?”

Samuel rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Please you don't know half the things I know, kid,” he berated.

“I now know you would throw your own kin to hungry ghouls,” Bobby snarked, earning a surprised gasp from Gwen.

She shot Samuel a questioning look and frowned. “You what?”

“Dean lied to the man,” Samuel responded quickly, a little too quickly. “Hell, they’re working with an Original vampire, probably have been the whole time.”

Elijah studied the man’s reaction and the rigidity in Sam’s stance before stepping towards Samuel. “I’ve not known the Winchesters as long as Robert has,” he sighed. “However, one thing that I did learn over the course of my long life is how to know when people are lying. And outside of impersonating federal agents and a few misplaced martyrdom secrets, Dean is no liar.”

“Sweetheart, why don't you go ask Dean yourself,” Bobby suggested.

“Good idea,” Gwen agreed before storming out of the break room to find Dean.

And a few moments later… gunshots rang out from somewhere down the hall.

Chapter Text

30 YEARS AGO…

“Help her! You gotta help her!” Bobby shouted in a frenzy.

“I can't,” Elijah said, looking between Bobby, Rufus, and the dark-skinned woman bleeding out on the floor. “She’s too far gone. My blood heals fast, but not that fast. The only thing that could save her would be to turn her.”

“Then do that!” Rufus screamed, tears streaming down his face as he huffed angrily.

“Rufus,” Marie called out, gripping the woman’s hand tightly. 

Rufus turned to look at Marie and saw his wife slowly smile at him and mouth the words “I love you.”

“Cheyenne, baby, stay with me, alright? Just sta—” Rufus cut himself off when he heard Cheyenne breathe her last breath, as her eyes went blank and her head lulled back and hit the floor.

Rufus choked out a sob and gathered his wife’s mauled corpse into his arms and cried into her blood-matted hair.

And all the while, all Bobby could think was how this was his fault. And that they never should have come to Omaha.

PRESENT DAY…

Everyone rushed down the hallway and stopped short when they saw Gwen collapsed on the floor barely able to breathe with a gaping bloody hole in her stomach and a rapidly expanding pool of blood beneath her.

Sam looked around for any sign of his brother while Bobby and Rufus trying to resuscitate his cousin and ran off down the hall. Marie pulled out her cane and unsheathed the hidden blade from the end of it and charged after Sam.

“Marie, what are you?” Elijah asked.

“You stay here and help the girl,” Marie barked.

Then she disappeared into the shadows to follow Sam.

Elijah stared at the place where Marie just stood before turning to look back down at the young huntress, trying and failing to keep the image of Cheyenne out of his mind.

Her eyes were closed but her heart was still beating… though not for much longer if he didn't do something. 

Without wasting another moment, Elijah knelt down and urged the hunters to move away before biting into his wrist and putting it to her lips.

“No!” Samuel called out as he launched himself at the vampire.

However, Bobby swiftly got up and intercepted him. “If you don't want her to die tonight, let him finish this.”

*                              *                              *

“So, you’re Marie Kessler, huh?” Sam said, as he and Marie scoured the cannery looking for Dean.

“And you must be Sam Winchester,” Marie replied. “Heard a lot about you and your brother. It's an honor.”

Sam smirked. “Lemme guess: you knew my dad back in the day.”

Marie snorted in amusement. “Ha! Please,” she scoffed. “Any hunter worth their salt knows that Mary Campbell was twice the hunter John could ever be.”

At that, Sam arched his eyebrow in curiosity.

“Really?” Sam asked. “Why is that?”

Marie gave Sam an odd look as though she was trying to decide whether he was joking or just plain stupid. “Because your mother was a Grimm,” she stated matter-of-factly. 

Sam frowned, his nose curling somewhat. “A what?”

“A Grimm,” Marie repeated, slower this time.

“What, you mean like Reapers? I thought they worked for Death?” Sam questioned.

Marie stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the taller man in disbelief. “You’re really telling me that you and your brother don't know what Grimms are?”

Sam shook his head and shrugged.

Just then, they were interrupted by a loud noise coming from the far end of the cannery. 

“Hey, let’s check over there,” Sam whispered. 

Marie nodded even as she made a mental note to continue the conversation after they found his brother.

*                             *                              *

Meanwhile, back at the mouth of the hallway, Elijah tore his wrist away from the girl’s lips, smearing some of his blood on them as he did. A few seconds later, her eyes shot open and she gasped and coughed hoarsely.

Elijah and Rufus quickly helped her to her feet at the same time Sam and Marie returned.

“Gwen, you're okay?” Sam breathed.

Gwen nodded and grunted as she stepped forward, her arm slung around Elijah’s shoulder. “Considering your brother tried to off me, yeah.” 

“Speaking of which, where is Dean?” Rufus inquired.

“We couldn't find him,” Marie said, her breathing starting to become labored. “But we need to find him. Soon.” She sheathed her knife back in her cane and took a step forward before she fell forward and nearly passed out. 

Sam caught her and all but scooped her up into his arms and he checked over her.

“Marie?” he asked, eyes scanning her weakened form. “Marie?”

“Sam, let's get the girls to the break room,” Elijah commanded. “Robert, you and the others locked down this level. Then we can worry about finding Dean before he finds us.”

Samuel growled under his breath softly, a sound that didn't go unnoticed by Sam. 

“Hey, we’re gonna find my brother alive, Samuel—” Sam warned, “or I’m gonna put a bullet into your head.

After getting Marie and Gwen into the break room, the men got to work locking down the cannery and keeping an eye out for Dean. Sam and Bobby paired up and searched the northern sector of the building while Rufus and Samuel took the east and Elijah handled the south. 

Just as Rufus and Samuel were making their final rounds, they heard a cell phone ring in one of the packaging rooms.

Rufus whirled around just in time to see a frazzled Dean aiming his gun at him and Samuel. 

“Dean, put that damn thing down,” Rufus ordered. 

A few minutes later, Elijah, Sam, and Bobby converged on Rufus and Samuel’s position to see Dean bickering with the older men.

“Look, I'm not in the mood,” Dean growled. “I just had a 12-inch herpe crawl out of my ear.”

“What?” Sam queried, tilting his head.

“You heard me!” Dean snapped. “I just woke up on the ground just in time to see this worm thing… sliding out of my fucking ear and into that vent. So you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“You almost killed Gwen,” Samuel sneered, still pointing his gun at his grandson.

“Oh, God is she?”

“No,” Elijah cut in. “I saved her.”

Dean let out a breath of relief, before he lowered his weapon. “All I remember is we were talking out in the hall. That thing must've jumped me.”

“So we’re talking about a monster that gets into you?” Bobby cut in confused.

“It's like a Khan worm on steroids or a fucking Goa’uld from Stargate,” Dean explained. 

“It's like a parasite that takes over the body,” Elijah concluded. 

“Monster possession?” Rufus scoffed. “That's novel.”

“What if it's still inside you and we can't trust a word that you're saying?” Samuel interrogated.

“It's not!” Dean growled.

“Check your ear,” Bobby said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Seconds later, Rufus stuck his finger in Dean’s ear, making the younger man jump back.

“Damn, at least buy me dinner first,” Dean snarked.

Elijah tilted his head as he studied the young hunter. Again, the man seems to have an odd obsession with penetration.

“Yep, we are goo-positive,” Rufus declared.

Dean frantic demanded to know what that meant while Elijah grabbed a nearby empty sack.

“It means the… Goa’uld was in you,” Elijah answered before opening the sack. “Now everyone give up your weapons.”

An uproar of protests assaulted the vampire’s ears, but he quickly silenced them with a stern shout.

“Listen to me,” Elijah instructed. “We don't know who does or does not possess the parasite, therefore, it will only be safe for everyone if you give up your weapons.”

“And what about you?” Samuel challenged. “How do we know you're not the one possessed?”

Elijah gave him a thin smile. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

Bobby sighed and relinquished his gun to Elijah. “He’s right,” he agreed. “We don't know who it is, and we should make it that much harder for the thing to blow our heads off.”

One by one, they each put their weapons in the bag, although Dean and Samuel had been the most reluctant to do so. They soon went back and informed Marie and Gwen of the situation and they also put their weapons in the bag.

Chapter Text

After all of the weapons had been collected, Bobby locked the bag away in one of the empty lockers near the break room.

With a sigh, he looked back towards the others and said, “Okay. We need some time to breathe. Make a plan.”

“A plan?” Samuel said dryly. “Based on what?”

“Let's start by contacting people who might know something,” Elijah suggested. “Perhaps someone else has heard of something like this that can give us a baseline to go on.”

Rufus hummed in agreement, before taking out his phone and saying, “Ditto. I got a few trees I can shake.”

Elijah, Bobby, and Rufus set to work calling everyone they knew who might have had some inclination as to what they might be dealing with. Unfortunately, they hadn't made any headway.

While they were doing that, Sam turned to Marie and asked, “Are you feeling better?”

“Somewhat,” Marie sighed, rubbing her bald head.

“Don’t you think you should take it easy with your…” Dean inquired, trailing off when she quirked her eyebrow up at him. 

“Careful, Winchester,” she warned. “You may have stopped the Apocalypse, but I’ll still kick your ass in this condition.”

Dean laughed softly and raised his hands in surrender. “Yes, ma’am,” he placated.

Sam grinned at their interaction before he chimed in again, this time asking, “So what's a Grimm? And what does our mom have to do with it?”

At that, Samuel perked up from where he sat at the far end of the room. 

Marie glanced at their grandfather then back at the expectant brothers and their young cousin, taking a deep breath.

“I don't know everything. I just wanna preface that before I continue,” she started. 

“What do you know?” Dean questioned.

“I know that your mother’s family is a part of a long, uninterrupted and undiluted lineage that traces back to the first Grimm,” Marie continued. “A Grimm is basically a hunter endowed with the strength, speed, and senses of supernatural creatures to give them an edge against what they hunt.”

Dean furrowed his brow and leaned in. “So, basically, they're like super-soldiers,” he reiterated.

Marie shrugged. “Depends. Some Grimms are born with niche abilities like Apex-tracking, which uses your sense of smell to isolate the target’s scent and use it to create a mental image of where your prey has been and where it is or will be. Others that I’ve known can bench-press 800 pounds or outrun a speeding car,” the older huntress answered. “But the one thing all Grimms have in common is that they can see the true faces of the supernatural, Wesen being the primary type.”

“You mentioned Wesen a couple of times when you told that story,” Gwen inquired. “What are they?”

“Wesen are a type of supernatural creature that have an animal-like transformation hidden under a human visage,” Marie explained. “Each Wesen turns into a different type of animal. Bauerswein are pigs, Eisbiebers are beavers, Reinigen are rats, Lowen are lions, and Blutbaden are wolves. There are a few exceptions like Hässlichs, Hexenbiests, Siegbarsts, and even some Wendigos, but overall… a lot of them are animal-based.”

“And, let me guess, the Alpha Wesen had the power to shape-shift into all of them,” Sam surmised. 

“Exactly,” Marie nodded.

“Okay, so how does this Grimm thing work exactly? I mean, is there some type of ritual that needs to be done or is it just the women in the family that get it?” Dean hounded. “Because not once have I ever had the strength to go toe-to-toe with a werewolf and not get knocked on my ass.”

“That's because yours hasn't activated yet,” Marie retorted. 

The younger hunters frowned at the older woman in confusion. 

“Wait, huh?” Dean voiced. “What do you mean?”

Marie sucked in a short breath before saying, “I still don't know how everything works, but what I do know is it’s genetic, it always goes to the firstborn, and women usually get it first. Now, I have talked to other Grimms who say that men typically get it on or around their 30th birthday, and if they don't get it before they turn 35, then they probably never will. Magic is usually pretty rigid about these sorts of things.”

“And could there be other reasons why a guy wouldn’t activate their Grimm whatever?” Dean questioned. 

“Yeah,” Marie started. “Could be that they are the second-born kid, which case, they have a 50/50 shot of getting it. Or they could be one of those late bloomers I was taking about. Or… their oldest Grimm ancestor or relative hasn't died yet.”

The instant the words left her mouth, Sam and Dean both zeroed in on their grandfather. 

“Are you sure?” Sam whispered to Marie.

Marie looked back at Samuel before turning back to the others. “It's the most likely possibility. That, plus all of the angelic and demonic interference in your lives, could have stunted or delayed both of your transformations,” she offered. “Then again, we won’t know for sure unless Samuel drops dead.”

“That can be arranged,” Dean chuckled darkly, his eyes narrowing in Samuel’s direction.

Just then, Samuel’s eyes met Dean’s, and he got up and started walking towards the door. However, he didn't get very far, as Sam got up to intercept him.

“Relax. I'm going to use the bathroom,” the old man groused. “Unless you want to hold it for me.”

Reluctantly, the younger Winchester stood down and let him pass, eyeing him warily as he left disappeared into the hallway. Then Sam caught his brother giving him a knowing look as he rose to his feet and started towards the door with Sam trailing behind him.

Once they were gone, Gwen continued asking Marie more questions about the Grimms even as Bobby, Rufus, and Elijah got off the phones and reconvened with each other about their findings.

“Well, I got a dump truck full of bupkis,” Bobby groaned.

“Not much on my end either,” Rufus echoed, before turning to Elijah. “You?”

“Sadly, no,” Elijah huffed, before pausing to think. “Did either of you call Willis?”

“Of course, you think I’m an idjit?” Bobby sassed.

A smile tugged at Rufus’s lips at the sight of them bickering.

“How about Rog?” Rufus asked.

“Wouldn’t talk to me,” Bobby exhaled.

“Yeah, me neither,” Rufus chuckled. 

“That's because you're both terrible with social relationships,” Elijah remarked, earning a glare from both men.

“Oh, yeah? Then tell me something,” Rufus started. “Did dear old Nik answer you? Or are you still waiting to hear back from your little Kit-Kat?”

To say that Elijah was speechless would be an understatement. While it didn't happen often, it did occur on occasion. But that didn't stop him from rolling his eyes.

“So, what’s our next option?” Elijah inquired, clearing his throat.

“Now, we find the thing and grab it,” Bobby sneered.

“And then what?” Rufus snarked.

“Well, either we sit here with our thumbs up our asses or we go in guns blazing,” Bobby grunted.

Rufus curled his lips into a sneer. “Like Omaha?” 

The room suddenly went deathly quiet and even Marie turned to glare at her old friend.

“Gwen, honey, why don't you go find the boys,” Marie gritted out.

Gwen seemed to have gotten the message and made herself scarce as Marie stood up and walked over to her boys.

Then she promptly whacked Rufus upside his head with the end of her cane, knocking him off his feet and hurtling towards the floor.

“Ow! Damn it, Marie!” Rufus howled.

“And damn you for bringing up Omaha,” Marie snarled. “That's just low.”

Samuel was just coming out of the bathroom when he got cornered by Sam and Dean.

“What?” he griped.

“Nothing. I'm just wondering how you sleep at night,” Dean shrugged.

“Like a baby,” Samuel snarked. “Thanks for asking.”

Dean stepped closer to his so-called grandfather seething with rage. “You fed us to Crowley!” he said, raising his voice.

Samuel pulled his lips together tightly and nodded. “True, but what am I gonna do about it now?” he argued. “Do I blame you for wanting to kill me? Of course not, Dean. What I did was—”

“What you did was unforgivable,” Gwen called out as she walked towards the trio. “And yet not once have you even tried to apologize. Hell, you lied to me about it, because you knew how I’d react.”

“Listen, I did what I did, but I don't cry over spilt blood,” Samuel gritted out. 

“Wow,” Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “So you can really just go on like…”

“Hey, don't you get all high-and-mighty on me,” Samuel shot back defensively. “Just because you're Dr. Jekyll right now doesn't give you the right to judge me. Remember, we spent a year together.”

“Exactly, we did,” Sam declared. “But you still sold me out.”

“Please, what I did pales in comparison to you,” Samuel countered.

“Alright, tell me what I did,” Sam challenged.

In an instant, Dean’s attitude flipped as he stepped in between Samuel and his brother as though his physical presence could stop Samuel from knocking down the wall inside Sam’s head.

“Look, forget about it!” he barked. “Now, listen, Samuel, the only reason you are alive right now is because we’re working a job. The minute we kill this thing… you're next.”

Samuel chuckled at Dean’s threat and shook his head, exposing his left ear which was oozing black goo. “Okay, then. We’ll just see.”

Dean saw Samuel reach into his pocket and pull out a small pistol and in a rush of motion, Dean hurriedly grabbed his grandfather’s arm and re-directed it towards the ceiling, seconds before he fired the gun.

Then, the monster-possessed Samuel snatched Gwen and hurled her into the boys, causing all three of them to collapse like dominoes, before running off.

Once they got up, Sam, Dean, and Gwen chased after him and ran into Bobby, Rufus, and Marie on their way down the hall. 

“Heard a shot,” Bobby said.

“Samuel,” Dean grunted before he, Sam, and Gwen darted off.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need my gun back now, Bobby,” Rufus stated.

“Oh, ya think?” Bobby grumbled.

*                              *                              *

Bobby plopped the bag onto the table in the break room and emptied it out so that Rufus and Marie could grab their guns.

“Hey, don't feel bad,” Rufus coddled sarcastically. “You know, it was a good plan you and Elijah cooked up. Except for the part where a monster would definitely, definitely not give up all his weapons.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bobby snapped. 

Dean burst through the door and with Sam and Gwen on his heels. 

“We lost him,” Dean said, huffing in frustration.

The younger trio headed over to the table and gathered their weapons while discussing their next move with the older hunters.

“Hey, guys,” Gwen piped up. “Where is Elijah?”

The others looked around, puzzling softly. 

“Oh, great, now we lost the vampire!” Rufus complained, throwing his arms in the air.

A few moments later, Elijah re-entered the break room in a blur of movement and shadow, carrying Samuel’s corpse over his shoulder.

“Elijah, what the fu—” Sam gasped.

“You all were taking too long, so I fixed the problem on my own,” Elijah cut off before dropping Samuel’s corpse onto the table like a sack of flour.

Dean tilted his head to the side and analyzed the bruising along Samuel’s neck. “You killed him?” 

“Yes,” Elijah answered simply.

“Why?” Dean continued.

Elijah fixed Dean with an unimpressed look. “Well, for starters, he was possessed, and for another he had already proven that he was willing to sacrifice his own family for personal gain,” the vampire responded. “And that is something I will not abide… especially when it’s my family he’s selling out.”

A pang of emotion swelled in Dean’s chest as the studied he vampire. 

“But you barely know me and Sam,” Dean reasoned.

“You’re Robert’s boys,” Elijah stated. “That's all I need to know to count you as family.”

“Ahem. So… did you see anything come out of him when you, uh…” Sam cut in.

“No,” Elijah shook his head. “But we can find out.” 

“How?” Gwen inquired.

The Original glanced at Bobby and asked, “Do you still carry a cranial saw in your trunk?”

“Course,” Bobby grumbled.

“You’re not going alone,” Dean chimed.

“Oh, no, he won't. The three of us will go grab some tools and see about getting some power in this place,” Rufus interfered, leading Bobby and Elijah to the exit before stopping to turn around and point at Sam, Dean, Marie, and Gwen. “And want you, you, you, and you to wa— Okay, I want you and you to watch him and him and— Alright, if anything crawls out of anybody, somebody step on it.”

“Don't worry. I'll watch Samuel. Dean can watch me,” Sam consented.

“The girls can watch us,” Dean added.

“And we’ll watch each other,” Marie concluded.

“And once again, everyone else proves to be a more eloquent speaker than you, Rufus,” Elijah japed.

“To hell with you, Mikaelson,” Rufus grumbled.

Chapter Text

This was crazy.

Every aspect of this case was insane.

This thing was playing three-card Monte with them. And it was winning.

“You know what’s crazy?” Sam asked, breaking the silence as he stared at Samuel’s corpse. “I barely remember him. But what I do remember… it wasn't good. And what he did to us… but—”

“There’s a but?” Gwen inquired from where she was leaning against one of the pillars with her arms folded.

“I'm with Gwen,” Dean agreed.

Sam shrugged and let out a tired sigh. “I mean, I can't help but think… what would Mom say?”

Dean thought about it for a moment before stepping closer to Sam.

“You know what I think Mom would say?” Dean started, sucking his teeth. “She’d say, “Just because you're blood doesn't make you family. You gotta earn that.” And if a 1,000-year-old vampire like Elijah can understand that concept and take that as law, then, I’m sorry, but I will not give Samuel a pass for not doing that.”

“Well said,” Marie smirked.

A while later the lights in the factory turned on and Bobby, Rufus, and Elijah returned carrying a few bags of power tools. 

“Alright, let’s play operation,” Rufus panted, setting the bag down.

As Rufus unzipped the bag, Elijah took notice of Gwen and the Winchesters, specifically Dean who was scrunching his face up and rubbing his temples as though he had a headache.

“The three of you should wait outside,” he said.

“We’re good,” Dean replied curtly, folding his arms over his chest.

“We’re about to pry open your grandfather’s skull,” Elijah reiterated. “Wait outside.” 

Dean balked in disbelief and opened his mouth to argue but the look Elijah gave him made him think better of it.

Dean reluctantly started heading for the door, but as he walked past the table where Samuel’s body was lying, Dean swore his eyes peered through the layers of skin and bones until it zeroed in on something curled around the base of Samuel’s spinal cord.

However, by the time he realized that what he was seeing was real, Samuel had already popped up from the table and barred the door with a plank of wood and a bent piece of metal before attacking the older hunters. 

Sam, Dean, and Gwen struggled to push open the door to no avail and were forced to watch as the shell of their grandfather plunged a broken shard of wood into Elijah’s chest and into his heart.

“I know this won't kill you,” the monster whispered to Elijah. “But it will keep you out of my way long enough to kill the others.”

“ELIJAH!” Bobby shouted.

He tried to get to the vampire and remove the stake from Elijah’s desiccated body, but was quickly thrown aside by the monster possessing Samuel.

Marie unsheathed her knife from her cane and swung at Samuel furiously, but she, too, was knocked away. 

The monster closed in on Rufus and beat him down until it caught Bobby trying to crawl towards the vampire. It let go of Rufus and gripped up Bobby and started choking the life out of him.

*                              *                              *

30 YEARS AGO…

Bobby kicked down the door of the abandoned factory and fired off two shots at the Reapers as he charged in.

Two of them went down, but another three came out from the shadows and set upon the young hunter with unintelligible speed and agility. 

Within seconds, they had him flung to the ground, and prepared to eat him alive. But then, Cheyenne bolted into the room, shooting one of the Wesen in the head while tackling the second head-on and wrestling it on the ground.

Other Reapers soon appeared and that’s when Rufus, Marie, and Elijah came through and systematically wiped them out, severing heads and ripping out hearts. 

When the dust settled, all of the Wesen were dead, and Cheyenne was lying on the cold factory floor with a dead Reaper beside her, a gaping wound in her neck and in her chest, and a rapidly expanding pool of blood beneath her.

*                              *                              *

PRESENT-DAY…

“Heave, damn it!” Dean yelled, pushing against the doors to no avail.

“He must have jammed it with metal,” Gwen panted. “There’s no way we’re getting through there.”

The monster had already (temporarily) killed Elijah and tossed Marie and Rufus to the side like ragdolls. Dean would be damned if this thing killed Bobby.

A dark shadow fell over Dean’s face, as he quickly plotted his next move.

“Stand back,” Dean growled, taking a few steps back from the double doors.

He waited for them to clear out before he started kicking at the doors, causing noticeable dents to appear in the metal, earning looks of shock from Gwen and Sam. Dean kicked the doors a grand total of two more times before they flew completely off their hinges. One of them soared towards the monster, who was still standing over Bobby’s body preparing to deliver the final blow with Bobby’s own saw, and smashed him against the pillar containing the electrical outlet.

Samuel’s body convulsed violently from where it was sandwiched in between the outlet and the metal door as electricity deep-fried his corpse and forced the monster to eject.

The worm monster scrambled down Samuel’s spasming body and disappeared from sight as Dean, Sam, and Gwen rushed over to check on Rufus, Bobby, and Marie.

They helped them up off the ground and the first thing Bobby said once he regained consciousness was, “Where’s Elijah?”

Dean, Sam, and Gwen looked towards Elijah’s body and sighed somberly.

“I'm sorry, Bobby,” Dean comforted.

Bobby looked at him strangely. “Sorry for what?”

Dean tilted his head, clearly caught off-guard by the nonchalant question. 

Moments later, a loud gasp startled everyone, but none more so than Sam, Dean, and Gwen, who watched as Elijah opened his eyes and sat straight up before pulling the stake out of his chest with an annoyed grunt.

“Robert, next time I try to wear my favorite suit on one of your little monster hunts, remind me of this moment and tell me to fuck off,” Elijah complained, as he stood up.

Dean instinctively pushed the others back as the vampire walked towards them. “Stay back, he could have the monster in him,” he warned.

Elijah let out a deep, long-suffering breath before saying, “Dean, if the monster wanted to possess me, do you honestly believe we would be having a conversation right now? Much less, that you would be breathing?”

“He’s got a point,” Rufus agreed with an awkward cough.

Elijah grinned. “Oh, how that must have hurt for you to say.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rufus waved off. “Point is: that monster has had plenty of opportunities to get inside Elijah while he was alone, and it didn't.”

“Why not?” Sam asked, leaning in.

“Personally,” Marie interjected. “I don't think it can. I mean, Elijah is a Mikalaen vampire, not an Evarien one. On top of that, he is an Original vampire created by witchcraft. Bottom line, he's too different.”

Dean listened to what Marie said, his eyes never once leaving the vampire’s.

“If you still aren't sure, then use your Grimm sight to see if it's in me,” Elijah volunteered.

A cold shiver ran down Dean’s spine, as everyone’s eyes turned on him.

“Wait, you activated?” Sam queried, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “When?”

“Not too long after Samuel died,” Dean answered with a shaky breath. “I felt this throbbing in my head and eyes. Then as we were walking out… it was like I had x-ray vision or something, and I could see this thing—it, whatever it was, curled at the base of his neck. Then, just now, when we were trying to get back in here, I—” 

“Felt like you could demolish a tank with your bare hands?” Marie offered.

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

“Okay, then, Superman,” Gwen coughed. “Is it in him?”

Dean narrowed his eyes at Elijah, feeling the same dull ache from before build up in his head, before his vision suddenly intensified, blocking out everything but Elijah’s skeletal system, which was still healing from where the stake had previously been lodged in his sternum.

But there was no sign of the worm anywhere. 

Dean screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away before re-opening them and facing the others with his normal vision. 

“He’s clean.”

“So, good news: Dean can see the thing and we know what tickles it,” Bobby chimed. 

“Yeah, bad news is I get a fucking headache every time I try to see it,” Dean groaned irritably, rubbing his pounding forehead.

“Which is all a natural part of the Grimm activation process,” Marie added, handing Dean a bottle of Tylenol. “It’ll clear up in a few days until the Sight settles into you. After that, you won’t have to try so hard to see.”

Dean was only half paying attention as he downed two Tylenol capsules in one go.

This was going to be a rough transition.

“So, then we have to rely on the other good news we got,” Sam continued. “Electricity. It can hurt it.”

“So it would seem,” Elijah concurred. “Now the question is where did it go?”

“We already counted you out,” Rufus piped up. “That leaves the rest of us.”

“No. Me, Sammy, and Gwen were awake,” Dean protested.

“Did you have eyes on each other?” Rufus questioned.

“Yes,” Dean responded.

“One hundred percent of the time?” Rufus clarified.

Dean looked at his younger relatives, who looked at each other and back at him.

“Define 100,” Dean stammered.

Rufus gave him a pointed nod. “Like I said.”

“Alright, how about a check for goo?” Sam suggested.

The hunters nodded in agreement and each stuck their fingers in their ears, which produced no viable result.

“Clean?” Sam asked.

“Clean on my end,” Dean nodded, before returning his hands to his temples.

“No goo,” Gwen said.

“None,” Rufus and Marie replied.

“Nope,” Bobby answered. “Maybe it's just gone.”

Dean shook his head fervently, before wincing in pain. “Nah, it just wised up. Started covering its trail,” he informed them.

“Spoken like a true Grimm,” Elijah smiled.

“Alright, then, let’s settle this, 100 percent,” Gwen declared.

Elijah was already one step ahead of them and had already taken the liberty of plugging in the cord from Bobby’s power saw and removing the insulation, leaving the wire exposed. Then he pressed the live wire against Samuel’s corpse, shocking it, and the others, to kingdom come.

“Okay, I’m not a doctor, but I'm gonna go ‘head and call this one,” Rufus quipped.

“So… who will be first?” Elijah inquired.

They all looked at each other, before Dean slowly stepped towards the vampire.

“Are you certain?” Elijah asked.

“Yeah, just do it before I change my— fuck! Shit! Damn it!” Dean swore, as the wire burned his skin and sent a surge of electricity through his body.

Once Elijah took the cord away from Dean’s body, Sam was next in line, biting back every swear word he knew as Elijah pressed it against Sam’s arm.

Marie and Gwen were the next to go each one having their own (admittedly hilarious) reactions to getting shocked, despite no sign of the creature.

And then there were two.

Bobby and Rufus.

Elijah’s eyes gleamed mischievously as he made a beeline for Rufus.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Rufus called out, backing up with his arms raised. “I'm sorry, but no.”

“No passes, Rufus,” Dean grunted, still recovering from the electrical shock and his headache.

“I got a damn pacemaker,” Rufus argued.

“Then pray it's a good one,” Elijah remarked, leaving no remove for argument.

“Since when do you have a pacemaker?” Marie and Bobby said in unison.

“Since Bush Jr., term one. I'm down three toes, too, FYI,” Rufus retorted, before looking back at the Original who was still standing there expectantly. 

Rufus let out a huff and rolled up his sleeve saying, “Fine just make it quick— ah!—”

Elijah chuckled impishly as the live wire sizzled Rufus’ skin. 

“Okay, I think he's had enough,” Dean asserted after a few seconds went by.

Elijah exhaled deeply and pulled the wire back as Rufus jumped back, cursing and carrying on like a lunatic, which only made Elijah laugh more.

“Are you all right?” Elijah chuckled.

“No, I’m not okay!” Rufus snapped. 

“Okay, my turn,” Bobby started. “Well, go right ahead, ‘cause it ain't inside me.”

“Alright, then hold still,” Elijah said, frowning somewhat. 

“Okay, uh, just a second, Mikaelson,” Bobby paused. “The answer is yes, by the way.”

Elijah’s eyes widened slightly before he used his vampire speed and strength to shove Bobby against the nearby pillar and zapped him on the neck, knocking the hunting knife Bobby was holding behind his back clatter to the floor.

The monster inside Bobby growled and shoved Elijah back with inhuman strength, and tried to get out.

However, he was swiftly knocked unconscious by Dean.

*                            *                             *

When he woke up, he was tied to a chair surrounded by Elijah, Rufus, Marie, Gwen and the Winchesters, each one glaring at him in suspicion.

“Well, hey there, you little herpe,” Dean snarked, before zapping it with the wire.

The monster grunted in pain, while Sam eyed Dean in confusion.

“Why do you keep talking about herpes?” Sam asked.

“What?” Dean replied, noticing the strange look he was getting from Sam. “I don't. Shut up.”

“You also have a very focused fascination with penetration that I have noticed,” Elijah chimed in.

Dean blanched and shook his head. “No, I don't.”

“I'm afraid you do,” Elijah grinned.

“Okay, can we get back on track here?” Rufus cut in.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and returned his focus to the current situation. “Now don’t you even think about shagging ass, because we got every crack in this room sealed,” he stated. “So get comfy.”

Bobby chuckled in a voice that wasn't his own. “I am comfy,” he said. “It's nice in here. And you love this guy, don’t you? You really wanna kill me and take him with me?”

“Perhaps if I fed Robert my blood as an insurance policy,” Elijah shot back, earning several glares from each of the hunters, albeit for different reasons.

“You won't,” the monster replied in a taunting tone. “You know that Bobby would never forgive you if you did that. And you still have that pitiful thought in your head that Bobby will still say those magic words.”

Elijah clenched his jaw, as black veins surged beneath his eyes, making them bloodshot.

Marie noticed Elijah’s shift and placed a gentle hand on his arm.

“We’ll do what we have to do. Now, we got some questions for you. You can either play ball…” Dean threatened, shocking the monster again, “or we can fry up a little shrimp on the barbie.”

“Ask,” it said. “Been waiting for you to ask.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Gwen piped up.

“It means I've got nothing to hide,” the monster chuckled.

“What are you?” Elijah interrogated.

“You haven't got a name for me yet,” the parasite replied. “I'm new around here. Eve cooked me up herself.”

Elijah glanced pointedly towards Rufus and cleared his throat. “So much for nothing new.”

“You know what?” Rufus started.

Sam quickly intervened before they could start fighting and asked another question.

“What's your deal in all of this?” he queried. “How is jumping a few truckers gonna help Eve retake the earth?”

The monster rolled Bobby’s eyes. “You think I'm here to mess with a couple of cannery workers?” it scoffed. “We led you here.”

“Why?” Dean seethed.

“She knows you're trying to reassemble the Dagger, and she wants to give you a message,” the monster responded.

“What’s that?” Marie questioned.

“She wants you to know you’ll never find all the pieces. And you're all going to die,” it grinned maniacally. “She’s pissed. She’s here. And it's gonna be nothing but pain for you from here on in.”

“Well, here’s my response,” Dean snarked, before zapping his monster-possessed surrogate father in the neck again.

“Dean, wait,” Sam blurted out. “How much more do you think he can take?”

“Can’t kill me without killing him,” the parasite snickered.

“Don’t count on it, Khan worm,” Rufus fired back, before looking at Sam. “Hand me that tape.”

Sam reluctantly obeyed and watched as Rufus taped Bobby’s lowered face over, leaving no room for the monster to escape.

“Robert, listen to me,” Elijah began, stepping forward and kneeling before the hunter, grabbing his hands with his. “You need to fight this. You need to be strong, just like I know you are.”

Dean started electrocution the monster again, turning his head away to avoid seeing Bobby convulse. 

Sam faced the opposite direction, running his fingers through his hair, while Gwen lowered her eyes. Rufus and Marie flinched away, unable to fully witness the pain their friend was in.

Only Elijah could stomach it. 

Only Elijah could stand to keep looking into the eyes of the one man who had come to mean more to him than even Rebekah and Niklaus.

Only Elijah could bear to stay strong and hold the hands of the man he was so desperately and hopelessly in love with… even as black ooze filtered out of every orifice in Bobby’s face and his heart rate faded into nothing.

Chapter Text

«Nevermind, I’ll find someone like you!

I wish nothing but the best for you, too

Don't forget me, I beg

I remember you said,

“Sometimes it lasts in love, 

But sometimes it hurts instead.”»

30 YEARS AGO…

Bobby just kept getting hit with one bombshell after another.

To learn that monsters and demons existed was one thing. To learn that there were people who hunted them was another. 

But to find out that the guy he dated during the 70s was something called an Original vampire was too much for the young mechanic to handle. 

It was bad enough Rufus was getting on his ass about dating a vampire, but now Elijah wouldn't leave him be. 

As if he actually gave a shit about Bobby in the first place.

If he gave a shit, he wouldn't have lied. Bobby thought to himself.

He needed a drink. Or several.

Preferably away from Elijah Mikaelson and all the chaos of this current case he was workin on.

But, alas, the universe seemed content to keep tormenting him.

“Robert, listen to me, please,” Elijah implored, chasing after Bobby as he stormed out of the warehouse.

“Forget it, Eli,” Bobby snapped. “If that even is your real name and not another lie you fed me.”

Elijah paused briefly as a pang of sadness stabbed him in the heart. 

Ouch.

Noting how much further away Bobby was, Elijah quickly shook himself out of his stupor and used his vampire speed to cut Bobby off, making the younger man jump back.

“Robert,” he started. “I know that I hurt you by lying, but that was never my intention. I loved you. I still do.”

Bobby scoffed and rolled his eyes, before moving to push past Elijah. “If that were true, you’d have been honest with me.”

“I just… I didn't want you to give up your normal life to be with someone like me,” the vampire reasoned. “It's why I—”

“Why you what?” Bobby questioned, whirling around to face Elijah, tears brimming in his eyes. “Why you disappeared in the middle of the night without so much as a word? Why you didn't answer my calls when I was worried sick? Why you let me think you were dead this whole time?”

“I know what I did was wrong. And I apologize for it. Trust me, leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done, but I did it to protect you from my world,” he replied.

“A lot of good it did, seeing as how I became a hunter after my wife was killed!” Bobby yelled, stalking towards the vampire, his handsome young face twisted into a sneer. “Now you give me one reason why I should forgive you… or leave me alone forever.”

Elijah hesitated before meeting Bobby’s gaze. “The truth, then. You shouldn't forgive me,” he confessed. “I can still barely forgive myself. All I know is that I left you once before and all it brought you was pain. Now all I want is to spend the rest of my existence making it up to you... if you’ll let me.”

Bobby stiffened, his jaw tightening. “You don’t get to show up outta the blue and say stuff like that. You left, Elijah.”

“And I’ve regretted it every day since,” Elijah admitted softly. “I made a mistake, Robert. One I intend to rectify.”

Bobby let out a bitter laugh. “You think it’s that easy? Just sayin’ sorry and pickin’ up where we left off?”

Elijah stepped closer, his voice low and earnest. “I know it’s not easy. I don’t expect forgiveness overnight. But I still love you, Robert. I always have.”

Bobby looked away, his shoulders tense.

“And,” Elijah continued, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes, “I want to marry you.”

Bobby’s heart seized in his chest and his head snapped back toward the vampire, his eyes wide. “The hell you just say?”

“You heard me,” Elijah said with a faint smile. “Marry me.”

Bobby stared at him for a long moment before scoffing, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “I wouldn’t say yes to you even if you asked me a thousand times.”

Elijah chuckled softly, a flicker of amusement breaking through his somber expression. “I suppose that means I’ll just have to keep asking.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Bobby retorted, though the affection in his voice betrayed him.

Elijah’s smile widened. “You’ll come around eventually, Robert. I have eternity to wait.”

Bobby shook his head, muttering under his breath as he turned to head back toward the warehouse. But for the first time in years, there was a warmth in his chest he couldn’t ignore.

PRESENT-DAY…

A faint roll of thunder boomed in the distance accompanied by a light drizzle falling from the cloudy, gray sky. Dean had just finished dousing the shrouded corpse on the funeral pyre with a scowl on his face while Gwen and Sam stood off to one side while Elijah, Rufus, and Bobby stood on the other.

Once that was done, Dean methodically took out his lighter and ignited it before tossing it onto Samuel’s pyre.

“He doesn't deserve it,” Dean grumbled, folding his arms.

“Would you rather he came back to haunt you as a ghost?” Rufus asked, as he watched the pyre go up in flames.

Dean glanced at Rufus before letting out an annoyed huff.

After a while, when the pyre had been reduced to ashes, and the remains were dust in the wind, Dean returned to the Impala to grab a beer along with Sam and Gwen while Marie and Elijah went off a-ways to talk about something pertaining to the Dagger, leaving Bobby and Rufus relatively alone.

“Hey, Rufus. I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” Bobby whispered to his friend, taking a shaky breath. “It was my fault. Omaha.”

That instantly got Rufus’ attention. 

At first, he didn't say anything. 

Then he shook his head and cleared his throat. “No. No, it wasn't,” he said.

“I should have listened to you,” Bobby continued.

“Well, that's categorical, Bobby,” Rufus shrugged off with a smile as he started walking back towards their cars. 

“Hey,” Bobby said, jogging after Rufus as he picked up his pace. “Will you let me get this out?”

“Bobby, we’ve had this conversation before,” Rufus griped, his patience beginning to dwindle.

“No, we haven't,” Bobby called out, drawing the others’ attention. “I never said I'm sorry, Rufus. I— You lost her because of me and I—”

Rufus stopped dead in his tracks and turned around to glare at Bobby. “I said we've had this conversation already,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes as he pointed an accusatory finger in Bobby’s face. “And you can blabber all day… and it wouldn't change a thing, Bobby. I will never forgive you for what happened. You got that? Never!”

Bobby’s heart sunk into his gut and he swallowed thickly.

Meanwhile, Rufus turned back around, ignoring the looks and stares he was getting from the others as he marched back to his car and drove off.

Sometime later after they said goodbye to Gwen, who promised to keep her eyes peeled for any sign of the blade meant for Eve’s Dagger, Marie and Elijah rendezvoused back at Bobby’s house along with the Winchesters and Bobby himself.

“The place still looks the same,” Marie chuckled, as she wandered around the old house.

“I should hope so,” Elijah smirked. “It adds to his charm.”

Despite the older duo cracking jokes about him, Bobby remained in his somber fugue state, setting Dean on edge. 

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean said, snapping Bobby out of his reverie. “You okay?”

Bobby looked around at his family, who were now staring at him with concern etched into their features. He started to nod his head, but stopped short when he saw Elijah’s soft, doe-brown eyes boring into his.

“I was just a job,” Bobby said, mostly to himself. “I was Joe Mechanic.”

He paused, looking around to the others before continuing. “Then my wife got possessed… went nuts on me. I stabbed her, that didn't stop her. Next thing I knew, this guy comes busting in,” he sniffled. “Soaks her with holy water and sends that demon straight back to hell so fast. I'd have gone away for killing her, but Rufus cleaned up everything; taught me a thing or two… about what’s really out there.”

Elijah felt a lump form in the back of his throat.

In all the years he had known Bobby, the vampire never once got the full story from the hunter about how he got into the life. Bobby never offered. Elijah never asked. And that seemed to work for them.

Elijah had always believed that when Bobby was ready for him to know, he would know.

And it seemed like now was the time for him to know.

“Pretty soon, we were riding together,” Bobby continued. “Worked like that for years. Kind of like you two knuckleheads.”

Dean quirked his lips upward in amusement as he listened to Bobby speak.

“So what happened?” Sam inquired.

Bobby shared a grim look with Marie and Elijah.

“Omaha,” the trio said in unison.

“It was my fault,” Bobby sighed.

“Robert,” Elijah started.

“No, Eli,” Bobby cut off firmly. “No amount of sweet talk can convince me otherwise. I did what I did. And he never let it go.”

“Well, he should have,” Dean scoffed, earning a surprised look from Bobby and a proud look from Elijah.

“You don't know what I did, Dean,” Bobby replied.

“Doesn't matter,” Dean waved off, approaching his adoptive father and placing a hand on his shoulder. “At the end of the day, you two were family. Life’s short. Ours are even shorter. We're gonna spend it wringing our hands?”

Dean turned back to look at the others and clenched his jaw. “Something will get us eventually, and when my guts get ripped out, just so you guys know, we’re good. Blanket apology for all the shit that anybody’s done, all the way around.”

Sam sucked in a breath as he shifted on his feet, thinking back on all his past mistakes.

“Some of us have pulled a lot of shit, Dean,” he remembered.

“Well, clean slate,” Dean countered. 

Elijah looked between the two Winchesters before looking back at Bobby with a small smile.

After getting Marie settled into on of the rooms upstairs in Bobby’s house, Elijah and Bobby sat in his study while Sam and Dean worked on the Impala in the garage.

“So…” Bobby piped up, drawing Elijah’s attention from where he sat across from Bobby at Bobby’s desk. “How’d you know it wasn't me?”

A knowing grin tugged at Elijah’s lips. “Easy. He said ‘yes’.”

Bobby frowned in confusion. “You mean…”

“I mean the big ‘yes’,” Elijah nodded in affirmation.

The old hunter arched his eyebrow in disbelief before saying, “I thought you wanted me to say ‘yes’.”

“I do,” Elijah agreed. “But you said you wouldn't marry me even if I asked you a thousand times.”

“Well, how many times have you asked?” Bobby queried.

Elijah’s gaze softened as he leaned in close. “Attempt #1,001: will you marry me?”

Bobby opened and closed his mouth several times as he gaped in amazement at the man in front of him. 

After all this time, all these years… he was still asking.

“Balls!” Bobby swore, as a wave of surrender crashed over him. “I guess we’re getting married then.”

Elijah laughed as he leaned over further and planted a chaste kiss on Bobby’s lips. “I suppose we are.”

Chapter Text

Days after working the “Goa’uld Case”— as Dean had so eloquently dubbed it— Elijah and Bobby decided to take a few weeks to recuperate, calling it an “old men’s retreat.” Elijah took Bobby up north and left his number in case the Winchesters ran into a problem.

Marie was still at Bobby’s and she was the only one who knew the real reason why her friends left. 

Nevertheless, she took advantage of the time she had to help train Dean to use his newfound Grimm abilities.

It was a warm sunny afternoon a few days after Elijah and Bobby had left when Marie led Sam and Dean out into the scrap yard where she had parked the trailer in the midst of a clearing surrounded by a bunch of beat-up cars.

It looked unassuming enough—rusted, small, and sun-bleached, but Dean couldn’t shake the sense of weight that clung to the air around it. He’d seen plenty of cursed objects and haunted spaces in his life, but this place was different. The trailer hummed with an old energy—something ancient and primal.

“This is where it all starts,” Marie said, her voice both reverent and resigned. She glanced back at Dean, her eyes sharp but warm, studying him like she was trying to size up the scope of his potential. “This is where you learn what it means to be a Grimm.”

Dean shot a quick glance at Sam, who was trailing a step behind him. Sam was quiet, watching Marie carefully, his expression somewhere between skepticism and concern. Dean knew his brother had questions, same as he did, but they weren’t the same kind. Sam was an outsider here—technically family through bloodline, sure, but the Grimm gene wasn’t active in him. Not like it was in Dean.

“You sure you can handle this, Winchester?” Marie asked, her tone teasing, though there was a hard edge beneath it. “I don’t know how much Grimm history you know, but ignorance gets people killed.”

“Lady, I’ve been hunting monsters since I was in diapers,” Dean shot back, smirking. “I think I can handle a few furry freaks.”

Marie chuckled darkly. “Yeah, let’s see if you’re laughing after you learn what’s out there.”

Dean’s smirk faltered as she swung the trailer door open. Inside, it felt like walking into a crypt. The air was heavy with dust, leather, and something faintly metallic—like old blood. Lanterns hung from hooks, their low light illuminating rows upon rows of strange books, weapons, and artifacts Dean didn’t recognize. There were bottles of strange powders and liquids on shelves, handwritten journals stacked on a central table, and glass jars containing unsettling shapes. The walls were plastered with sketches—monsters he’d never seen before, with names scribbled in Latin, German, and something else he couldn’t place.

“Well, I’ll be honest,” Dean started, sniffing slightly and swiping his hand over his face. “I’m a little underwhelmed. I was expecting more of a mystic Warehouse 13 on wheels and less of a travel-size version of Bobby’s living room.”

“Sarcasm won’t make the nerves ebb, honey,” Marie snorted walking towards the desk where she had several books stacked on top of it.

Meanwhile Sam had wandered over to the side table carrying different glass bottles filled with varying wild-colored liquids, each with a different label on it written in either German or Old Scandinavian. One in particular caught the tall man’s interest and he gingerly picked up the bottle and read the label.

“Hey, what’s this?” Sam inquired, holding up the bottle to show Marie and Dean.

Marie cringed and said, “Siegbarste’s Gift. It kills ogre/giant-like Wesen. Stinks like goat piss, too.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and folded his arms. “But it's called ‘Gift’,” he argued.

“Gift actually means poison,” Sam answered, earning an odd look from his brother and an impressed look from Marie. “What? Back when I was in college, Jessica taught me a little German, ‘cause her mom was from there.”

Dean blinked slowly before shaking his head and returning his focus back to Marie. “Okay, so I know the basic rundown of what a Grimm is,” he said, clearing his throat. “What about the rest?”

Marie dropped a heavy bag onto the table and started pulling items out—books, parchment, a wicked-looking curved blade, and what looked like an old handheld mirror framed in tarnished silver.

“Grimms have been the line between humans and Wesen for centuries,” Marie said as she unrolled one of the parchments. It was a detailed sketch of a creature—part human, part wolf, with a jaw full of razor teeth. “The problem is, most of humanity doesn’t even know they exist.”

“Yeah, we’ve seen some of that already,” Dean muttered, thinking of the way his vision had started to shift ever since the incident at the cannery— and in the days since then, how he could see people change, their features morphing into something monstrous, only to snap back in an instant.

They seemed to be everywhere now.

Hiding in plain sight.

Just like the alleged werewolves in Beacon Hills that Bobby and Elijah mentioned a few weeks ago. Hell, just like Elijah himself.

Ever since the Apocalypse ended, things had been different.

In the early days, a lot of it had to do with Crowley vying for control of Purgatory. Maybe that’s what started all of this. Maybe that was the reason why so many different types of supernatural beings that he had never heard of until now were suddenly making an appearance. Even his own blood, his Grimm, seemed to awaken in the face of these new and potential threats.

Marie’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not just about seeing them, Dean. It’s about what you do with that knowledge.” She tapped the parchment. “Grimms were hunters first—warriors against Wesen who crossed the line. But that’s not all we are. We’re protectors. Balancers. The thing about Wesen is, most of them just want to live their lives, same as humans. A Grimm’s job is to know the difference.”

“So, not all Wesen are monsters,” Sam interjected, crossing his arms. “That’s what you’re saying.”

Marie nodded. “Exactly. But some are. And the ones who are… well, they don’t play by human rules.” She looked directly at Dean. “That’s where you come in.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “So, what am I supposed to do? Start profiling every guy I meet at a gas station? ‘Hey, buddy, you look a little furry around the edges—care to explain?’”

Marie smirked. “You’ll know. You’ve already started to see it. In Samuel when he had that thing in him, in several others over the last few days, I'm sure,” she continued. “That’s the woge—the transformation. It's triggered by an emotional response from the Wesen.”

Dean nodded in comprehension. “So things like anger, stress, excitement…”

“Yeah, those types of reactions will trigger a woge,” Marie affirmed. “At first, it’ll feel like a curse, but you’ll learn to trust it. That’s the Grimm in you—its instincts.”

Dean glanced at Sam again, unsure how to process the weight of it all. Being a hunter was one thing. Being something more—a Grimm—felt like stepping into shoes he didn’t ask for. Shoes that were already too big.

Marie seemed to sense his hesitation. She held up the silver mirror and gestured for Dean to step forward. “You want to understand what it means to be a Grimm? Start here.”

Dean frowned. “It’s just a mirror.”

“Humor me.”

Dean took the mirror in his hands and held it up. For a moment, all he saw was his reflection—gruff, tired, and a little pissed off. But as he stared, something shifted. The edges of his face seemed to ripple, like the glass itself was alive. His jaw looked sharper. The lines of his face harsher. His green eyes darkened, a flash of something feral sparking behind them. Then, in an instant, the pupils in his eyes expanding until the whites of his eyes were covered in darkness, nearly making him drop the mirror in terror.

“You’re gonna die, Dean. And this… this is what you're gonna become!” the voice of his dream-self echoed through his mind.

Was this what he meant?

Was Dean always destined for this?

Maybe his subconscious was trying to prepare him even back then for what was going to happen. Maybe it was never about going to hell and becoming a demon.

Maybe it was always about his evolution into a Grimm.

A cold rush shot through his veins, and he dropped the mirror with a curse.

“What the hell was that?” Dean demanded, shoving the mirror back toward Marie.

“That,” Marie said evenly, “is your heritage. That’s the Grimm.”

Dean’s fists clenched, his breathing shallow. He didn’t like it—didn’t like the way it made him feel. Wild. Angry. Other.

Sam stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “Dean, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean muttered, but he could feel the Grimm lingering under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Marie wasn’t letting up. “That’s what it means to be a Grimm. You see Wesen for what they are. And when you let yourself embrace it, you’ll be stronger than you ever thought possible.”

“Great,” Dean said darkly. “So, I’m a one-man monster detector with a built-in rage mode. Just what I always wanted.”

“It’s not a curse,” Marie corrected him. “It’s a responsibility. And if you don’t embrace it—if you don’t learn how to control it—then it will control you.”

Dean went quiet at that. He knew what it felt like to lose control. He’d spent years teetering on the edge of that line, always afraid of what was on the other side. But this? This was something different. Deeper.

Marie softened slightly. “It doesn’t happen overnight. You’ll need to train. To learn. The Grimm instincts are strong, but they need guidance. And you’ll get it. If you’re willing to accept it.”

Dean exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly known for playing nice with destiny.”

Marie chuckled. “Then you’ll fit right in.”

For a long moment, no one said anything. The trailer was silent except for the soft creaking of the floorboards beneath their feet. Sam finally spoke up, his voice even. “So, what’s next?”

Marie glanced at the weapons along the walls, then back at Dean. “Next, we teach you how to fight like a Grimm. You’ve hunted plenty of things, but Wesen fight differently. They’re faster. Deadlier. You’ll need every advantage you can get.”

Dean nodded slowly, the weight of his new reality sinking in. He was a Grimm. Whether he liked it or not. And he was going to have to figure out how to live with it.

Chapter Text

A few days before they left Sioux Falls…

“What do you mean I only get a week?” Elijah balked indignantly as he and Bobby packed their bags in Bobby's cluttered study. His voice carried the same carefully composed grace it always did, though there was a distinct undercurrent of irritation this time.

“I mean I can only handle so much girly, lovey-dovey bullshit,” Bobby replied gruffly, folding a worn plaid shirt into his suitcase.

“But it's our honeymoon, and we’re going to be gone for 24 days!” the vampire protested, his brow furrowing deeply.

“Exactly, which is why I’m givin’ ya a whole week of that time to do all your wooin’,” Bobby explained, his voice steady. “No more, no less. Besides, I’m sure you got a few errands you need to run anyway.”

If ever it was said that Elijah Mikaelson never pouted, then they clearly hadn’t seen him at this exact moment. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he folded his arms across his chest in a manner that was unmistakably sulky, despite his usual elegance.

“Go ahead and pout all you want, makes me no difference,” Bobby snarked without even looking up.

Letting out a resigned sigh, Elijah finally relented, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated defeat. “Very well,” he harrumphed. “I shall have to find a way to fit 30 years’ worth of love and affection into a seven-day honeymoon.”

Bobby snorted in response. “I have no doubt you will.”

Present Day…

The first stop on their honeymoon was a county fair. Bobby had insisted it was the quintessential American pastime, and Elijah, who had a penchant for indulging his husband, agreed. The fairgrounds were sprawling, bustling with activity, the scents of fried dough, roasted peanuts, and cotton candy mingling with the sound of distant laughter and the occasional metallic clang of a game bell.

Elijah, ever the perfectionist, proved to be annoyingly good at the games. Whether it was knocking down milk bottles or hitting a target dead center, he won every time, much to the irritation of the carnies running the booths. Bobby wasn’t far behind, his sharp aim earning him prize after prize.

Their knack for winning every carnival game quickly made them the bane of the fair staff. Ring toss, shooting gallery, whack-a-mole—there was nothing Elijah’s precision and Bobby’s sharp aim couldn’t conquer. By the end of the night, they had won a small army of stuffed animals.

“What the hell are we gonna do with all these?” Bobby grumbled, carrying an oversized bag of prizes.

Elijah glanced at the line of children eyeing their loot. “Distribute them, of course.”

One by one, they handed out the toys to the kids, earning cheers and grateful smiles. Bobby kept only one prize: a dog-sized purple rhinoceros.

“This one’s mine,” he declared firmly.

Elijah raised an amused brow but didn’t argue.

“What? It’s cute,” he grunted defensively when Elijah raised a brow at him.

They handed off most of their winnings—stuffed animals, oversized plush toys, and ridiculous trinkets—to passing kids, their eyes lighting up with delight.

Later, at the fair, Elijah adjusted the cufflinks on his tailored shirt as he eyed a towering roller coaster with an intrigued gleam in his eye.

“I’m going on that one,” he declared, pointing at the ride as it rattled down a steep drop, the passengers screaming in delight.

“You have fun with that,” Bobby replied, casually licking a stick of cotton candy. “I’ll be over on the Ferris wheel where the sane people are.”

“Come now, husband,” Elijah teased, slipping his hand into Bobby’s and pulling him toward the line. “Live a little.”

Bobby grumbled but allowed himself to be dragged along. The moment the roller coaster climbed its first hill, Bobby immediately regretted his decision. “Oh, hell no—”

The ride plunged, and Bobby’s curses were drowned out by Elijah’s exhilarated laughter.

The only ride they equally loved? The bumper cars.

The fairgrounds became their playground over the next few days. As Bobby discovered his love for bumper cars, gleefully slamming into Elijah at every opportunity, Elijah retaliated with a competitive streak that had him plotting elaborate ambushes in the rink.

The vampire’s competitive streak came out in full force, and Bobby was more than happy to oblige him, grinning like a fool as they rammed into each other, sending sparks flying.

The faint roar of engines vibrated in Bobby’s chest as he leaned forward in his chair, eyes glued to the dirt track below. Bikes tore around sharp turns, spraying clouds of mud into the air as fans screamed in unison.

Elijah, impeccably dressed in a light summer suit and a scarf (because of course he was), watched the event with a bemused smile. “Fascinating,” he murmured, tilting his head. “It’s like a gladiatorial battle, only with fewer spears and significantly more dirt.”

Bobby smirked. “And a helluva lot more fun. Tell me you don’t love it.”

Elijah chuckled softly. “It is... invigorating. Though I must admit, I fail to see the artistry in repeatedly driving in circles.”

“It’s not about artistry, you pompous bastard. It’s about guts and glory,” Bobby said, taking a sip of his soda.

Elijah rolled his eyes but stayed quiet. He found himself enjoying the chaos and the unrefined excitement of the crowd, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

*                              *                              *

The evenings brought a different kind of fun. On their second night, Elijah insisted on taking Bobby to a Cirque du Soleil show. Bobby grumbled about “fancy circus nonsense” but was soon captivated by the acrobatics and artistry.

The following evening, Elijah relented to Bobby’s suggestion, and they found themselves in a gay country bar. Bobby looked perfectly at home, his cowboy hat perched jauntily on his head as he nursed a beer. Elijah, on the other hand, felt out of place in his tailored ensemble.

It didn’t help that the other patrons kept sneering at him or eyeing Bobby like a piece of meat.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Bobby said, placing a reassuring hand on Elijah’s shoulder.

“It doesn’t,” Elijah replied coolly. “Their opinions are irrelevant. But if one more man ogles you, I may be forced to demonstrate why I am the superior match.”

Bobby chuckled. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

When the music shifted to a slower song, Elijah took Bobby’s hand and led him to the dance floor. The other patrons watched in surprise as the two men moved together with practiced ease, their movements fluid and commanding.

By the time the song ended, Elijah’s earlier detractors were now watching him with open admiration.

Once they arrived at the state fair in Kansas City, Missouri, Elijah had mapped out a carefully curated itinerary. Bobby rolled his eyes but went along with it, especially since it included activities he actually enjoyed—concerts, amusement parks, and even a monster truck show.

“You’re enjoyin’ this more than I thought you would,” Bobby observed as Elijah enthusiastically pointed out his favorite stunts at the motocross event.

“I am merely appreciative of the artistry and precision involved,” Elijah replied primly, though the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

At night, they visited more Cirque du Soleil shows, where Elijah marveled at the acrobatics and Bobby grumbled good-naturedly about how he’d “never seen so many people bend like pretzels.”

Despite all the excitement, Bobby was firm about one rule: Elijah could fuss about his diet outside the parks, but inside, it was all fair game. “I ain’t spendin’ my vacation eating kale while there’s a perfectly good funnel cake stand over there,” Bobby declared as he dug into his fifth corndog of the day. Elijah sighed but relented, content to watch his husband indulge for once.

As the week neared its end, Elijah grew noticeably subdued. He tried to hide it, but Bobby could see the slight downturn of his lips, the wistfulness in his eyes.

“Alright, fine,” Bobby grumbled one evening as they sat by a fire pit at the fairgrounds. “You can have three more days. But NO MORE THAN THAT! We ain’t all young whippersnappers, you know. We’re supposed to be old men.”

Elijah’s face lit up in a way that made Bobby’s gruffness falter. “Thank you, husband,” Elijah said softly, his voice warm and sincere.

*                              *                              *

Their extended honeymoon included antiquing at estate sales, where Elijah’s sharp eye for mystical objects proved invaluable. At one sale, he uncovered a rare talisman hidden among a pile of old jewelry, while Bobby haggled for a set of antique tools.

As they crisscrossed the country going from fair to fair, taking in every sight, Elijah couldn't help but be ostentatious as he flaunted his relationship with Bobby. After all, the man was very stubborn about allowing himself to be spoiled and taken care of even on the best of days.

A particularly bold display of affection occurred while they were in the town of Odessa, Texas where they spent a few days antiquing, scouring garage sales, and hunting for more mystical treasures. Elijah, ever the connoisseur, drove them around in a sleek rental car that turned heads wherever they went.

When they weren’t hunting for treasures, they spent lazy afternoons test-driving luxury cars (Elijah’s idea) or rummaging through garage sales for hidden gems (Bobby’s idea).

Elijah couldn’t hide the quiet pride he felt as he escorted Bobby around. Though he tried to remain dignified, there was a certain shy thrill in being able to openly claim Bobby as his husband. Bobby noticed but didn’t tease him for it. Instead, he felt his own swell of pride.

At one point, Bobby did bring it up with him, but Elijah was unapologetic.

“I am proud to be escorting my husband around, regardless of what we are doing or where we are,” Elijah said with quiet conviction.

Again, normally, Bobby would poke fun, but Elijah’s sheer, sweet joy was disarming. For once, Bobby couldn’t help but feel a little proud himself—of his husband and of how happy Elijah seemed to be by his side.

Of course these were not the only… pleasures that the newlyweds indulged in. The two men could barely keep their hands off each other as though no time had passed since they were last together.

Even after their honeymoon “ended” and Elijah continued to follow up on some of his personal affairs, the Original and the hunter seemed to cling to one another as though the other person was the very air they breathed.

Despite this, Elijah, ever the gentleman, still tried to remain in control of himself and his desires. After all, it would do him no good to lose control and give Bobby a heart attack, especially now that Bobby’s older than he was 30 years ago, and so soon after their nuptials. And he would be damned if that is what took his love out of this world. 

No, he would restrain himself— try as Robert might to make him act unhinged— even if every instinct in his bones told him to let go.

He would ensure that the only thing his husband experienced during this rare vacation was blissful peace.

But, unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

It was during the second week of their sabbatical when he got that god forsaken phone call.

Nearly a quarter past midnight in their hotel in Milwaukee, Elijah was lying semi-buried under Bobby who was passed out next to him, snoring like thunder. Miraculously, this didn't seem to disturb Elijah’s slumber at all. Then again, even the Mikaelson patriarch was exhausted after the particularly vigorous night of passion shared between them.

When all of a sudden his cell phone shrieked from where it sat on the nightstand, rousing the immortal from his, admittedly, well-deserved, rest.

“Get it,” Bobby mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I would if you could just lift the right side of your torso so that I can use my arm to grab it,” Elijah retorted groggily.

“Nah, thanks. I'm good,” Bobby slurred before drifting off once more.

Elijah fixed him with a glare, but Bobby was already snoring again, leaving Elijah to try a wriggle his arm out from under Bobby to reach his phone as it continued to ring.

At last, he pressed the answer button and put the phone up to his ear and cleared his throat before speaking.

“This is Elijah speaking,” he began tiredly.

“Elijah, where are you?” came the voice of the one woman he never expected to hear from.

In a blur of motion, Elijah freed himself from Bobby’s grasp, causing the latter to grunt in protest, as he sat straight up, his eyes wide in shock.

“Damn it, Eli, what the—” Bobby complained. 

However, he was quickly shushed by Elijah as he continued speaking on the phone.

“Katerina?” Elijah said, still not fully believing it was her. “Why are you calling?”

“Because we need to meet,” she answered urgently. “I have the Cure.”

The words nearly sucked the breath out of Elijah’s lungs.

It actually existed.

And, somehow, it was in the hands of Katerina Petrova.

Fuck!

“Are you certain that it's the Cure?” Elijah inquired.

“Yes!” Katherine exclaimed. “Now stop beating around the bush and tell me where you are so we can meet.”

“No,” Elijah responded quickly. “Where I am is… not safe. Let's meet somewhere remote and we can talk then.”

He heard Katherine groan in frustration on the other end of the line.

“Fine,” she relented. “There is a town up in Pennsylvania where I’m staying at, I’ll send you the info.”

“Alright, I have some personal endeavors that I need to complete before I arrive, but it should take me longer than a week,” Elijah replied.

“But Elijah,” Katherine started.

“It won't take me long. I’ll be on my way before you get too antsy,” Elijah appeased.

“Okay, fine,” Katherine huffed before continuing. “I love you, Elijah.”

A fresh wave of bile nearly ejected from his throat.

Centuries ago, those words would have made his heart soar. Now all they did was remind him of a bitter past and a deceitful girl who toyed with his heart.

“Goodbye, Katerina,” he said simply, before hanging up.

“So—” Bobby piped up, startling the vampire (a rather impressive feat), “seems like we’re going to Pennsylvania.”

Chapter Text

Bobby Singer’s house had always felt like a second home to Sam and Dean—a fortress of books, weapons, and memories. But now, with Bobby off somewhere doing God knows what (neither brother could get him to admit where he was going before he left), the house felt emptier. Quieter. And for the first time in a long time, a little… strange.

Dean found himself pacing the living room, his senses sharper than ever. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the windows—it all felt magnified, amplified to a point where it was hard to ignore. Marie Kessler leaned casually against the kitchen doorway, her sharp eyes tracking Dean’s every move like a hawk watching prey. She held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other, flipping through pages with an air of casual authority.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep that up,” she said, taking a slow sip of her coffee.

Dean stopped, scowling. “You’re supposed to be training me, not making snarky comments.”

Marie smirked. “I’m observing. You can tell a lot about someone by how they handle restlessness.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah? And what’s your expert diagnosis, Doc?”

“That you’re impatient, stubborn, and too used to being in control,” Marie replied bluntly. She set her coffee down and gestured toward the backyard. “Come on, let’s put that energy to good use.”

The sprawling fields surrounding Bobby Singer’s house were alive with the vibrant energy of spring. Cicadas buzzed in the midday heat, and the occasional breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and grease from Bobby’s old salvage yard. The house itself, usually a hub of chaos and activity, was eerily quiet—save for the occasional crash of metal or the grunting exertions of a training session.

Marie Kessler stood in the yard, her arms crossed, watching as Dean tackled another round of drills. His shirt clung to his back, drenched in sweat, but he didn’t slow down. She’d been pushing him hard for the last few hours, but his stamina was holding. That was good. He was improving.

“You’ve got about ten seconds before that Wesen would’ve gutted you,” Marie barked as Dean dodged left, narrowly avoiding the weighted sandbag she’d hurled at him.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you stopped trying to kill me, I’d learn faster!” Dean shot back, catching his breath.

Marie smirked. “A Grimm who hesitates is a dead Grimm. You think Wesen are gonna give you a break because you’re tired? Tough luck, Winchester.”

She hefted another sandbag and threw it with precision, this time aiming for his legs. Dean sprang into the air, twisting his body mid-jump, and landed in a crouch.

“Better,” Marie said, nodding. “But don’t get cocky. We’re just getting started.”

Dean let out a breathless scoff as he hunched over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Oh, yeah? What's next?”

Marie walked towards the outskirts of the salvage yard further away from the house where the trailer was parked, and disappeared inside. When he returned, she had a large oversized duffel bag slung over her slender shoulders with several weapons poking out of the open end.

Then she set the bag down on top of the trunk of a nearby car that was well past its prime and unloaded the contents of the bag.

Having caught most of his breath, Dean rose to his full height and trudged over to the elder Grimm, his feet crunching loudly against the gravel.

The sun crept over the edges of Bobby Singer’s junkyard, bathing the rusted cars and faded metal in a bright yellow glow. It was a rare quiet afternoon, the kind Bobby himself would’ve killed for back in the day. But the Winchesters weren’t here to enjoy the calm. Not by a long shot.

Dean came to stand beside her in the middle of Bobby’s backyard, hands on his hips, staring down at a selection of medieval weapons Marie Kessler had laid out on the trunk. Swords, axes, spears, daggers—there were even a few shields. Each one glinted with a predatory edge, practically humming with deadly potential.

Marie circled him like a hawk, an iron staff in her hands. “Pick one.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Just one? What’s this, ‘Choose Your Own Adventure: The Grimm Edition?’”

Marie didn’t laugh. “You think Wesen are gonna give you time to make jokes when they’re coming at you? Pick. One.”

Dean sighed, muttering something under his breath, and grabbed a longsword. It was heavier than it looked, but it felt solid in his hands. “Alright, Donatello, what now?”

Marie smirked. “Now, you learn to survive.”

She lunged at him without warning, twirling the staff in her hands. Dean barely had time to react before the staff cracked against the side of his sword, sending vibrations through his arms. He stumbled back, almost dropping the blade.

“First rule of being a Grimm,” Marie barked. “Stay on your feet!”

“What the hell is even the point of this when I have a gun?” Dean grunted dodging another attack.

Marie swung her staff in a wide arc as he attempted to whirl out of the way, cracking it along his lower back.

“Ah! Son of a bitch!” Dean swore as he stumbled forward.

“Guns run out of ammo,” Marie stated. “And while Wesen can be killed by them, they also have incredible super-healing rivaling that of an Original. Ergo, nothing short of a headshot or a shot straight to the heart will down a Wesen, temporarily, at that, which means the best way to ensure they die is decapitation.”

“Okay, then why use a sword? Why not use a machete?” Dean questioned.

“Why not use a regular blade on an angel instead of an angel blade? Why not use a regular blade on a demon instead of the demon blade? It's more effective,” Marie quipped. “Our ancestors forged these weapons in the fires of Zakynthos using a mix of iron, silver, an archaic spell created by the first Grimm, and the blood of the first Grimm.”

She walked towards him and grabbed the sword out of his hands to show him the flat of the blade. “You see these?” she queried, drawing his attention to the intricate markings etched into the blade, nearly identical to the ones that had been on the box containing the Sheath.

“These are the same runes from the box you gave us back in Jersey,” Dean mentioned.

Marie nodded in affirmation, before showing him her staff. She traced the outline of the symbols on her weapon, making them glow a faint pastel blue. 

“The runes on these weapons can kill Wesen and keep ‘em dead,” she informed the latter. “And before you ask me how you decapitate a Wesen with a staff, all you need to do is add the right amount of force behind a well-placed strike.”

Dean nodded in understanding as he took the sword back from her.

“Okay,” he huffed, adjusting his grip on the hilt. “Let's do this.”

In a split second, after he said that, the two Grimms charged at each other, weapons poised to strike, and all that could be heard was the thunderous clash of metal, which startled a flock of birds perched in a nearby tree.

Meanwhile, in the trailer parked outside, Sam sat at the central table, surrounded by an overwhelming number of dusty books and jars filled with strange liquids and powders. He carefully flipped through one of the Grimm bestiaries, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Let’s see,” he muttered to himself, running a finger down the page. “Blutbaden… Fuchsbau… Reinigen… Man, these names are a mouthful.”

Sam had taken on the task of translating the bestiaries, many of which were written in old German, Latin, or even older dialects he could barely identify. The sheer amount of information was staggering—detailed descriptions of Wesen, their habits, their weaknesses, and, most importantly, how to deal with them.

As he worked, Sam’s gaze drifted to the shelves lining the walls. Bottles of poisons and potions sat neatly in rows, though their labels were faded and nearly illegible. With a sigh, he grabbed a notepad and began making a list.

“This place is a mess,” he muttered, shaking his head. “How does she find anything in here?”

Behind him, the weapons vault stood open, its contents an eclectic mix of swords, axes, crossbows, and more. Sam had taken it upon himself to reorganize the arsenal, matching weapons with their corresponding Wesen entries in the bestiaries. It was tedious work, but he figured it was better than getting in the way of Dean’s training.

By the time Dean and Marie called it a day, the sun was beginning to set. Dean collapsed onto the couch, his entire body sore. Sam walked in a moment later, holding a notebook filled with notes.

“How’s it going out here?” Sam asked, his tone light but curious.

Dean groaned. “Marie’s trying to kill me. Apparently, it’s the only way to train a Grimm.”

Marie rolled her eyes. “You’ll thank me when you’re not dead.”

Sam chuckled and set the notebook on the table. “Well, while you’ve been getting your butt kicked, I’ve been translating these bestiaries. There’s a lot of information in there—stuff that could really come in handy.”

Dean glanced at the notebook, then back at Sam. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like how to neutralize a Wesen’s abilities without killing them,” Sam said. “Or how to identify one before they woge. Some of this stuff could save lives.”

Marie nodded approvingly. “Good work, Sam. It’s not as flashy as what Dean’s doing, but it’s just as important.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Bookworm saves the day. What else is new?”

Sam just rolled his eyes and handed Dean a cold beer. “You’re welcome.”

The three of them settled into a companionable silence, the weight of the day’s work settling over them. For the first time in a long time, Dean felt like they were making progress. It wasn’t easy, and it sure as hell wasn’t fun, but it was worth it.

Because this wasn’t just about hunting anymore. It was about something bigger—something Dean was only beginning to understand.

Chapter Text

“So, aside from being the cream corn capital of Pennsylvania and having an annual cornfield festival, why are we here exactly?” Bobby asked, staring at a brochure of Willoughby, Pennsylvania, as he and Elijah strolled around town.

“Because this is where Katerina told me to meet her so that she could give me The Cure,” Elijah replied. “I suppose she’ll want me to give it to Niklaus on her behalf as a way of pardoning her for her past transgressions against my brother.”

Bobby snorted snidely. “So she’s basically using you as a vampire shield against your brother,” he surmised.

“Essentially, yes,” Elijah nodded in affirmation, his lips quirking upward at his husband’s witty remark.

“And tell me again why you're allowin’ yourself to be a sacrificial lamb?” Bobby queried. “I mean, I don't know Katerina or Klaus, but both of ‘em seem like the type of folk you don't want lingering too close to your valuables.”

Elijah chuckled, leaning closer to Bobby as he walked. “Niklaus has been known to be unpredictable and downright intolerable at times, but he is my brother despite all of his atrociousness. And I still believe that he can be redeemed,” the vampire began, before furrowing his eyebrows. “Katerina was one of few individuals who managed to capture my heart throughout my long eternity spent on this Earth. And until recently, she was the one that I took refuge in when the… loneliness of my existence got the better of me.”

Bobby pulled his lips together in a thin line and nodded, as the realization fell over him while the Original vampire avoided the human man’s gaze.

“Hey,” Bobby said, placing a comforting hand on Elijah’s shoulder to stop him from walking further. “I get it. I mean, being immortal like that, living life through centuries of hardship and tragedy… it's probably hard to find the good moments in between all the bad stuff. And it ain't like we’ve had a perfect run over the years, startin’ and stoppin’ until we’re both blue and our heads are spinnin’.”

“Yes, but even with our turbulent history of over 40 years, I wouldn’t trade a second of it,” Elijah proclaimed, cupping Bobby’s face. “Katerina did at one point mean something to me, but no longer. What I am doing now is simply returning a favor I owe to her. Once it is done, you and I can carry on living our lives happily and without interference.”

Bobby gave his partner a derisive smirk. “You really think Klaus is gonna take that well?”

“Niklaus may take it any way he sees fit,” Elijah retorted, his other hand curling around the collar of Bobby’s flannel. “For the first time in a millennium, I am taking something that I want instead of sacrificing it all for him, and if he tries to take you from me… I will part him from this world myself.”

“Okay, no need to get all dramatic,” Bobby snorted in an attempt to wave him off. 

Elijah pulled Bobby against him, closing the distance between them with a fervent kiss. When they broke apart, Elijah pressed his forehead against Bobby’s, forcing the other man to meet his gaze.

“Does this look like the face of a man who is being over-dramatic?” Elijah questioned.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Bobby quipped, breaking the tension between them.

The vampire rolled his eyes and tried to distance himself from the hunter, but Bobby tugged against him and held him close.

“But seriously… you’d honestly kill Klaus over me?” Bobby asked.

Elijah stroked Bobby’s bearded face with his knuckles, enjoying the faint tickle he felt as his hand grazed his cheek.

“Robert, there is nothing on Earth I would not do for you if you asked,” he confessed. “Even if you asked me to give you the sun, I would find a way to arrest it from the heavens and present it to you. If you asked me to take care of your sons, I would defend them with every breath in my body. And if you were threatened by my siblings, I would soon find myself standing as the Last Original.”

Bobby swallowed the lump forming in his throat before letting out a long-suffering sigh and shaking his head.

“You could have just said ‘yes’, you know?” Bobby let out.

“But that wouldn't have been nearly as romantic, now would it? And as I said, I have 30 years worth of wooing to make up for,” Elijah smirked before looking down at his watch. “Now, it's almost two o’clock. If I am to do this meeting with Katerina, I need to go now. But I’ll meet you later back at the hotel and we can get dinner before we leave.”

“Sure you don't need backup?” Bobby inquired.

“I think I’ve got it handled, my love,” Elijah smiled, pulling away from his spouse. “But I’ll call you if anything changes or if I need anything.”

“You better,” Bobby replied warningly.

“I love you,” Elijah declared.

“Yeah, I love you, too, idjit,” Bobby groused, fighting off the small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

By the time, he got to the gazebo, Katherine was already there waiting for him, pacing in a circle, as she looked around for any sign of him.

Elijah let out a sigh and steeled himself to go treat with the devil herself.

“Katerina,” he called out from behind her, making her jump. 

It was a wonder she didn't twist her ankle from how she stumbled back in those 6-inch long stilettos.

“Elijah,” she gasped, her face contorted strangely. “Running a bit late aren't you?”

“It couldn't be helped,” Elijah responded.

Yes, it could have. He just wanted to take as many moments of happiness as he could with Bobby before the bullshit started.

“You colored your hair,” he noticed, as he stepped closer to her. “It's nice.”

She smiled shyly. 

That was new.

He's never known her to be shy about anything.

Something wasn't right. He didn't know what, but he needed to find out before he went through with this deal.

“This is an interesting little town you’ve chosen to settle down in,” he remarked, looking around at their surroundings. “So do you have it with you?”

She tilted her head, saying, “Do I have what?” 

He raised a single dark eyebrow. “The Cure,” he responded as though it were obvious.

The silence between them was deafening, as he watched her scramble to come up with some sort of lie. However, it was only after taking note of the daylight ring on her finger that he put two and two together.

When she tried to walk away from him, he was quick to yank her back, holding her in a death grip.

“Where’s Katherine, Elena?” he demanded.

“Elijah, what are you doing? I am Katherine,” Elena insisted trying and failing to wrench herself free of the Original’s grip.

“Elena,” her started, exhaling sharply, tightening his grip. “I have interrupted my honeymoon to come and deal with this. I am in no mood to play games with you or the Salvatore brothers who cling to you like you are their last hope for salvation. Tell me where is Katherine!”

When it became clear that she wasn't going to answer his questions, Elijah snapped her neck and carried her off in a blur of wind and motion.

Chapter Text

By the time Elena came, she was in a completely different place on the other side of town. Above her, Elijah paced in agitation, his left hand needled his thumb in between his fingers while the other held onto his phone with a death grip.

This was wrong. 

It was all going so wrong.

Elena wasn't supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be done with this whole thing by now.

Get the Cure from Katherine and get out of town. That was the plan.

But, of course, the universe had to throw a wrench into those plans. Typical.

And conveniently it happened while he was enjoying his happiness with the love of his life.

Just then, his phone rang loudly in his hand and he quickly answered it. “Katerina?” he said.

“Hello, Elijah,” came the smug sound of Stefan Salvatore’s voice on the other end of the line. 

“Where’s Katherine?” Elijah interrogated.

“Where’s Elena?” Stefan retorted.

“She is safe,” Elijah answered. “How long she remains so depends entirely on you.”

“Well, then, I guess the same thing goes for Katherine,” Stefan sassed.

Elijah didn't even try to stifle to snort of laughter that flew past his lips. “Oh, I think she can take care of herself against the two of you.”

“You mean the three of us,” Stefan corrected, making Elijah pause. “Yeah, it seems your little sister has joined team “good guy” for the time being.”

The Original vampire took a deep, calming breath as he slowly took the phone with his other hand and placed it over his opposite ear.

“Put her on the phone,” he commanded.

Stefan chuckled at him over the phone and it was all Elijah could do to not walk over and snatch Elena’s heart out of his chest and make Stefan listen to her choke on her own blood. 

Easy, now. Take it easy. You just got married, Elijah. It wouldn't do well for the longevity of your marriage if you killed an innocent girl. He thought to himself.

Besides, that was more of a Niklaus move anyhow.

“Your sister's not here right now,” Stefan continues, completely unaware of the older vampire’s internal struggle. “I left her with Damon and Katherine. Relax. No one is gonna get hurt as long as Katherine hands over the Cure.”

Elijah rolled his eyes and growled softly under his breath. “Do you understand how much my sister despises Katherine?” he started. “I assure you, Rebekah will end her the second she ceases to be of use.”

Not that he truly cared. He just wanted that damn Cure before she shuffled off her immortal coil. 

Then he could get back to living out his days with Robert and their boys.

But first, he had to deal with these children.

“Well, just tell me where you are and we can talk this through,” Stefan negotiated.

“Listen to me,” Elijah seethed. “I need that Cure from Katherine. And I will not stop until I get it. Now if anything happens to her before I get that cure or if you steal the Cure from me, I will descend upon Elena.”

Then he hung up the phone as he came to stand beside the newborn vampiress, who looked uncharacteristically bored.

“You’re both idiots,” Elena scoffed, rolling her eyes, before turning to walk away from the Original.

Elijah arched his eyebrow in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“Ugh!” Elena groaned in frustration, as she turned to face him. “What happened to you, Elijah? I mean, I thought you were supposed to be a man of honor. And yet you've been hooking up with Katherine this whole time?”

Elijah couldn't help but laugh at the young girl’s accusation causing her eyebrows to knit together in confusion as she puzzled.

“Elena. Young, naive Elena,” he laughed, shaking his head in amusement. “I’ll admit that not too long ago I was entranced by her charms, but no longer. The only reason I am here now is because she has something that I want.”

“What?” Elena asked.

“Katherine contacted me when she learned of the Cure,” Elijah explained. “She wants me to use the Cure to barter for her freedom with Niklaus. I want to have the Cure on hand to protect my family. Unlike those two fools you surround yourself with, I am not so easily fooled by her traps.”

Elena quirked her lips upward softly but said nothing and waited for him to continue.

“I know who she is. I know what she’s done. And while I hope that one day she can change for the better…” he trailed off, “I'm not counting on it.”

“Still,” Elena responded, stepping closer. “That's a lot of effort to go through to obtain the Cure just to protect your family. Sure there isn't another reason?”

Elijah analyzed the way she spoke, the way she walked and acted, and came to a startling realization. “You’re not just a vampire now, are you?” he mused. “You’ve abandoned your emotions. Why?”

Elena folded her arms across her chest haughtily. “My brother’s dead. Your ex-girlfriend killed him.”

Dear God.

That was…

Fucking hell, Katherine! He snarled internally.

The Original let out an audible sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes shut.

“You didn't know,” Elena realized.

“No, and if I had, I probably would have left her to rot and taken my chances with losing the Cure,” Elijah huffed, already feeling a headache forming in the back of his skull.

“Wow,” Elena said. “You say I’ve changed, but what’s gotten into you?”

Elijah paused, debating on whether or not to disclose any more information before saying, “Love, Elena. Love got to me.”

She snickered derisively.

Oh, yes. Her humanity is definitely off. The real Elena would never laugh at something like that. Elijah thought.

“You’re kidding?” she mocked.

“Would that I was,” Elijah replied.

Just then, his phone rang again, but this time it was from Bobby.

Speak of the devil.

A faint smile danced across his lips as his cheeks warmed at the sight of Bobby’s name flickering on the screen.

Clicking the answer button, Elijah put the phone against his ear and said, “Hello, love. Yes, things are taking a little longer than I expected them to. No, no, trouble. Just a minor complication. I know darling, and I said I would if I needed it. Well, then, take a nap. Rest a while. I’ll call you when this is done and we can get dinner. I love you.”

Then he hung up the phone and returned his attention to the young vampire currently sitting across from him.

“So who is she?” Elena smirked.

“Bold of you to assume my partner is a woman,” Elijah japed, taking Elena somewhat by surprise. “But never mind my personal life. I am sorry about what happened to Jeremy. I know what it feels like to lose a brother. I'm sorry for your pain, I… I only hope that you can find your way back to yourself someday.”

“Just like you hope Katherine will find her way back?” Elena snarked. “You really think that she can be redeemed?”

“Elena, I still think that Klaus can be redeemed, by some miracle. You can tone down your disbelief,” Elijah said. “Now, I may not be around her long enough to see it, but that doesn't change my beliefs on the matter.” 

“You boys are all the same,” Elena huffed. “Stefan and Damon still think their precious sweet girl is still in here somewhere, but she’s not.”

“You can't blame them for having hope,” Elijah reasoned, leaning against the wall. “It would be a shame if the world lost a soul as compassionate as yours.”

“I remember hearing you say something like that once… in a letter,” she remembered. 

“And I meant every word,” he smiled.

“I know,” she shrugged. “It felt good to watch that letter burn, along with my old life, and my brother’s body.”

Just then, Katherine arrived in a blur of motion, snapping Elena’s neck and causing Elijah to tense up automatically.

“Sorry,” Katherine smirked. “I got held up.”

Chapter Text

“For the love of—” Elijah started.

Katherine chuckled. “Oh, come on. She could use a nap,” she said. “It must be exhausting trying to be me.”

Then she turned to walk away while Elijah still hovered over Elena’s body.

“You killed Jeremy Gilbert,” Elijah sneered, as he rose to his full height and turned to face the Petrova vampire.

Katherine paused mid-step, letting out a frustrated sigh as she stared at the Original.

“Yes, Elijah. I killed Jeremy Gilbert,” Katherine nodded. “Which is a bombshell I’m sure she just couldn't wait to drop on you. Ironic, since she supposedly doesn't care about anything.”

“I care,” Elijah snapped. “Do you honestly feel nothing for this girl; a girl fated to live the same life that you’ve endured? And now you’ve just taken away the last of her family just as yours was taken away from you.”

Katherine shifted her weight on her feet, her eyes flitting away from Elijah’s steely gaze. “Why are you looking at me like I enjoyed it?”

Elijah scoffed in disbelief before walking past her to leave the tunnel, ignoring the clacking of Katherine’s heels as she chased after him. 

“Jeremy was collateral damage,” Katherine called out. “I was doing what I needed to do to survive.”

“And that's all anyone, including myself, is to you,” Elijah proclaimed. “A means of survival.”

“Don't let sweet, little Elena get to you,” Katherine pleaded, pointing back at the unconscious vampire. “She hates me. She wants you to turn against me, and convince you that I can’t be trusted.”

“Elena didn't need to do anything to turn me against you. I already know what kind of person you are, and yet I still cling to this idea in my head that perhaps you can change,” Elijah breathed. “But you won't. You never will.”

Katherine reached out to pull Elijah back before he could disappear, and said, “That's not true! I can change, and I have. I would never use you as a means of survival. You looked out for me when no one else would. You're giving me a second chance now when no one else will. I love you.” 

Elijah pulled himself away from Katherine and stepped back. 

“But I don't love you,” he said evenly. “And if I did, you would have broken my heart just now.”

“Elijah,” Katherine muttered, her voice wavering slightly.

“I am done believing you,” Elijah declared. “I am done letting you make a fool of me at every turn. I don't know you. I don't know that I ever will.”

With that, he turned away from her and started walking away.

“Elijah, wait!” she yelled, whirring past him to cut him off. “You gave me your word that you would talk to Klaus. I— I can't make a deal without you.”

The Original shook his head and scoffed.

Even now she still tried to use him to defend herself against Klaus. 

“Goodbye, Katherine,” Elijah replied, leaving a devastated vampire in his wake.

The second the hotel door opened, Bobby was bombarded with the tender love and affection of his vampire husband.

“Whoa, there,” Bobby said, his voice stifled as Elijah busied himself with showering Bobby’s face with kisses. “Easy, tiger. I ain't gonna disappear.”

“I know,” Elijah murmured against Bobby’s neck, clinging to the hunter. “I just don't know what I’d do without you. Who I would be.”

Realizing something was amiss, Bobby scrunched up his eyebrows and slightly pulled away from Elijah. Bobby placed a gentle hand at the base of his neck and made the vampire meet his gaze.

“What happened?” Bobby asked.

Elijah let out a shaky breath. “Katherine.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes, realizing that did nothing to explain the situation… and yet, it explained everything so perfectly.

Chapter Text

Later that evening after a romantic dinner out, Elijah and Bobby strolled down the sidewalk side-by-side on the way back to the car when Katherine suddenly came upon them.

“Elijah,” Katherine started. 

Elijah stiffened, even as he put himself between his husband and his ex-lover.

“Katherine, what are you doing here?” he interrogated. “I thought I made it clear that I was done with you.”

“This is Katherine?” Bobby blurted out, trying to push past Elijah.

“Yes, I am,” Katherine bristled. “Who the hell are you?”

“None of your concern,” Elijah snapped. “Now leave us in peace. This is your last warning.”

Katherine’s eyes widened in fear as she lifted her hands in surrender. “Wait. Just hear me out. I didn't come to fight.”

“Then why have you come?” the Original vampire questioned, his eyes turning red as black veins surged beneath his eyes.

Katherine slowly reached into her purse and pulled out a small vial before handing it to the man in front of her.

Elijah took the vial and analyzed it curiously, while Bobby stepped to the side and studied the red liquid in the vial.

“Holy mother,” Bobby murmured.

“Is this what I think it is?” Elijah asked.

Katherine nodded in affirmation, her expression turning solemn. 

“What's the catch?” Elijah huffed.

“Nothing,” she answered back.

Elijah scoffed and turned his head away.

“I mean it,” Katherine promised. “You were right. I’ve spent so much time running and lying just to survive that I don't… I’m starting to believe my own lies. I don't even remember who I was when we first met. And… I want to find out.”

A brief silence hung over them as Elijah toyed with the vial in his hands, waiting for her to continue.

“Now, I could shove that down Klaus’s throat and try to kill him but even if I manage to do it… I’d lose you,” Katherine resumed. “And I don't want that to happen.”

“It's already happened, Katerina,” Elijah sighed. “I don't love you, not like I once did. I’ve moved on. I'm happy.”

At hearing those words, something in Katherine broke, and for the first time, she noticed how closely Elijah was standing next to the older man (well, younger, by their standards).

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to reach over and snap the man’s neck.

But she knew if she did that, Elijah would never forgive her. Hell, with how protectively he was standing in front of the man, Elijah would more than likely kill her if she tried anything.

And for the first time in five hundred years, Katherine Pierce felt powerless.

Powerless to save her own skin.

Powerless to convince the man she loved to trust her.

Powerless to even get him to reciprocate her love.

Nevertheless, she held her head high and didn't allow the cracks to show as she continued on. 

“And I respect that. I understand that you don't trust me, but I am still deciding to give you this because I meant what I said about my feelings for you,” she began shakily. “And even if you can't feel anything romantic for me, I’d like to hope that after all this… you can find it in your heart to feel something positive for me. I need you to trust me. I want you to trust me. Just like I'm trusting you. You don't owe me anything. I'm gonna let you decide where we go from here.”

Then without another word, she walked away from the duo and disappeared into the night.

Once she was out of earshot, a new voice suddenly startled the couple.

“And here I was under the impression that you and Katherine were a thing,” Rebekah called out as she hopped down from where she sat on the hood of Elijah’s car.

Elijah smiled at his sister, even as he still stood protectively in front of Bobby.

“Rebekah,” he said. “I heard you were in town looking for the Cure.”

“So, why don't you give it to me so that I can leave you and your lover to whatever you were doing before Katherine roped you into this?” Rebekah smiled, folding her arms.

“First off, he's my husband, not my lover. Second, what could you possibly want with the Cure?” Elijah inquired, quirking an eyebrow.

It only took Rebekah a moment to answer before she said, “I want to be human again.”

Elijah stumbled back, well, as much as he would allow himself to stumble back in public.

“And how do you know being human is the answer you're looking for?” Elijah asked, tilting his head to the side. “I mean it's nothing but a romantic notion. The grass won’t necessarily be greener, Rebekah.”

The younger Original huffed in irritation and shrugged.

“You’re probably right, but I don't care,” Rebekah snipped.

Bobby snorted dismissively, earning a furrowed look from Rebekah, before saying, “Oh, yeah, ‘cause that’s a real mature way to approach having a shortened, non-supernatural life.”

The Original Vampiress ignored the hunter’s comment and returned her attention to her brother who seemed to be fighting off a smirk. 

“Look, Elijah, I want to live life as a normal person. And when it ends, it ends,” Rebekah explained. “We’ve had twenty lifetimes together, brother. Isn't that enough?”

Elijah shook his head and frowned, putting his hands in his pockets. “I just don't understand. I mean, why must you always consider our family a burden?” he questioned. “Always and forever. I mean, those words are as important to me today as they ever were.”

Rebekah sniffled softly, blinking the wetness out of her eyes as she continued on. “You will always be my brother. And I will never stop loving you,” she began. “But now it's time for me to live and die the way that I choose. Not the way you and Nik want me to. Please. Please just give me the Cure.”

Chapter Text

Just then, Rebekah’s phone rang, breaking the poignant silence that had fallen upon them. As the phone continued to ring, Rebekah sighed and rolled her eyes, pulling the annoying little device out of her back pocket.

When they saw the Caller ID, Elijah said, “Put it on speaker.”

Rebekah raised her eyebrow in confusion, but nevertheless did as he asked before saying, “What do you want, Nik?”

“Any update on our elusive search for the Cure?” Klaus replied.

Rebekah sucked on her teeth, struggling to quell her frustration before saying, “Let's just say that things have gotten complicated. In fact, why don't you speak to one of those complications? Here.”

Elijah’s lips contorted into an annoyed sneer as he took the phone from his sister while he rounded the fender of his car to get to the driver’s side. “Complication speaking,” he proclaimed sassily, as he opened the car door.

There was a brief pause on the other side of the phone, followed by a deep rumble of laughter that made Bobby’s skin crawl.

“Big brother,” Klaus drawled. “At last, you join the fray.”

“Yes, well, somebody had to take charge,” Elijah retorted, getting into the car. “Excuse me, one second. Back seat, Rebekah. He sits up front.”

Rebekah balked indignantly as she watched Bobby get into the front. She opened her mouth to protest, but Elijah’s stern look left no room for argument as he gestured for her to sit in the back. She pouted and slid into the back seat of the car with a huff, folding her arms petulantly.

“Is someone else, besides our dear sister, there with you?” Klaus queried impishly. “A new girlfriend, perhaps.”

Why do they always assume I am with a woman? Elijah wondered.

“Never mind that for now, Niklaus, I’ll be sure to introduce you in person. Now, I’ve got the Cure and I’m bringing it back to Mystic Falls,” Elijah answered swiftly.

“With a long list of demands, I assume,” Klaus exhaled.

“Not that long,” the eldest Mikaelson replied.

“Come home, brother,” Klaus implored. “We’ll settle this like family.”

Then the phone call ended, leaving the trio in heavy silence.

“Well, that sounds fucking terrible,” Bobby blurted out.

The Originals both stared at him inquisitively and waited for him to continue.

“I'm just sayin’ most of the time, from what I’ve heard, whenever Klaus wants to settle things like family, it usually ends with one of you guys getting a dagger to the chest and being shoved in a box ‘til that asshole gets bored,” Bobby clarified.

Rebekah snorted in amusement and nodded, “Yes, exactly!” she exclaimed. “And between you and me, it sucks even worse when you're his favorite. He always ruins my favorite dresses.”

“Oh, come now,” Elijah protested. “That's…” he paused when he turned his head and saw the deadpan looks on both Rebekah and Bobby’s faces. “… not an unfair statement.”

“Whatever! Let's get this show on the road,” Bobby stated, pulling out his phone. “I'm gonna call the boys and tell them we’ll be home later than expected.”

“You think they’ll survive that long without us?” Elijah questioned, the corner of his lips tugging upward.

“Yeah, Marie’s got ‘em,” Bobby waved off.

In the back seat, Rebekah Mikaelson shook her head in disbelief at the pure domestic bliss her brother was portraying. “You never cease to amaze, brother.”

“I aim to please,” Elijah beamed.

Then he started the car and drove off.

Chapter Text

Since Bobby and Elijah left, Sam and Dean had spent the better part of a month under Marie Kessler’s tutelage. And while it was fun the first few days, learning and training, after a few WEEKS of going through the same drills, practicing the same languages, and memorizing the same books and potions… well, the boys were getting antsy (and Dean, with his newfound supernatural strength, speed, and senses was itching for a real fight).

Finally, after much prodding and begging, Marie consented to temporarily pause their training, but only if they swore to come up with something else productive to do. 

Thankfully, Gwen called them up, telling them that she found some information about the Mother of All in an old Grimoire in the Campbell family compound. The boys were all too happy to hurry their asses out of Bobby’s house to go meet with her, but not before grabbing all of the journals and tomes they could find in the trailer that had any mention of Eve.

“You better bring all my shit back, Winchesters,” Marie griped as she helped them pack the last of the books into the Impala.

Sam smiled and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. You got it!”

“Dean,” Marie called out, earning the young man’s attention. “You pack the sword?”

Dean groaned loudly. “Marie, this is supposed to be my mini-vacation.”

“Yeah, but you never know when you might run into trouble,” Marie berated, with no real bite in her voice. 

Dean looked to his brother for help, but all Sam did was raise his hands in the air and shake his head. 

Then, after getting a pointed glare from the older woman, Dean skulked across the salvage yard to the Airstream trailer and went inside. While he was in there, Marie let out a tired sigh and leaned against the hood of the Impala, drawing a concerned look from Sam.

“You need to get more rest, Marie,” Sam said. “Or, better yet, see a doctor.”

Marie scoffed and rolled her eyes. “All those yahoos will do is tell me to start doing that fucking chemo again, and I’m not doing that. Not while there are still Wesen to hunt and Grimms to train.”

“Yeah, speaking of Grimms, don't you have a nephew about my age? Won't he be activating soon?” Sam asked pointedly. “He’s gonna need you. But you won't be able to help him unless you take care of yourself.”

“I’ll be fine,” Marie gritted out a little too harshly, causing the younger man to clamp up. 

Taking a deep breath, she exhaled again and clasped his arm with a shaky, but firm hand. 

“Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll turn in early for the night to get some extra rest,” Marie relented. “Okay?”

Sam pulled his lips together in a somber smile and nodded.

“HEY!” Dean shouted as he jogged back to the car with the sheathed longsword in hand. “Okay, I got the sword. Now, can we go?” 

Marie let out a huff as she rolled her eyes fondly. 

“Alright, fine. Go!” she groused, moving away from the hood. “Before I change my mind.”

Dean opened up the back seat door and carefully set it on the floor before closing the door. 

Then he and Sam looked back and waved one last time before getting into the car and driving out of Bobby’s salvage yard.

As the salvage yard faded in the distance in the rearview mirror, Sam’s face contorted into a frown, the familiar sting of anxiety pricking at his lungs.

“Sammy, if you worry any more, your forehead is gonna look like an Etch-N’-Sketch, and your heart will give out,” Dean snarked. “She’s gonna be fine. She’s a tough lady. Kicked my ass a number of times, in case you forgot. Plus, we’ll only be gone a day or two max.”

Sam arched his eyebrow softly as he turned to look at his brother. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

Dean smiled easily, though he kept his eyes focused on the road. 

“Who says I can't do both?”

Chapter Text

“Alright, Gwen, tell us what you got,” Dean said, as he and Sam followed their younger cousin down into the Campbell compound.

Gwen turned to look back at them, saying, “I think it’ll be better if I just show you.”

She led them further into the compound until they made it to Samuel’s old office.

“Hey, one of you help me move this,” she said as she moved around to lift one end of Samuel’s desk.

Dean stepped forward, but instead of grabbing the other end, he went around the desk and pulled the chair out from behind it before bending over and placing one hand underneath the hollow side of the desk while gripping the opposite end.

“Let go, I got it,” he replied.

Then he hoisted it over his shoulder with ease, walked it across the room, and set it down gently, without breaking a sweat or dropping anything.

Dean wiped his hands together and grinned before he turned back to the others, who stared at him with different reactions.

“You do know that was a 160-pound mahogany desk, right?” Gwen informed him, blinking her eyes in amazement.

“Yeah, uh, Gwen, I've seen him bench five times that in the last three weeks,” Sam snorted.

Gwen’s eyes bulged out of her head as she looked between her cousins in disbelief while Dean grinned proudly.

“Think that’s impressive, you should see how fast I can run,” Dean beamed.

“Okay, Superman,” Gwen snickered, though she was still reeling from the revelation of her cousin's newfound abilities.

Focusing back on the current task, she crouched down and pulled up a small metal pin on the floor, opening a hatch door that led down into an underground bunker. Then she urged them to follow her as she descended into the earth.

Once they were all in the bunker, she turned on the lights and said, “Welcome to the Campbell family library.”

The boys gawked at the impressive stockpile of bookcases and armoires lining the cement walls of the bunker, as they followed Gwen over to one of the desks, where several books were stacked haphazardly on the table as well as several coffee mugs.

“Dude, have you even slept?” Dean chided.

As if on cue, Gwen covered her mouth to stifle the yawn threatening to overwhelm her and shrugged. “I took a few power naps.”

“When?” Sam scoffed.

“After we burned Samuel’s bones,” she retorted. “Then I decided to read up on our family history after the whole Grimm/Eve thing. Now, are you gonna mother me to death or do you wanna find out how to kill this heifer?”

Dean bit back a laugh while Sam metaphorically stumbled back at her words. Despite this, they both nodded in agreement and followed her once more.

As they got closer to the table, Sam noticed one of the books was already open to a bookmarked page.

“Samuel collected all of this stuff?” Sam questioned.

“Well, some of it has been in the family for generations, but a few niche items were recovered from all over the world,” Gwen responded.

“What's this?” Dean asked.

“This is what I found,” Gwen answered, taking a seat in the chair.

Sam and Dean pulled out the chairs next to her and sat on either side of her, leaning over to see the bookmarked page.

“See, I got to thinking about what Marie said about the two Earth mages that tried to stop the Alpha Wesen from reviving Eve back in Pompeii. So, I started researching other kinds of Wesen and came across a rare species of them called Feuervogel,” she explained.

“Firebird,” Sam translated, before he paused in realization. “You mean like a Phoenix?”

She smiled and nodded in affirmation. “Exactly!” she said, pointing at the page. “And here is one of the only documented accounts of a Feuervogel in recorded supernatural history dating as far back as the fall of Pompeii.”

“You saying that the Phoenix was born from the Alpha Wesen in Pompeii?” Dean queried.

“I'm saying the Alpha Wesen was the Phoenix from Pompeii,” she clarified. “Marie said this thing shifted into animals, right? Well, I think that when Simeon and his brother used whatever earth magic they conjured to make Vesuvius erupt, the Alpha Wesen shifted into a Phoenix to save his own skin.”

“Why do you think the Alpha Wesen was the only one?” Sam questioned.

Gwen reached over and grabbed two more books before flipping through them to find what she was looking for and passing them to Sam and Dean.

“Because in every other journal I’ve looked at, they each describe the Phoenix’s human form the same: dark hair, dark eyes, strong nose, and thin lips. And some of them,” she continued, passing by to grab another journal and flip through it before she landed on the right page, “even have drawings of what he looks like.”

The brothers stared at the detailed sketch of the Phoenix with intrigue. 

“His clothing and fashion sense may change over the times, but this is the same face that I’ve seen show up in several different journals from several of our ancestors spanning the Middle Ages and the Renaissance,” Gwen elaborated.

“Okay, so, you're telling me that the Alpha Wesen, not only survived Pompeii’s destruction, but he is still alive and has been living covertly among us for the last 2,000 years?” Sam balked.

Gwen smacked her lips softly before getting up from the table. “Yes and no,” she started, walking over to another table where another stack of opened books was splayed out across the table. “The last recorded appearance of the Alpha Wesen, a.k.a. the Feuervogel, was on March 5th, 1861, in Sunrise, Wyoming.”

“Who recorded it?” Dean inquired.

Gwen smirked knowingly as she walked back to the table with a small journal in hand, with her thumb pressed in between the pages of the book. Then she plopped it down on the table, keeping her thumb on the page until she fully reopened the book.

“Read that passage,” she said.

Dean gave her a questioning look, but all she did was gesture at him eagerly.

Sighing, Dean took a breath before he reread the passage out loud.

“Gun killed a Phoenix today,” Dean began, his green eyes widening at the implication. “Left a pile of smoldering ash.”

“Wait a second. Gun?” Sam asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “Whose gun?”

“Colt’s,” Gwen and Dean said in unison.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Colt, as in—?”

“As in the Colt,” Gwen confirmed. “This here… is Samuel Colt’s diary.”

“No, way,” Sam grinned.

“Yeah, way,” Gwen replied.

“Holy shit! You actually have Samuel Colt’s journal,” Dean exclaimed. “That’s awesome.”

“So, where did he track it?” Sam examined.

Gwen let out a tired huff. “That part I don't know. All it says here is that the gun killed the Phoenix; nothing else.”

“Okay, um, as amazing as all of this is, how does this help us defeat Eve?” Sam challenged.

“Because in one of the other tomes I found, it said that the ashes of the Elder Phoenix can burn The Mother,” Gwen announced.

Chapter Text

“Okay, but according to your theory, he was the only Phoenix to ever live, and if he died in 1861, that still doesn't help us get his ashes to kill Eve,” Sam argued.

“Unless we Star Trek IV this bitch,” Dean suggested. 

“What?” Sam said in confusion. 

“You mean time travel?” Gwen translated.

Dean looked up at Gwen and smiled. “You are officially my favorite relative. But, yes. We go back in time, tag along on Colt’s Phoenix hunt. Once we kill it, we haul the ashes back with us.”

“I'm still stuck on the fact that you think time travel is a reasonable plan,” Gwen shook her head.

“Well, we got a guy who can swing it,” Dean said, before standing up.

The Winchester and Campbell patriarch braced his hands on the table firmly as he leaned over it and bowed his head.

“Castiel… the, uh, fate of the world is in the balance… so come on down here,” Dean prayed, opening one eye to see if the angel showed up to no avail. “Come on, Cass. I Dream of Jeannie your ass down here, pronto. Please.”

A sudden gust of wind alerted the hunters to the presence of an angel in their midst. Albeit, not the one they were praying to.

Instead, they were greeted with the sight of a petite blonde woman.

“Jeannie?” Dean asked in genuine confusion.

“Rachel,” the angel corrected. “I understand you need some assistance. How can I help you?”

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times looking to the others who simply stared blankly.

“Uh, well, we kind of need to talk to the Big Kahuna,” Dean said.

“I'm here on Castiel’s behalf,” Rachel insisted.

“Where is he?” Sam asked.

Rachel turned to face the boy with the demon blood, her tone clipped and her expression sharp. “Busy,” she answered. 

“Busy?” Dean repeated in incredulity. “Look, lady, we got a line on the Mother of Fucking Everything, and—”

“I would appreciate if you didn't use such foul language in my presence,” Rachel snipped. “Castiel may be immune to your coarse tongue, but I am not. Now, I'm sure your issue is very important… but Castiel is currently leading the final strike against Raphael’s followers, so—”

“So we get stuck with Miss Moneypenny,” Gwen snarked.

“So you need to learn your place,” Rachel snapped, sending the humans a withering glare.

For the briefest of moments, Dean’s confidence wavered as he caught a glimpse of the angel’s true form beneath her human visage.

Thousands upon thousands of feathers spanning her four Seraph wings, each of them radiating a glittering shade of silver. Her complexion was alabaster white and glowed with heavenly light, emphasizing the dark sketches of golden eyes inked all over her skin. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in an elaborate braided style as a crown— no, halo— of gold sat upon her brow.

She was beautiful. 

She was terrifying.

And for the first time, since the end of the Apocalypse, since meeting Castiel, Dean finally understood the magnitude of how powerful these creatures are.

Then, as quickly as her true form appeared to him, it disappeared, fading back into her vessel and jolting Dean out of his reverie. 

“Oh, and you think we’re not his friends,” Sam challenged with a scoff.

“Sammy,” Dean warned.

“I think you call on him only when you need him for something,” Rachel sneered, stepping forward, causing Dean to step back instinctively. “Raphael may be dead, but his followers were many. We are still fighting the last remnants of a war.”

“We get that,” Sam gritted out.

“No, Sam, I don't think we do,” Dean called out, shocking everyone, including himself.

Rachel eyed him suspiciously before inclining her head in recognition. “You can see my true face,” she said as more of a statement than a question.

Sam and Gwen looked between the two supernatural beings in curiosity.

“Wait, you can see her without—” Sam started.

“Yeah, without my eyes melting outta their sockets,” Dean replied shakily, before taking a deep breath and stepping forward again. “Listen, I know you guys are fighting the good fight up there in Heaven, trying to keep those other guys from restarting Armageddon. But the little guys down here could still use an assist. Eve is back and she’s out for the blood of all mankind, so if you guys care about us at all… we really need your help.”

The Seraph pulled her lips together tightly and regarded the Grimm with a softer look.

“Very well,” she sighed. “What do you need?”

“Well, uh, we were wondering if you could maybe help us go back in time to hunt down the Alpha Wesen and gather up his ashes,” Dean requested.

Rachel tilted her head and folded her arms over her chest. “And when exactly would I be sending you?”

A few days later when they returned to Sioux Falls, Dean dropped off Gwen at Bobby’s house while he and Sam went out to the store. While she was there, Gwen recalled what transpired at the Campbell compound to the Elder Grimm.

“He did what?” Marie questioned.

“Yeah, he actually managed to negotiate with the angel without insulting her,” Gwen nodded. “It was kind of impressive, actually.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, we Grimms are meant to be the mediators between the natural and the Supernatural,” Marie reasoned, still blinking in amazement. “Still… in all my years, I’ve never seen a Grimm stand his or her ground against an angel, let alone a Seraph. I mean, there are Grimm legends about the first Grimm conspiring with Archangels and even taking an angel lover, but I never thought there was any truth to them.”

“Until now,” Gwen supplied.

“So, where did the boys go?” Marie asked.

“Supply run is what Dean said,” Gwen replied with a shrug.

Just then, Rachel reappeared in the middle of the living room, looking impatient as she caused Marie and Gwen to startle.

“What is taking them so long?” the angel demanded.

“Getting supplies, but they’ll be back soon,” Marie answered, regaining her composure. “In the meantime we should rehash the plan.”

These damn angels and their sneaky habits. Marie grunted inwardly.

“Yes, about that,” Rachel began. “You’ll only have 24 hours.”

The hunters’ eyes widened in shock.

“What?” Gwen exclaimed, getting up from her chair. “Why?”

“Well, simply put: the further back I send you, the harder it will be to retrieve you,” Rachel elaborated. “Twenty four hours is all I can risk. If I don't pull you home within that time you could be lost to me.”

“Well, then we better get you a watch,” Dean chimed in as he strolled into the living room, carrying two large brown paper bags, and a 1,000-watt smile lighting up his face. 

“What the hell is all that?” Marie asked, scrunching up her face in confusion.

“We are going native,” Dean answered ecstatically, setting the bags down on the table, revealing the Wally’s Western Warehouse logo on the bags. “Gotta blend in.”

“Uh, ha-ha! No, thanks. I'm fine,” Gwen laughed nervously, shaking her head.

“Gwen, c’mon,” Dean implored. “It’ll be fun!”

“Dean, don't do this,” Sam begged. “Let us wear our regular clothes.”

“And look like spacemen?” Dean scoffed.

“Look, just because you are obsessed with that Wild West—” Sam started.

Dean squawked indignantly. “I’m not obsessed!”

“You have a fetish,” Sam snapped, pointing his finger in his brother’s face. 

“Shut up. I like old movies,” Dean shot back defensively.

“You can recite every fucking Clint Eastwood movie ever made,” Sam argued. “Line for line.”

“Even the monkey movies?” Marie cut in.

“Especially the monkey movies!” Sam confirmed.

“Hey, his name was Clyde,” Dean voiced petulantly.

Sam gestured to his brother with a sweeping motion of his hand while the women looked on in equal parts shock and amusement.

Gwen let out a deep sigh and said, “If I wear this getup, will you two please stop bickering?”

“Yes!” Dean nodded vehemently.

“Well, I’m not wearing this shit,” Sam shook his head.

“At least wear the damn shirt,” Dean pleaded, handing Sam one of the bags. 

*                              *                              *

“Dean, this is stupid. I look stupid. She looks stupid. We look stupid,” Sam groaned, as the young trio of hunters marched down the steps decked out in their Western attire.

Marie had just finished plopping the last pieces of gold into their duffle bag, when she looked up to see them enter the living room, causing her to laugh uncontrollably.

Sam was standing off to the side wearing a white Western-style long-sleeve button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a brown leather belt with embroidery on the buckle, and a black cowboy hat while keeping on the same jeans and boots from earlier. Next to him, Gwen was dressed in a dusty brown jacket, a white blouse, a pair of jeans and cowgirl boots, and a slender cowgirl hat. And, finally, Dean stood proudly beside Gwen wearing a brown cowboy hat and a frontier sheriff’s uniform which was mostly covered by an oversized poncho-esque garment.

“You three look like you're going to a hoedown,” Marie cackled.

“Is it customary for you to wear a blanket?” Rachel inquired, squinting her eyes and tilting her head.

“It's a serape,” Dean amended gleefully. “And, yes, it's, uh…”

Sam and Gwen quickly snapped their heads over to the patriarch of their family and narrowed their eyes at him.

“Nevermind,” Dean waved off. “Let’s just go.”

Tearing her eyes away from Dean, Gwen stepped forward and looked at the ungodly amount of gold items stuffed into the bag on the table. 

“What's this for?” she asked.

“I called Bobby and told him what’s going on. He let me lift some of his stash,” Marie explained. “Where you're going, they don't take Visa.”

“I’ll send you back to March 4th,” Rachel said, as the hunters put their weapons into the bag and zipped it up. “That should give you time to find the Colt. And this Alpha Wesen.”

“Alright,” Dean grinned, picking up the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “See you at high noon tomorrow…” He shot Marie a wink, clinking his tongue before saying, “Partner.”

Then, Rachel approached them and pressed her fingers against each of their foreheads, sending them flying through space and time until they landed just outside the small frontier town of Sunrise, Wyoming in the year 1861.

Chapter Text

“I have to go,” Rachel announced, turning to walk out of Bobby’s living room.

Marie furrowed her eyebrows and started after the angelic woman.

“Hold on, what about getting them back?” Marie asked.

Rachel paused and turned back around to face Marie. “Don’t worry. I shall return. Pray for me in 24 hours.”

“I’ll pray for all of us,” Marie murmured, as the angel disappeared.

Then she set the timer for 24 hours and poured herself a glass of bourbon.

Meanwhile…

“Oh, now we're talking,” Dean chuckled, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

Sam rolled is eyes at his brother’s goofy behavior, setting the timer on his watch as they walked into town.

“Alright, we should hit up the saloon first… see what we can get from the locals,” Dean said.

“And maybe flirt with a few saloon girls while we’re at it,” Gwen smirked, causing both men to stop and stare at her, albeit with two different reactions.

“I thought you weren't into all this cowboy stuff,” Sam replied, an impish grin playing on his lips, as he folded his arms over the serape.

“Oh, the cosplay part, no,” Gwen reaffirmed. “But I’ll be damned if I don't like the way those garter belts cling to those saloon girls' thighs… or the way their corsets puff up their tits.”

“You were married to a guy not too long ago,” Dean stammered in confusion.

“Yeah, and he died,” Gwen reminded him. “Plus, bisexual people exist, Dean-O. You don't stop being bi just ‘cause you're in a straight relationship. Now, come on. We’re burning daylight.”

”You know what? Dean was right,” Sam guffawed. “You’re my favorite relative, too.”

As they continued walking, Sam cursed aloud when his foot planted itself directly into a pile of…

“Horseshit,” Gwen snorted.

“Nope! It's authenticity,” Dean declared, his voice taking on a country twang. 

They made it to the town square just in time to see a large crowd gathered around the gallows, where a man was set to be executed.

“We stand here today… March the 4th, 1861… to execute justice upon Elias Finch… for the murder of his own wife,” the judge proclaimed.

“Damn, talk about authenticity,” Sam gaped as the trio watched the scene in front of them.

Gwen narrowed her eyes as she looked at the prisoner about to be hung, trying and failing to figure out why he looked so familiar to her.

“The sentence was handed down by myself, Tye Mortimer, duly appointed judge of the Wyoming Circuit. You will be hung by your neck until you die,” Judge Mortimer continued.

“You got anything to say?” the sheriff sneered.

The captive glared at the three men standing around him and said, “You’re gonna burn for this. Every one of you.”

Then the deputy pulled the lever back, dropping the hatch from beneath Finch’s feet, making the criminal plummet through the gallows as he swung from his neck.

“Good times,” Dean remarked in a low voice while the crowd gasped. “So, where do we find Sammy Colt?”

“No, clue,” Sam responded, noticing the judge and the sheriff coming down the steps of the gallows. “But I might know who to ask.”

Just then, a townsperson who had been watching the execution turned around to look at them and took in their appearances before saying, “Nice blanket.” Then he walked away leaving Dean at a loss for words while Sam and Gwen snickered behind him.

Dean scowled and tossed Sam the duffel while he removed his serape and threw it on the ground.

*                              *                              *

A little bit later, the trio made it to the sheriff’s station and saw the three men from earlier sitting around the sheriff’s desk.

“Sheriff, can I have a word?” Dean inquired as he stepped forward.

The three gentlemen eyed the newcomers suspiciously. Then the sheriff stood up, putting his hands on his waist and said, “Depends who’s asking.”

“Marshal Eastwood. Clint Eastwood,” Dean smirked, pulling back his vest to reveal the star-shaped marshal badge pinned to his shirt. “This here is Walker; he's a Texas Ranger.”

“Who’s the whore?” the deputy called out, his voice cracking slightly.

Gwen instantly zeroed in on the deputy and lunged forward. “The hell you say to me?”

“Well, you're wearing pants,” the man jeered, eyeing her in a none-too-gentlemanly way, as the other men chuckled. “Figured you were selling something.”

Before Gwen could attack the deputy Dean stepped forward, his cold green eyes fixing the man with a steely glare. “This here is my cousin. She’s a notorious bounty hunter by the name of… Wynonna Earp. You may have heard of her half-brother, Wyatt.”

That instantly silenced the lawmen and they quickly lowered their heads. 

“Apologies, ma’am,” the sheriff said, clearing his throat. “We meant no disrespect.”

Gwen snorted but said nothing.

“So, what can I do for you three?” the sheriff inquired, getting back to the matter at hand.

“We’re looking for a man,” Sam began, only to be cut off by Judge Mortimer.

“I’ll bet,” the old man snickered, looking over the time travelers. “Nice outfits.”

“What's wrong with what we’re wearing?” Dean huffed defensively, getting sick and tired of how many people have criticized his cowboy disguise.

“You’re very clean,” the judge answered.

Dean self-consciously looked over his attire, tugging at the material anxiously. “It's dirtier than it looks,” he murmured.

“Look, we need to find a man named Samuel Colt,” Gwen cut in. “Do any of you know him?”

“The gunmaker?” the sheriff clarified.

“Yeah, is he in town?” Dean snipped.

The sheriff shook his head once. “Not that I know of. Might try asking Elkins over at the saloon. Been here longer than God.”

Gwen and the boys left the station and made a beeline for the saloon. But when they got there, all of the fantasies and ideations Gwen and Dean had concocted about the saloon came crashing down. 

There was no vibrancy, decadence, no jaunty music. There was no raucous laughter from patrons or coquettish giggles from saloon girls. 

All there was was a two-story shack that stank like horse-piss, with two passed-out drunks snoring in a puddle of drool and poured-out liquor, a weathered old man shining up glass mugs behind the bar counter and a couple of saloon girls who were neither voluptuous nor beautiful and were missing half their teeth when they smiled.

“You gotta be shitting me,” Dean grumbled.

“Ditto,” Gwen groused.

“So, uh, how’s the Western fantasy going for you guys?” Sam giggled.

They both snarled at him before looking back ahead and heading for the bar.

“Howdy,” Sam smiled, tilting his hat, as he suddenly found himself thoroughly enjoying being here. 

“What’ll you have?” the old man asked.

“I will have your top-shelf whiskey,” Dean said hopefully.

After all, they can fuck up everything else about his Western fantasy, but nobody can fuck up whiskey.

“Only have the one shelf,” the old man said.

Dean pursed his lips awkwardly and nodded. “That’ll do just fine and he’ll have a sarsaparilla.”

Sam balked at Dean while the old bartender turned to Gwen.

“And you, ma’am?” 

“Scottish Bourbon, if you have it,” Gwen stated. “Otherwise, I’ll take a whiskey, neat.”

The old man nodded and went to make their drinks while they sat at the bar.

“Are you Elkins?” Sam queried.

“One and only,” the old man asserted, setting three shot glasses on the counter and pouring whiskey into one of them before setting the whiskey down and grabbing the other two bottles.

“You know a man named Samuel Colt?” Dean inquired.

Elkins nodded in affirmation. “He passed through here about four years ago,” he spoke, causing the trio to smile at each other. 

“He still around?” Gwen questioned.

“Rumor is he’s building a railroad stop 20 miles out of town, just by the postal road,” Elkins informed them, passing them their drinks. “Middle of nowhere.”

“The Devil’s Gate?” Sam whispered to the others.

“Location fits,” Dean agreed.

Just then, a throaty feminine voice called out behind them saying, “Howdy, boys.”

Dean’s hopes were just about to be reignited… until he turned around and saw a girl with unkempt, matted blonde hair, dirt brown eyes that looked bloodshot, and something that looked like herpes on her top lip walking towards them— him— with a yellow, toothy grin.

“Oh, dear God,” Dean gulped.

“Darla’s my best girl,” Elkins beamed.

“Hate to see the worst,” Gwen muttered.

As Darla got closer, Dean’s enhanced senses began to pick up on the rancid body odor emanating from her. None was more prevalent than her breath, which nearly knocked him on his ass as he braced himself against the counter, nearly splintering the wood.

Meanwhile, Gwen and Sam snickered softly beside him, covering their mouths so they wouldn't make a scene.

“Wanna kiss, handsome?” she flirted as she leaned in closer.

“Uh,” he gagged, leaning further back and smiling uncomfortably while shaking his head. “No. No. No, no, thank you.”

As if God himself had finally taken pity on him, the judge stepped into the ramshackle parlor and called out to Darla.

“Judge,” she sighed, her breath burning Dean’s nostrils.

When she finally turned around, thank God, she found the Judge waiting by the stairs expectantly.

“I thought we had a date,” he said.

Darla forced a smile and strutted back towards the stairs, causing Dean to release a breath of fresh-ish air relief.

“That was a close one,” Dean exhaled, turning back around and leaning forward on the counter.

“Guess it’s good to be the judge,” Sam joked.

“Fuck you, bitch!” Dean snarled, raising his glass to lips and downing the brown liquor.

He instantly regretted it, and started coughing and gagging from the taste.

“Holy fuck!” he cursed. 

“What, not good?” Gwen grinned.

“It tastes like moldy pussy juice and gasoline,” Dean choked out, wiping away the dribble from his mouth.

Sam smirked. “Well, the sarsaparilla ain't half bad.”

“Neither is the bourbon,” Gwen echoed.

To rub salt in the wound, Gwen and Sam reached across Dean and clinked their glasses together before tilting their heads back and downing their drinks in one go.

“I hate it here,” Dean moped.

All of a sudden, a loud shriek, coming from the second floor, echoed through the saloon.

In the blink of an eye, black veins surged through Dean’s temples heading toward his eyes as they flitted to black, and he blitzed out of the barroom and up the stairs to follow the source of the scream.

“Did he just…?” Gwen stuttered.

“Told you he was fast now,” was all Sam said, before he darted up the stairs with Gwen following close behind.

Chapter Text

Dean kicked down the creaky, wooden door, shattering it to pieces just in time to see Elias Finch burning the judge alive with his bare hands.

“HEY!” Dean growled, getting the monster’s attention, his black eyes narrowed as the ebony veins pulsated strongly.

Elias's human visage suddenly morphed, taking on several distinct animal-like appearances before settling into a twisted amalgamation of all of them. His temples were decorated with bluish-gray scales, his hair grew until in hung past his neck in a shaggy manner, his eyes were beady and red, his hands sprouted flaming feathers, his nails turned into bear claws, and a long scorpion tail slithered out from his lower back, poised and ready to strike. And, of, course, the fucker had a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.

“GRIMM!” the beast snarled.

Dean pulled out a concealed hunting knife etched with the same runes as the sword Marie gave him and twirled it dangerously in his hand before charging at the Alpha Wesen.

Remembering Marie’s training, he used his enhanced speed to blitz in and out of sight as the Alpha Wesen tried to stab at him with its tail.

Dean slid to his knees and ducked down, seconds before the stinger of the Alpha’s tail could swipe at his head. 

Dean took the knife in his hand and sliced at Finch’s tendon in his right leg, as he skidded across the floor, causing it to buckle, before hopping up on his feet and running at him again.

However, this time, the Alpha Wesen turned around just in time to swipe his large talons at Dean’s head.

Thanks to his quick reflexes, the Grimm dodged the brunt of the attack. Although, one of the Alpha’s talons still managed to nick him on the cheek leaving a thin line of red dripping down his face.

The cut didn't stay for long, and, soon, it mended it self almost as quickly as it was made.

Meanwhile, Dean fell back on the defensive, ducking and weaving attacks from the Wesen, trying to find an opening.

“DEAN!” Sam shouted as he and Gwen ran into the room.

Their sudden appearance temporarily distracted the Alpha Wesen just long enough for Dean to stab him in the heart with the enchanted hunting dagger and twist it in deeper.

A faint blue glow lit up inside of the Alpha Wesen’s body, causing a silhouette of his skeleton to become visible for a brief moment. But instead of dropping dead, the Alpha Wesen merely snarled at the Grimm and threw him across the room, making him crash through the wall, unconscious. Then he wrenched the blade out of his chest, leaving a trail of smoke and sizzling black and red blood before letting it clatter to the floor.

He looked back at Gwen and Sam one last time before running towards the balcony and jumping off the terrace.

Once he was gone, Gwen and Sam rushed over to Dean who was slowly regaining conscious as the scratches and bruises on his face and body healed.

“Did I get him,” Dean mumbled weakly.

“Well…” Gwen started. “You did your best.”

Once Dean managed to get up, he and his family gaped in horror at the sight of Judge Mortimer’s charred remains lying strewn across the bed.

“Are you alright, sheriff?” Sam asked, staring at the man in question with a look of concern.

“Course I’m okay,” he snapped back, though, Dean could hear the thunderous roar of his heartbeat singing a different tune.

Then again, that pounding he was hearing could have just been his own throbbing head.

“It was a ghost,” Darla cried.

“It wasn't a ghost,” the sheriff frowned, pointing towards the floor near the terrace. “Ghosts don't leave footprints.”

“I am tellin’ ya, Elias Finch was here,” Darla screamed. “He did that… and then he tussled with the pretty one, and when these other two came in, he jumped out the window.”

“Rope didn't kill him. Seen this before,” the lawman said.

“You got any idea where he could be?” Sam asked.

The sheriff shrugged and shook his head. “Could be a thousand places.” Then he started heading for the door.

“Well, you got a way to flush him out?” Dean called after him.

“Of course,” the older man nodded. “We’re gonna form a posse, then string up Finch right. Put a bullet in his head for good measure.”

“Like the sound of that plan,” Gwen agreed.

“You three should come along,” the sheriff invited. “Meet downstairs at dawn.”

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” Dean stated with a firm nod.

“But get yourselves some real gear first, huh?” the man advised before leaving.

*                              *                              *

“So, he looked like all the Wesen combined?” Sam inquired, later that night as they double-checked Finch’s grave to make sure that the man they encountered was really him.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean nodded. “He looked like every animal in the animal kingdom. You guys didn't see?”

“You know we can’t, dude,” Sam reminded his brother.

Dean winced somewhat. “Right, sorry. Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he started. “You ain't missing much. Tell you the truth, half the time I see these things, I feel like I’m insane.”

“Yeah, well, at least now I know why Finch looked so familiar,” Gwen perked up, having grabbed one of the small Grimm journals out of the duffel bag and flipped through the pages until she found one in particular. “He looked just like the guy in the sketch.”

Sam and Dean leaned down to get a better look and Dean instantly nodded. 

“Yeah, that’s him alright.”

“So, what now?” Sam queried. “The Wesen blade didn't work, we can assume the sword won’t either. How do we put this thing down?”

“We do know the one thing that can kill it,” Dean piped up. 

“The Colt,” Sam surmised.

“Yeah, so you and Gwen go get the gun,” Dean ordered.

Sam’s eyebrows knitted together tightly. “But isn't the gun coming here? According to Colt’s journal?”

“Yeah, but people here barely even know who Colt is,” Gwen chimed in. “So, maybe we gotta go and make history.”

“Exactly! So you guys go. I’ll stay here, give the normies a Grimm assist, and wrangle Finch with the posse,” Dean said, smiling a little at the end. “Because you know me, I love posse.”

Sam tilted his head while Gwen rolled her eyes.

“I'm a posse magnet,” Dean joked. “I'm gonna make that into a T-shirt.”

“You done?” Sam sighed.

Dean’s smile fade as he became serious again.

“Look, the problem is Colt’s 20 miles outside of town,” Sam reasoned. “How are we supposed to get there and back before noon?”

As if to answer his question the trio was distracted by the sound of a horse neighing in the distance.

A mischievous grin spread across Dean’s lips as he said, “Ride him, cowboy!”

Chapter Text

After procuring a couple of horses from a stablehand, Dean watched them ride off into the night, holding back his laughter as they raced away to find the legendary gunmaker before noon tomorrow.

“Oh, those poor horses,” Dean sighed in amusement.

Meanwhile…

Back in 2011, it was a quarter past ten in the evening and Castiel was standing in an empty warehouse looking around impatiently. As he paced the center of the room, a spark of heat flared beneath his vessel’s skin, starting close to his heart before rapidly spreading throughout his body with every thrum of his heartbeat.

The corners of his vision began to blur as he looked around at his surroundings, while a light tremor raced through his hands. He tugged haphazardly at the collar of his shirt, hoping to lessen the burning sensation tickling the back of his throat as beads of sweat cropped up along his forehead. 

Castiel had never felt like this before. Not even when he was cut off from Heaven two years ago.

Never before has this happened to him. Never before had he felt this weak. This… human.

The shaking, the sweating, the fatigue. Even his mood swings. All of it seemed to blur together into one single feeling.

Hunger.

And he knew what that meant.

He needed more… which meant he needed to find him.

But first he had to deal with whatever issue Rachel had uncovered, and insisted, needed to be dealt with. If she ever showed up, that is.

Suddenly, Castiel was alerted to a new but familiar presence entering the warehouse as Rachel appeared behind him with the flap of her wings.

He turned around and shot her an irritated look. 

“Finally,” he huffed. “What took you so long?”

Rachel fixed him with a stern glare as she took a step towards him.

“Brother, tell me it isn't true,” she said.

A hard lump formed at the base of Castiel’s throat. “What are you talking about?”

“Castiel, I’ve been hearing things,” Rachel sighed, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Things I don't want to believe. Just tell me if it's true.”

“If what’s true?” Castiel lied. 

“You know. Your dirty little secret,” Rachel gritted out. “I'm your sister, Castiel. I was there they day you were created. Give me the courtesy of the truth.”

A pang of guilt seized Castiel’s face, forcing him to look away as his gut twisted into knots.

“Sister, please. I needed to defeat Raphael,” Castiel reasoned.

“And I don't blame you for that!” Rachel snapped. “But Raphael has been defeated. And those who remained in his army have been killed or captured. You don't need it anymore. You don't need him anymore. Please, Castiel.”

“Rachel,” Cass exhaled, clenching his jaw.

Rachel grasped at Castiel’s arms, shaking him a bit as she did. “Look at yourself!” she replied. “Look at what you're turning into.”

Castiel grabbed Rachel’s forearms, his deep blue eyes pleading with her desperately. “I don't have a choice,” he insisted.

Rachel lowered her eyes to his forearms and saw thin tendrils of black veins creeping out from under his sleeves as they inched toward his wrists.

“My God,” she gasped, as she slowly returned her gaze to Castiel’s. “What have you done to yourself?”

In the blink of an eye, Castiel wrenched his arms away from Rachel and summoned the bronze Sword of Kenaz to his hand before swinging it at her head. Rachel quickly leaned back, just out of reach, as the tip of the blade just barely grazed her eyelashes.

In the distance, thunder rumbled as a swarm of clouds suddenly flooded the starlit sky.

Rachel’s eyes glowed blue with preternatural power, as she summoned a long, silver double-bladed sword to her hand in a column of silver smoke.

Castiel narrowed his now glowing blue eyes, saying, “Don’t do this, sister.”

“I don't have a choice,” Rachel replied.

Then the angels charged at each other, their human clothes burning away to reveal the divine Armor of God’s Heavenly Host, before raising their weapons to strike.

Lightning clashed overhead as the angels dueled ferociously. However, neither of them really put their all into it.

“Sister, please!” Castiel implored, his lungs heaving as he pushed her away. “It doesn't have to be this way.”

“So then stop devouring souls!” Rachel pleaded, as silver tears rolled down her cheeks. “It's killing you.”

“What's killing me is your overbearing and unnecessary worry!” Castiel yelled, lunging at her.

Castiel aimed a well-placed strike at her neck, cutting just deep enough to make her lose her footing. He paused when he saw her stumble to the ground, leaking blood and Grace.

“Rachel, I—” he started.

But she cut him off with an angry scream before shanking him with her weapon, making him fall to his knees, clutching the gaping wound in his stomach as black spots danced along his vision.

When he looked back to where Rachel had been lying, she was gone.

“I'm sorry,” he wheezed, coughing up his own blood. 

Then he used what little strength he had left to teleport himself to Bobby’s house, startling an unsuspecting Marie before he collapsed unconscious on the cold floor in a slowly growing puddle of his own Grace.

Back in 1861… 3 hours before the deadline…

Dean stepped into the saloon, decked out in a new outfit with new gear and a giddy smile on his face. Each of the patrons, what few of them were there, fixed their eyes upon him, which only boosted his confidence as he made his way towards the bar with a leisurely strut, his spurs clinking with every step he took.

Elkins gave the newcomer a once-over and nodded in approval. “You got a new hat,” he said.

“It's alright, you can say it,” Dean grinned. “I look good.”

Elkins snorted and rolled his eyes as he cleaned off another glass and stacked it on the back counter.

“So where’s the posse?” Dean asked, clearing his throat. 

The barkeeper fixed him with a blank stare.

“I must be early,” Dean realized.

“Or you're the only greenhorn dumb enough to go chasing after a ghost,” Elkins scoffed.

Dean frowned in confusion at the old man’s statement. “What are you talking about? Sheriff’s tough as nails,” the Grimm argued. “He’ll be here.”

Just then, a piercing female shriek reverberated from outside the saloon, drawing the eyes and ears of the patrons inside.

“Oh, God!” said another voice. “The sheriff’s dead!”

Well, damn. Dean thought.

Chapter Text

Dean caught the I told you so look Elkins gave him before they both rushed outside. When they got out there, Dean and Elkins waded through the sea of onlookers who had gathered around the pile of ash and bone that had once been the sheriff, his golden badge lying unscathed atop the heap of charred remains.

The smell was horrendous, stinking up the air with something resembling smoky wood and spoiled meat that had been charred over an open flame. Even with all the grave digging he’s done over the years, none of it ever smelled as bad as this.

And with his extranormal senses, it was almost more than the new Grimm could bear.

“Oh, goddamn!” Dean gagged, covering his mouth. “Well, who the fuck is the sheriff now?”

Elkins shrugged and bent down with a soft grunt before picking up the badge, dusting it off with the rag he still had in his hand, and pinning it to Dean’s vest.

Well, damn. Dean swore.

*                            *                              *

About thirty minutes later, after being dubbed the new sheriff, of which Dean is still uncertain of the legality of that impromptu nomination, his first order of business was to track down the deputy. He, of course, found him hiding out in his room at the inn in the middle of town.

“Who’s there?” he asked from inside the room.

Dean smirked. “Candygram for Mongo,” he replied, altering his voice to sound like a woman.

Of, course the second the deputy opened the door, Dean pulled back the safety, causing the bullet chamber to rotate, and aimed the gun at the other man’s head.

“Howdy, pilgrim,” Dean greeted in his regular voice.

The deputy furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Huh? I ain't no pilgrim.”

There was a brief pause before Dean forced the man to back up into the bedroom. Only when the deputy kept his gun aimed at Dean’s chest with a trembling hand, did Dean finally pull rank.

“Missed you at the posse this morning,” Dean said, placing his gun back into its holster. “I was a one-man wolf pack, no thanks to you.” Then he leaned over the lawman’s shoulder and saw a half-packed suitcase laid out on the bed. “Where you going?”

“I'm going to visit my sister,” the deputy answered, his voice wavering.

Liar. A voice inside Dean’s head growled.

“She’ll have to wait,” Dean responded. 

“But if I—” 

“Listen, Finch said he was coming back for the former sheriff, Judge Mortimer… and you,” Dean cut off. “That's two down and one to go.”

“Then just let me go,” the deputy pleaded.

Good God, how did this sissy end up as the fucking deputy? Dean wondered.

“You really think you can outrun him?” Dean snapped. “He is going to kill you. Unless…”

The deputy perked up hopefully. “Unless what?”

“Unless we gank him first,” Dean smirked.

Once again, the deputy scrunched up his face as he tried to decipher his new boss’s foreign jargon. 

“Gank? What's gank?” he queried. “Look, mister, you're crazy. No way. You're on your own.”

“I am not asking you to throw down with him. I am asking you to play your part,” Dean clarified, breathing through his nose to control his temper.

“My part?” 

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Bait.”

Before the man could protest, Dean knocked him out with a single blow. Then he hoisted the man’s limp body over his shoulder like a sack of flour and walked out of the room.

Meanwhile, Sam and Gwen were trying, and failing, to convince Samuel Colt to return to Sunrise with them.

“I appreciate your situation, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you,” Samuel Colt said. “I'm booked.”

“Listen, your journal says that you killed the Phoenix today,” Gwen insisted.

“Yes, well—” the old hunter sighed, taking a swig of his drink, “don't believe everything you read, darling.”

“But you're a hunter,” Sam chimed in.

“Retired,” Samuel Colt waved off.

“There’s no such thing,” Sam and Gwen argued in unison.

“I'm out,” Colt dismissed.

“There is no getting out,” Sam countered. “Look, for what’s worth, in our time, you're a hero.”

Samuel Colt, paused mid-sip as he raised his eyebrow in disbelief. “Me?”

“Yes, sir,” Gwen affirmed. 

“Now, look, we need to kill this Phoenix or Alpha Wesen, or whatever it is,” Sam urged. “It's ashes are the only thing that can kill the monster I’m hunting. So stow your shit for a few hours and let’s go.”

However, the gunmaker refused to leave.

“Look, my cousin is about to face off against this thing with no protection,” Gwen snarled, slamming her hands down on the table. “We need to go now! So either you’re coming with us or I’m gonna take your gun.”

Samuel Colt leaned back in shock, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “What gun?”

“The gun,” Sam answered.

Samuel nodded in recognition before lying about losing it in a game of stud.

“Bullshit,” Gwen said. 

“Is it?” Samuel challenged, cackling hoarsely.

“You shot a couple demons with it less than an hour ago,” Sam claimed, wiping the smug look off Colt’s face.

“How do you figure?” the old man questioned, tilting his head in intrigue.

Now, it was Sam and Gwen’s turn to smile. 

“Two pairs of footprints. Cabin reeks of sulfur,” Sam started.

“And when we came in you were standing near the back door, which wouldn't mean anything were it not for the fact that your boots are covered in the same red clay mud that’s strewn all around this area, meaning you just buried the bodies out back,” Gwen finished smugly. “Are we getting warmer?”

Samuel Colt huffed in amusement, before opening up his coat to reveal the Colt holstered on his side.

“Not bad,” he praised. “But you kids don't want this. It's a curse. Believe me.”

“Great. Then let us take it off your hands,” Sam offered.

“Go put on a few more miles, then come back and we’ll talk,” Samuel remarked.

“He’s literally been possessed by the Devil from the Bible,” Gwen groused. “And I’ve gone up against Alpha Monsters and survived. I think we both have enough mileage. So… I’ll only ask one last time. Give. Us. The gun.”

Chapter Text

Castiel awoke on the couch to Marie looming over him with a curious and concerned look on her face.

“Easy there, champ,” Marie said, as she helped Castiel sit up. “You took a pretty bad spill.”

“Wha— Who are you?” Castiel grunted.

“Name’s Marie,” she answered. “I'm a friend of Bobby’s.”

Castiel nodded in acknowledgment before he lurched forward and nearly tumbled off the sofa. Thankfully, she caught him before he collapsed.

“Whoa,” she huffed. “What happened? You look like you went 12 rounds with Truckasaurus.”

Castiel observed her for a moment, debating whether or not he was going to say anything before finally deciding to talk.

“I was, um… I was attacked,” Castiel let out. “One of my lieutenants, Rachel—”

“You spoke to Rachel? Well, is she okay?” Marie chimed in. “Because I’ve been praying to her all morning, ‘cause she is supposed to pick up Gwen and the boys from 1861 in a few hours.”

Castiel’s eyes widened as a lump formed in the base of his throat.

Well, so much for the lie I was about to tell. He grimaced.

“Uh, I'm sorry,” he began again. “Rachel… died.”

Marie gaped in horror. “What?” 

“We were tracking rogue agents of Raphael when we were ambushed,” Castiel lied. “They killed her and mortally wounded me. I was forced to flee to safety. Thank you.”

The angel let out a pained groan as he struggled and failed to get up. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Easy,” Marie insisted as she gently forced him back down. “Now, how about you? Tell me what that finger painting is on the fridge?”

“It's a warding symbol against angels,” Castiel answered with a gulp.

“How bad are you hurt?” Marie asked, noting the odd blend of red and glowing silver seeping through his shirt.

“I’ll heal,” Castiel replied, rubbing his head.

“Well, good. ‘Cause without Rachel, it’ll be up to you to bring the kids home from Frontierland in an hour,” Marie nodded, as she turned to walk back around to sit at the desk.

Castiel sucked in a sharp breath. “I can't.”

The Grimm stopped dead in her tracks and whirled back around to look at the angel. “Come again?”

Castiel slowly raised his head, a tentative frown etched into his otherwise handsome face as he let out a deep breath. “This fight… drained me,” Cass confessed. 

“Okay. Well, if you're up on blocks… then call another halo who can do the job,” Marie offered.

“I can't do that either,” Cass lied. “Somebody up there told Raphael’s remaining forces where Rachel and I were going. I don't know who to trust anymore.”

Marie ran her hands through her buzzcut head, muttering in frustration.

“Well, there has to be something that can juice you up. A spell or something,” Marie gritted out.

Castiel eyed her cautiously before saying, “There is one thing that might work… but it's extremely dangerous.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” she remarked sardonically. “Now spill.”

“Your soul,” he responded.

Marie puzzled softly. “My soul?” she queried. “What about my soul?”

“I need you to let me touch it,” Castiel requested.

For a moment there was dead silence as Marie’s brain rebooted and caught up with the angel’s request. 

“I-I… I beg your finest pardon,” she stammered. “Did you say you needed to touch it?”

Cass nodded. “Touch it.”

“Touch it?” Marie repeated still not believing what she was hearing.

“Yes, the human soul is pure energy. If I can siphon some of it off, I might be able to bring Gwen and the Winchesters back,” Cass informed her. “But I need to do it very gingerly.”

“Well, no shit!” Marie retorted. “I’m about to let you fist my chest and raw-dog my soul!” 

Castiel paused and tilted his head in confusion. “There are no dogs in your soul. I would have told you if there were,” he replied.

“That's not— never mind,” Marie grumbled. “Let's just get this over with.”

Back in 1861, Dean paced the length of the sheriff’s office while staring at the clock.

Come on, damn it! Dean thought anxiously.

They had less than an hour left and Sam and Gwen still hadn't returned with Samuel Colt. And neither had Elias Finch reappeared to settle the score with the deputy, who Dean currently had locked in the cell behind him.

“Never been late a day in your life, Sam. And now you're dragging ass,” Dean grumbled.

“So this is your big plan? Just let me rot in here till Finch comes,” the deputy complained, in that annoying whiny-ass voice of his that made Dean’s ears ache.

Taking a short breath, Dean pivoted on his bootheel to glare at the man currently trembling behind bars.

“Pretty much,” Dean answered simply. “Why’s he gunning for you anyway?”

The deputy went rigid and floundered to come up with a reasonable answer, which set Dean on edge.

“I guess you missed the part where we hung him,” the deputy waved off nervously.

Dean let out a soft harrumph and pursed his lips, as he slowly stalked towards the jail cell, eyeing the deputy like a panther poised to strike its prey. “No. I'm thinking, to a thing like Finch, that ain't no big whoop. He would have just blown town, but he came back,” Dean pointed out. “That's a little personal.”

“Tell you what, you let me out of here, we’ll talk,” the deputy bargained.

He’s lying! A familiar, yet alien voice screamed in Dean’s head. We can smell it on him. He's just as sick as the monsters we hunt. Gun him down!

Instead of feeling surprised or unnerved by the voice echoing in his head, an unsettling calm seeped into the Grimm’s bones. It was as though the voice was telling him that it meant no harm to him.

Dean’s lips curled into a mirthless smile, as his blazing green eyes narrowed at the man in front of him.

“And why don't I believe you?” Dean questioned.

“‘Cause he’s a liar,” a new, but familiar voice chimed, drawing the hunter and the deputy’s attention.

Instinctively, Dean’s eyes turned black as tendrils of black veins surged around them.

“Jesus Christ!” the deputy gasped, stumbling back. “You’re a demon just like him!”

“No, he’s not,” Finch corrected. In response to Dean’s transformation, Elias Finch twisted his head, letting his true form be seen. “He’s a Grimm.” Then he pulled off his gloves and said, “Now, open up that cell.”

“Open it yourself,” Dean shot back. “You melt people’s faces off and have a retractable tail, for fuck’s sake. I bet you got the juice to tear that apart easy, don't you?”

Finch clenched his jaw tightly and remained silent.

“Unless…” Dean continued, the realization slowly dawning on him as he carefully made his way back over to the edge of the desk, where a stray nail was sitting on top of the table.

Using his quick reflexes, Dean grabbed the nail and flung it at the Alpha Wesen’s head. And, although, the monster intercepted it, he soon let out a painful hiss and dropped it, revealing the ugly burn mark on his palm.

“Iron. Pure iron. That's what that nail is made of and the bars on the cell. It's also, I'm assuming, what those shackles were made of when they had you up on the gallows,” Dean stated smugly. “See a pattern? Don't sweat it. Most creatures I meet can't get it up for iron. It's a common monster problem.” He paused briefly, pulling back his coat to pull out the enchanted dagger he used in his previous fight against the Alpha Wesen, twirling it lazily in his hand. “Though, I am surprised that you managed to stay alive after I stabbed you with dear old Lassie, here. Usually, for your kind, one hit of this is a done deal.”

“Yeah, well, I ain't like the rest of my youngsters, fella,” the Alpha quipped. “But you knew that, didn't you? And you still decided to try your luck.”

Dean shrugged and gave a boyish smirk. “Well, what can I say? I’m a go-getter.”

At that, Elias Finch honest-to-God chuckled. “You’re funny, kid. I’ll give ya that,” Finch ceded, before turning serious. “Now, step aside.”

“Gimme one good reason why I should,” Dean countered.

“You know what the summabitch did?” Finch sneered, pointing an accusatory finger at the whimpering human.

Dean looked back at the deputy for a brief moment before returning his gaze to the ancient monster in front of him. 

“Do tell.”

“All my life, all anyone expected of me was death and destruction. And, for a long time, that’s what I gave ‘em. Until one day, I realized that all I was doing was making people’s lives miserable, so I stopped. Eventually, I settled down. I was married to a woman. A good woman, human,” Finch began, stirring a swell of emotion within the Grimm. “She knew what I was and what I had done, but she somehow found it in her heart to love me anyway. And that kind of love… that’s rare. We lived outside of town, didn't bother anyone.”

Dean opened his mouth to make a snide comment, but something inside him made him pause.

“What happened?” Dean inquired instead.

“All we did was go into town,” Finch huffed, walking up to the cell, causing the deputy to stumble back. “I go into the bank for five minutes. I come out, she’s gone. Then I heard her scream. This… man… had her pinned in the alley. I go to stop him, he pulls out his gun… shoots me, then her.”

If Dean closed his eyes, he could almost hear it. He could envision what that must have been like.

Now, imagine… the voice in his head rasped, Imagine if that had been Lisa and Ben.

A cold chill ran down Dean’s spine as he fixed the deputy with a steely glare.

I’d kill him with my bare hands. Dean snarled internally.

“Now, I could heal, but she… She died in my arms,” Finch growled, as sizzling hot tears welled up in his eyes. He looked back at the acting sheriff. “The shots brought the sheriff. Next thing I know, I’m in iron. That's why I want him just where he is. Trapped, scared. I saved the best for last.”

“Is that true,” Dean seethed, glowering fiercely at the cowering deputy.

Of course, he already knew the answer, but still. And if anything, the deputy’s sheepish expression was all the more damning.

“So tell me…” Finch began. “Are you really willing to die for this piece of filth?”

“No,” Dean said without hesitating, causing the deputy to squawk indignantly and the Alpha Wesen to tilt his head. “Truthfully, I just needed bait to lure you out. You can have him. Unfortunately, I still need to kill you after.”

Finch smirked cruelly. “If you really know what I am, then you know that you can’t.”

Before Dean could even think to move, Finch grabbed a gun out of the deputy’s holster that was hanging on the post and fired it three times at the deputy’s chest, killing him instantly.

“Well, damn,” Dean gaped. “I totally should’ve seen that coming.”

Then the Alpha Wesen turned his eyes on him, and Dean bolted across the room, and jumped out of the window. 

Dean quickly got up and started running again, dodging gunfire from the Alpha as he weaved in and out of alleyways and between buildings. Finally, he hid behind a building, several yards down from the sheriff’s station and pulled out his gun, not that it would do much.

“Psst. Dean,” Sam whispered as he and Gwen snuck over to Dean.

“Hey, where’s Colt?” Dean asked.

“He’s not coming,” Sam replied.

“What?” Dean hissed, eyes going wide.

“But he sent this,” Gwen smirked, pulling out the Colt and handing it to her cousin.

Dean whistled lowly, handing Sam his revolver, before taking the Colt into his hands reverently. 

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Alright, let’s go before he catches us,” Sam urged.

*                              *                              *

Back in 2011…

“You sure?” Castiel said, looking down at Marie who was sitting in a chair, folding a dark leather belt in her hands.

“No, but we can't leave those rugrats stranded in Deadwood, can we?” Marie huffed, looking up at the angel with a wry smile. “Just make sure you take me to dinner after I’m done letting you rearrange my guts, okay, handsome?”

“The risks,” Castiel warned, even as he rolled up his sleeve and bent down.

“Just don't explode me, keep a good grip, and remember to stop if I start screaming my safeword in my head,” Marie waved off.

*                              *                              *

In 1861…

Dean stepped out of his hiding place and boldly sauntered toward the town square, calling for Finch to show himself, while the townspeople scrambled to get inside and bolt the doors.

“What is he doing?” Sam whispered to Gwen.

“Come on, let’s do this!” Dean shouted.

“What every action hero does at the end of a Western,” Gwen grinned knowingly, at the same time Finch came down the steps of the sheriff’s station and walked toward the town square opposite Dean. “He’s having a gun duel for the fate of the town.”

“So this is how you wanna die?” Finch chuckled. “Fine, then.”

The two gunmen stared each other down, flipping back there coats to reveal their holstered weapons, their hands thrumming at their sides as they waited for the opportune moment.

*                              *                              *

Back in 2011…

Marie bit down on the belt she had folded moments ago, just before Castiel placed a steady hand on her shoulder and plunged his other hand into her torso, making her cry out in pain.

A surge of energy flooded the angel's senses as his eyes glowed blue with Grace. For a moment, he felt like himself again. He felt his body, his Grace, leveling out. And, for the briefest of moments, he didn't feel the corruption of the hellish souls Crowley had given him so long ago poisoning his body and mind.

But it wasn't quite gone from him. Not completely.

It could be.

All he would need to do is keep siphoning Marie’s soul until it all absorbed into him, cleansing him from the darkness.

But, then, she’d be left without a soul. And he knew all too well of what a soulless hunter looked like. 

And God help us all if a soulless Grimm ever walked the face of the Earth.

*                              *                              *

In 1861…

Dean briefly took his eyes off Finch to glance at the clocktower and smirked, as the second hand moved under the twelve.

The sound of Finch grabbing his gun reverberated through Dean’s ears, as he reached for the Colt with inhuman speed and fired it at the Alpha Wesen with pinpoint accuracy.

Blue and gray electricity flickered beneath the Alpha’s skin, as his face and body shifted through every form he’d ever taken before letting out an unearthly screech and bursting into flames, leaving behind a pile of smoldering ash.

Then, Dean, ever the drama queen, brought the smoking barrel of the Colt to his lips and blew it away before lowering it once more.

“Yippie Ki-yay, motherfucker!” Dean grinned.

Just then, the bell tolled, signaling that their deadline was up.

“Dean, the ashes!” Sam yelled.

Dean dropped the Colt and pulled out the bottle meant to house the Alpha Wesen’s charred remains and rushed towards the pile, sliding on his knees…

*                              *                              *

… and back into his time period, along with Sam and Gwen.

“Fucking… FUCK!” Dean screamed in frustration.

Barely a few minutes had passed and in that time, Gwen helped Marie move to a more comfortable chair while Cass slumped into the one she had previously been sitting in.

“You gotta send us back,” Dean pleaded desperately, clutching his hat in his hands.

Castiel could barely muster the strength to glare at the man for even asking that of him, let alone send them back.

“Dean, look at him,” Sam sighed sympathetically. “He’s fried.”

“I never want to do that again,” Cass groaned.

“Marie, you—?” 

“I'm still kicking, Annie Oakley,” Marie grumbled hoarsely. “Though for how much longer, I don't know. I think that might’ve just sped up the cancer a bit.”

Dean swallowed thickly, making his Adam’s apple bob, and lowered his gaze to the floor.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The thought of this whole ordeal having made her condition worse… well, Dean would never forgive himself if he ended up being the reason she died. Especially after all she’s done for him.

“I'm sorry. We really screwed the pooch this time,” Dean let out shakily, finally bringing his sorrowful gaze to meet Marie’s exhausted one. “Marie, I’m so sorry.”

She gave him a tired smile. “You did the best you could,” she replied. “Besides, I’m not dead yet, kiddo.”

“So what do we do now?” Gwen inquired.

As if to answer her question, there was a sudden knock at the front door.

Sam went to go check it out and when he came back he was carrying a wrapped box in his hand and wearing a hopeful expression.

He set it down on Bobby’s desk, as the others gathered around, and when he opened it up to reveal the contents inside… there was a penned note, a busted-up “magic brick” that looked a lot like Sam’s cellphone, and a clear jar containing the ashes of the Alpha Wesen.

Sam picked up the note and read it aloud.

“Dear Sam,

I got this address and date off your thingamajig,

and I thought the enclosed might come in handy. 

Regards,

Samuel Colt”

Sam put down the letter and reached in the box to pick up the jar containing the Phoenix ash and showed it to everyone, who had varying looks of amazement etched into their faces.

“Please tell me that is what I think it is,” Marie prayed.

“Ashes of the Phoenix,” Dean chuckled airily. “You know what this means?”

“Yeah, I didn't get a soulonoscopy for nothing,” Marie sassed.

Dean forced down the snort threatening to bubble out of his mouth before clearing his throat and continuing. 

“Yes. And… it means we take the fight to her,” he said, placing his hat back on his head with a grin. 

Chapter Text

“THE FUCK YOU MEAN BOBBY’S ON HIS HONEYMOON WITH ELIJAH MIKAELSON?!” Dean hollered in utter shock and disbelief, while Marie looked at him from where she was lying on the bed with a very unimpressed look on her face.

Meanwhile, Gwen was leaning against the doorway of the bedroom struggling to stifle her laughter with her hand as she looked at Dean’s dumbfounded expression.

“I mean exactly what I said,” Marie replied calmly. “Bobby and Elijah left after the “Goa’uld case” because Bobby finally said yes to Elijah’s 30-year-long proposal.”

Dean’s eyes widened further. “I'm so sorry. What?” 

“Yeah, yeah, they’ve had an off-and-on relationship for the last few decades,” Marie waved off, sinking back into the cushions of the bed. “Anyway, how are we coming on the Phoenix ash weapons?”

Dean was still struggling to reboot after learning the jaw-dropping revelation of his adoptive father's sexuality, giving Gwen the chance to step in.

“We’re slowly making progress,” she answered, standing straight up, folding her hands behind her back as though she were in the army. “Sam and I have managed to fill ten shotgun rounds with the Alpha Wesen’s remains and we coated three of the daggers. But we still have more to go.”

“Did you coat Lassie?” Dean asked, coming back to his senses.

Gwen rolled her eyes at the nickname Dean had given the enchanted dagger Marie had given him during their recent trip to the Wild West. “No, not yet.”

“Fleetwood?” he inquired, referring to the sword he was gifted, also by Marie.

“You know what? Why don't you do it, since you're so worried about them?” Gwen quipped.

Dean scoffed and folded his arms across his chest, as he looked back at his cousin. “Well, maybe I will!” he replied. “Just as soon as my brain comes back online from the Vampire-Hunter Pride revelation and tour extravaganza.”

Then he turned and started walking out of the room. 

“Don’t forget to finish writing that journal entry for the Alpha Wesen!” Marie called after him.

“On it!” Dean yelled back, his voice becoming muffled the further away he got.

Once he was out of earshot, Gwen sighed, relaxing her stance and she walked over to sit on the edge of the bed.

Marie furrowed her brow and said, “What’s wrong, sweet pea?”

“You mean other than the fact that we’re about to go up against the First Woman in Creation?” Gwen breathed. “Honestly, I’m starting to doubt whether this Alpha Wesen-Phoenix ash will work. I mean, earlier, I had an accident where I spilled some ash on my skin— nothing happened. Yet it's supposed to burn the hell out of her.”

“Lore says it works,” Marie replied.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s always reliable,” Gwen griped.

“Well, maybe it's like iron or silver,” Marie reasoned. “Hurts the monsters but not us.”

Gwen remained unconvinced. “I just wish we had the other pieces of that dagger that you gave to Sam and Dean,” the younger huntress exhaled. “That seemed like the only foolproof way to kill her. Instead, we’re time traveling and chasing fairytales.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately, we don't have time to find the other pieces,” Marie rasped, staving off a haggard cough. “Eve’s starting to up her game. If we don't strike her now, while she’s still gathering her strength then pretty soon it won't matter if we have the Dagger or not.”

“I guess,” Gwen shrugged. “Although a fat lot of good any of this will do us if we can't find the bitch.”

“Did you try praying to Castiel?” Marie inquired.

“Yeah, no answer,” Gwen stated. “Poor guy’s probably still weak from the ambush.”

Marie nodded solemnly. “Figures,” she muttered, before raising her voice as loud as she could and said, “BOYS!”

A few moments later, two pairs of footsteps pounded up the steps of the stairwell and came stampeding down the hall.

“Marie?” Sam called out, his face contorted in worry.

“You okay?” Dean echoed, with a matching expression.

“Yeah,” the older woman grunted, pushing her body to sit up more on the bed. “I need to know where we’re at with finding Eve. You boys found anything?”

Sam let out a short breath and shook his head. “Nope. Been busy tryna forge Phoenix weapons.”

“I tried looking, but… nothing. Radio silence,” Dean disclosed, shaking his head.

“Okay, well, then, I’m thinking you need to make a call to the man upstairs,” Marie asserted, looking directly at Dean.

The man let his shoulders sag in exasperation. “Why’s it always gotta be me, huh?” he groaned. “It's not like Cass lives in my ass. The dude’s busy.”

Just then, everyone’s eyes widened as they looked behind Dean, who had turned and jumped back in alarm.

“Damn it, Cass. Get out of my ass!” Dean swore.

The angel’s dark eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “I was never in your…”

There was a long, heavy silence as the angel’s thoughts trailed off, causing a strange look to wash over Dean’s face as he swallowed thickly.

The others looked on with curious and amused expressions.

Marie stifled a snort as she was suddenly reminded of their recent Goa’uld hunt, where Elijah previously commented on Dean’s obsession with penetration.

Memo to me: tell Elijah when he gets back. Marie grinned.

“Ahem,” Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing down at the angel’s pink, full lips before quickly returning his attention to the others as he tried to ignore the faint rush of heat blooming on his cheeks. “Anyway, uh, we need a bead on Eve’s location. You got anything for us?”

“I was going to ask you that,” the angel replied.

“So nothing on your end either?” Gwen chimed in.

“No, I’ve looked but she’s hidden from me,” Castiel admitted. “She’s hidden from all angels.”

“How’s that even possible?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrow.

“When God first created Adam and Eve, he imbued them with some of his essence, which is where many of your priests and pastors get the phrase “Let us make man in our image.” Adam and Eve primarily used that essence to seize control of the Earth and gain dominion over all living creatures, but they could also use it to hide from angels,” Castiel explained. “It's part of what made her so difficult to hunt down 10,000 years ago. Not even Michael could find her without the combined help of Lilith and four other angels and demons.”

Dean pinched his forehead and grumbled to himself. “Great. So not only is she the mother of all humans and monsters, but she’s also got on angelblock SPF 2000. Awesome.”

“You know, what we could really use is a man on the inside,” Sam suggested.

“Meaning?” Dean questioned.

“Something with claws and sympathy,” Sam elaborated.

Gwen snorted. “Do you guys even know any good monsters?”

“They are in short supply these days,” Dean conceded. “But we’ve met one or two.”

“Which means we have a chance at finding them,” Sam continued.

“Alright. Let's do it,” Dean nodded.

Chapter Text

A couple of hours went by after Castiel disappeared to go find the vampire Lenore, who Sam and Dean had met four years ago on that fateful hunting trip where they came across Gordon Walker.

Gwen and the Winchesters were in the basement of Bobby’s house, busying themselves with coating the final remaining weapons in Phoenix ash, when Castiel finally returned with Lenore.

Sam and Dean gaped in disbelief at the Evarien vampire’s current state. She… well, she had definitely seen better days.

As soon as she saw them, she bolted. However, she didn't make it far before Dean used his Grimm speed to cut her off.

“What the—” she gasped.

Dean held out his hands the same way a zookeeper would to a wild animal. “Hey, hey. Take it easy, okay?” he cajoled. “We’re not gonna hurt you. We just want to talk.”

“Lenore,” Sam cut in, taking a cautious step forward. “Do you remember us?”

Lenore nodded in affirmation. “I do. Last time I saw you both, your hunter friend almost killed me,” she replied.

Sam grimaced at the memory of Gordon and said, “Yeah, I'm still sorry about that. If it's any consolation, that guy, Gordon, he turned into a vampire… and I cut his head off.”

“Yeah, with razor wire,” Dean chimed, with a grin. “Wicked.”

Lenore’s lips quirked upward slightly before returning to their deep frown. “Why am I here?”

The hunters looked at each other, sharing a brief, silent conversation before turning back to the vampire.

“Well, um… first off: that’s Cass. He's our friend,” Sam began, pointing towards the angel. “And second… we need to talk to you. About Eve.”

Lenore’s eyes widened as she began shaking her head fearfully. “No. No, I have nothing to say about Eve.”

Dean narrowed his eyes slightly. “You sure about that?”

“I'm trying to stay away from her,” Lenore snapped. “Believe me.”

“Where’s your nest?” Sam inquired.

Lenore lowered her gaze solemnly while clenching her jaw. “Gone,” she said. “They couldn't fight it anymore. It's her voice, in our heads. What it does to us. So they left, started killing again.”

“But not you,” Gwen questioned, folding her arms as she arched an eyebrow.

Lenore zeroed in on the female hunter with a steely gaze. “Don’t look so shocked,” she fired back evenly. “I’ve been hiding in a basement, not exactly Club Med. You don't know how hard it is not to give in. Everyone gives in.”

Dean cleared his throat and attempted to redirect the conversation.

“Okay, so this psychic two-way you got, that mean you know where Mama’s camped out?” 

Lenore recoiled in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she scoffed. “You want me to tell you where she is? You do know she could be listening to us right now.” 

Tendrils of dread slithered around Dean’s ribcage as the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up. He let out a soft grunt and closed his eyes, rubbing his hand over his face, as he fought back the Grimm transformation boiling beneath his skin.

Kill the girl! urged the voice that appeared in his head when he went back in time. She’s a liability. She might as well be broadcasting our position. Do it now!

“Okay, so we don't have the element of surprise anymore,” Gwen huffed shrugging nonchalantly. “Big deal. We're still going.”

“You’re crazy,” Lenore corrected. “I can't help you.”

“Can’t or won’t,” Sam challenged, his expression sharpening, as he stepped forward. “Look, it's clear as day, you still give a shit. You don't wanna kill and you don't want this whole planet dead.”

Lenore looked around at the hardened glares of determination etched into the quartet’s features and she finally realized that they weren't messing around.

“You actually believe you can beat her?” Lenore gaped, a sliver of hope seeping through chinks of her mental armor. 

“Just tell us where she is, Lenore,” Dean pleaded, having temporarily overpowered his inner beast.

Lenore observed the eldest hunter in the group for a moment before saying, “Grants Pass, Oregon. And now she knows you're coming.”

“Good,” Dean smirked. “We’ll go greet the bitch.”

As the hunters started to move, Lenore stopped them.

“Hold on,” she chimed in. “I didn't tell you this out of the goodness of my heart. I need something.”

“What?” Sam asked.

Lenore took a few steps forward, her eyes tired and pleading. “Kill me.”

“Hey, no. Okay, none of that shit,” Dean waved off. “We’ll lock you down till this is over. Witness protection. You’ll be safe.”

“You don't get it. It's not about that,” Lenore shook her head. “I'm dangerous. I hear her voice all the time.”

“You’re not like the rest of them,” Sam rebuffed.

“I'm exactly like the rest of them,” Lenore hissed. “I fed. I couldn't help it. The girl couldn't haven been more than 16. I’ll do it again. I can’t stop… not anymore. You have to, please.”

“Lenore,” Sam started.

In the blink of an eye, Dean was on her, shoving Lassie into her chest. A pained grunt escaped Lenore’s lips, as blue electricity flickered beneath her skin and black ooze leaked out of her orifices.

“I'm sorry,” Dean whispered, twisting the knife, making her face morph into its true form.

Then he wrenched the dagger out and caught Lenore before gently laying her corpse on the ground and closing her eyes.

“Dean,” Sam sneered, getting ready to tear into his brother.

“She was in pain, Sammy,” Dean sighed in exhaustion. “I took it away. End of discussion.”

“Your brother’s right, Sam,” Castiel spoke up for the first time since he returned. “Besides… we needed to move this along.”

Then, with a wave of his hand, the angel teleported the hunters (and their bags of supplies) and himself to Grants Pass, Oregon.

Chapter Text

As they took in their surroundings, a deep-set frown lined Dean’s face. He readjusted the duffel slung over his shoulders before saying, “Well, I was expecting more Zombieland, less Pleasantville.”

“Just because it looks quiet doesn't mean it is,” Gwen voiced in response. “Especially if she has a clue we’re coming.”

“Yeah, well, if she is here, I’m glad we got Smitey McSmiterton on our squad,” Dean said, half-joking. “Alright, so, where do we start?”

“Get me a computer,” Gwen replied.

Gwen and the boys found themselves meandering through town looking for signs of trouble or suspicious behavior until they made it to a diner in the middle of town.

As soon as they got inside, the quartet found a table and the brothers ordered some food while Gwen typed away on a tablet that Sam handed her.

“Alright, I pulled up the police database,” Gwen announced. “By the way, Sam, I’ve been meaning to ask you this since last year, but how do you always have such a good WiFi signal?”

Sam chuckled, “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“So, anything?” Dean asked, getting the conversation back on track.

“Nickel-and-dime stuff, nothing weird,” she said, before pausing. “Well, nothing that’s our kind of weird. Dead-end. You think Vampira was lying?”

Dean shook his head firmly. “No, she didn't have a reason to.”

Whether she lied or not, she still wanted to die. Dean thought darkly. She would have gotten her wish regardless.

Just then, Castiel looked around before saying, “I’ll search the town. Give me a moment.”

But he never left. He didn't even disappear. 

He just sat there staring off into the distance in confusion along with the rest of them.

“Cass, we can still see you,” Dean remarked.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” Cass acknowledged, frowning deeply.

“Okay, well, don't wait on us,” Gwen chimed in. 

Castiel closed his eyes, his face contorting in concentration as he once again tried to use his powers, but nothing happened.

“Well, now it just looks like your pooping,” Dean jeered.

“Something’s wrong,” Castiel informed them, re-opening his eyes in alarm.

“What, are you stuck?” Dean questioned. 

“I'm blocked,” the angel answered in disbelief. “I'm powerless.”

The hunters looked at each other in bewilderment, fumbling to come up with a response. Was there even a response to this type of shit?

Damn it! Dean swore internally. He was our one ace in the hole.

“You’re joking,” Dean huffed. 

“Something in this town is, uh… it's affecting me,” Castiel floundered in a way only he could. “I assume it's Eve.”

Dean looked around utterly dumbfounded by the news he just heard.

Great! Just fucking great!

“So wait,” Dean started trying and failing to keep his cool. “Mom’s making you limp?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes and leaned in slightly. “Figuratively, yes.”

“How?”

The angel rolled his eyes in annoyance. “If I knew that, don't you think I would go and find a way to undo it?” he snarked. “All I know is she is.”

“Oh, well, that's great, because without your power, you're basically just a baby in a trench coat,” Dean fired back.

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but quickly closed it before turning away from Dean and looking out of the window.

Pouting. Castiel was legitimately, honest-to-God, pouting.

Again, a fucking baby in a trench coat. Dean mused sardonically.

To be quite honest, the Grimm found it kind of adorable… in a really non-weird, totally normal way.

But that didn't stop the twinge of guilt that gut-checked him when he saw Cass turn away from him dejectedly.

Dean let out a sigh and lowered his eyes to the table while Sam heckled him for hurting Castiel’s feelings.

Dean would apologize. 

“Whoa, hey! I think I got something,” Gwen exclaimed softly, as she typed rapidly on the electronic keyboard.

Just not right now.

Dean quickly snapped his head in his cousin’s direction, his guilt momentarily forgotten. “What do you have?” 

“I had to go federal to get it,” Gwen disclosed, showing Dean the screen. “A call went out from the local office to the CDC last night.”

“About what?” Sam queried, taking a bite of his salad.

“A Dr. Silver called in an illness he couldn't identify,” Gwen answered. “Patient’s a 25-year-old African-American named Edward Bright.”

Dean grimaced, leaning against the table as he rubbed his right temple with his hand. “That ain’t much to go on.”

“No, but it's all we got,” she let out. “So—”

“So beggars can't be choosers,” Dean grumbled, returning his focus to his plate sitting in front of him. “Let's finish up here.”

A while after they left the diner, the group split into two teams: Team One find Dr. Silver; and Team Two look for Ed Bright.

Dean and Cass were approaching the doctor’s office just as Dr. Silver’s assistant was closing up.

“Excuse me. Hi,” Dean said as they got closer. “Uh, is Dr. Silver in today? My friend is very sick.”

The older woman turned to them and zeroed in on the powerless angel. 

Castiel’s piercing blue eyes shifted between Dean and the doctor’s assistant as he struggled to come up with a logical addition to Dean’s statement. 

Just then, a sharp pain twisted around Castiel’s lower abdomen and shot through his spine, the weight of Hell’s corrupted souls starting to crush him.

“I have a, uh… painful burning sensation,” he grunted out… honestly.

Dean slowly turned to look at him in exasperation but Castiel was too busy fighting off the fatigue and blink away the black spots dancing in his eyes to notice.

“Oh, well, he’s out,” she answered with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”

“Do you know where he is?” Dean persisted.

However, the receptionist was still focused on Cass. “Listen he hasn't called in, but you might wanna find yourself some ointment.”

If only it were that easy. Cass grouched.

As she walked away Dean knitted his eyebrows together and said, “What kind of doctor calls CDC and then goes AWOL the very next day? Let's have a look, shall we?”

Dean and Cass went around back to see if there was anything in his office that could give them some kind of clue as to what Eve was planning.

What— or rather who— they found was Ed Bright. Dead.

His clothes were soaked in blood and pus. His dark skin was bloated and peeling. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a thick, yellow ooze leaking out of every visible orifice on his body. 

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, covering his nose with the back of his hand. “What kind of doctor calls the CDC then stashes the gooey corpse in his shed?”

Castiel shook his head as a frown of concern passed over his face. “I don't understand what’s happening on here.”

“Well, I know one thing about the body, we need some kerosene,” Dean gagged.

”Here’s a picture of Dr. Silver and his family,” Gwen informed Sam, handing him a picture of the man, as they walked out of the house.

Sam analyzed the picture and furrowed his brow softly. “Wonder what happened to them,” he pondered aloud. 

As they reached the sidewalk, a policeman got out of his squad car and started marching towards them.

“Crap,” Gwen sighed.

“Hi there,” the policeman greeted.

“Hi,” Sam replied with an easy smile.

“Who are you?” the officer inquired, coming to a stop in front of the duo. 

In response, they flashed their fake badges causing the lawman to snort. 

“You Casual Friday agents?” 

Sam and Gwen laughed. “We’re on a case a few miles out,” Sam clarified. “We got a call to come here.”

“How ‘bout you? What’s your business?” Gwen queried, observing the sheriff closely.

“Dr. Silver’s a friend of mine,” the sheriff answered. “Heard he didn't show up for work today, so I thought I’d check on him to see if he’s sick.”

“Not sick. Missing.”

“Missing? Says who?” the officer frowned.

“Says us,” Sam jumped in. “Empty house, no bags backed, car still in the driveway.”

The sheriff narrowed his eyes curious and asked, “How’d you get on this?”

“Oh, it's a long story,” Gwen huffed. “Tell you what, why don't you put out an APB? We’ll compare notes down at the station. Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure,” the police officer nodded. Then he went back to his car and drove off.

Sam grinned and nodded. “Badass.”

“Yeah, just hurry, dumbass,” Gwen retorted.

*                              *                              *

A short while later, Sam parked the rental car he bought in town across the street in front of a duplex house where Ed Bright was allegedly living. And parked a little further down in a silver Camry, closer to the house, was Dean and Cass.

The separate duos got out of their cars and met by the curb leading up to the porch. 

“So we got a missing doctor and an oozy patient, huh?” Dean said. 

“Yeah, plot thickens,” Sam huffed.

“Well, let’s go see what Ed’s roommates have to say,” Gwen stated. 

“Does Ed Bright have a brother?” Cass asked curiously.

“No. Why?” Sam replied.

“Then that’s not his twin,” Castiel said, subtly nodding towards the window nearest to the porch.

And sure enough, a man (or something) looking exactly like Ed Bright was stumbling into view in front of the window, setting all of the hunters on edge.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and clenched his fists as he forced down the Grimm surging beneath his veins.

Kill him! It said. Kill him now!

“So what, shifter?” Dean croaked.

“I don't know what the hell we’re looking at,” Gwen admitted, as she saw “Ed Bright” cough in the window before stumbling out of view.

“Okay, Dean and me are gonna go in,” Sam started.

“I don't know, about that, Sammy,” Dean gritted out, gaining the attention of the others. “Something’s wrong.”

“What?” Sam tilted his head.

Kill them all. Kill HER!

Dean screwed his eyes shut and looked away from the house, his breath quickening as black veins surged through his temples and under his eyes and his skin turned pale.

KILL THEM!

Dean let out a grunt as he braced his hands against the metal gate of the front porch. However, due to his increased strength, the feeble metallic structure buckled and creaked within his grip, causing the others to stare at him worriedly. 

“Dean?” Sam said, stepping towards his brother.

“Sammy, get away from me. I don't wanna hurt you,” Dean groaned.

“Dean,” Gwen began.

“I said stay back!” Dean growled, spinning around, ripping off pieces of the gate while his black eyes zeroed in on his friends and family predatorily.

Castiel instinctively stepped in between Dean and his relatives protectively while the other two stumbled back in fear.

“Dean,” Castiel said warningly.

Kill them! Kill them ALL!

Especially him. He’s a traitor! A liar. 

Don’t trust the angel.

“Dean!” Cass said, a little bit sharper this time.

Finally Dean seemed to shake himself out of his murderous haze. The color returned to his skin, his black eyes faded back to green, and the discolored veins vanished.

There was a pounding in Dean’s head as he looked upon the fearful faces of the people he loved, his hands shaking at his sides.

“I'm sorry, I—” he choked out, the words getting stuck in his throat.

What the fuck was he supposed to say? Sorry for nearly going Full Metal Grimm on your ass, we’re in a town with at least one monster and the Mother of All just waiting to gank our asses, which is making my powers go haywire?

Yeah, because that would go over well. Dean thought. It's bad enough Cass's powers aren't working. If they think mine are screwy…

“Dean!” Sam snapped, getting his attention.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean nodded, clearing his throat and smacking his lips together. “Let’s, uh… let’s go inside.”

Then he strolled up the steps of the porch and walked up to the front door.

Don't trust the angel. The voice repeated one last time before fading away.

Shaking his head briskly, Dean drew his gun and kicked down the door, breaking it off its hinges before he and the others rushed in. But the second they did, they stopped dead in their tracks as they were met with the sight of several corpses— all of whom looked like Ed Bright— scattered around the living room.

“Jesus Christ,” Gwen gasped.

“Okay, don't touch anything,” Dean ordered.

“Hey, back here,” Sam pointed out. 

Dean, Cass, and Gwen followed after him and found that one of the Ed look-alike was still alive, albeit barely.

“Hey, buddy, talk to us. What is this?” Sam asked gently, though his eyes flashed with apprehension.

His questioned was met with a haggard cough that had the hunters stepping back in uncertainty.

“Ed, what’s going on?” Dean inquired.

The young man let out another wretched cough before saying, “I'm not Ed.”

Sam picked up the boy’s wallet and pulled out his driver’s license, as the sickly shifter continued. Marshall Todd.

“What's wrong with me?” Marshall rasped.

So many things. Dean thought.

“Nothing. Nothing, okay? We’re gonna get you help,” Sam replied.

Marshall looked around and saw all of the Ed copycats littering the living room and whimpered pitifully. 

“Oh, God, do we all look like—” 

“What? No. No, no, no. You have a fever. You’re hallucinating,” Dean lied.

“Hey, Marshall. Sweetie, what happened here?” Gwen chimed in.

“Am I gonna die?” Marshall cried.

“No, you're not gonna die, but you need to talk to us,” Sam cut in insistently.

Marshall spit up a glob of blood before saying, “Ed was feeling bad so I took him to the doctor. I think… now we’re all sick.”

“You think?” Dean muttered.

Gwen popped him in the back of his head even as Sam ignored Dean comment and continued speaking to Marshall. 

“And before you got sick and before Ed got sick, did you do anything?” Sam questioned. “Did you go anywhere? I need you to focus for me.”

“I don't know,” Marshall wheezed. “Some bar.”

“A bar? What bar?” Sam pressed.

“8th Street, I guess,” Marshall answered. 

“Okay, 8th Street. Did you see anything; did you meet anyone?” Sam persisted.

“Sam,” Dean cajoled, eyeing the rapidly fading shifter.

“Not now, Dean,” Sam hissed.

Marshall coughed again, gurgling up blood as his body trembled. “A girl. A girl in white.”

“Okay. What did the girl in white do, Marshall?” Dean asked.

But it was too late. 

Marshall’s chest heaved one last time before finally going still as blood and yellow ooze dribbled out of his mouth and nose.

Chapter Text

“Well, I don't get it,” Dean let out as he walked back down the steps of the porch. “A bunch of regular joes get turned into shifters? What the hell?”

“No, shifters usually run in families,” Gwen replied, shaking her head. “That looked like an infection.”

“Well, I am bathing in Purell tonight,” Dean shivered. 

“So he said they met a girl,” Sam chimed in, redirecting the conversation.

Dean grimaced, sparks of his Grimm rising to the surface. “It's gotta be Eve.”

“But why would she do this?” Cass questioned.

Gwen shrugged. “Mommy monster. Make more.”

It was Dean’s turn to shake his head. “No, no no. Cass has a point,” he rebuffed. “If she wants to make a shifter army… why make one that’s sick, gooey, and dying?”

“Add it to the pile of shit that doesn't make sense,” she snarked. 

“So, should we hit the bar?” Sam suggested.

*                            *                              *

Dean kicked in the doors of the bar, though, this time, they stayed on the hinges and the quartet walked into the room chock-full of decaying, half-shredded corpses that had the same ooze coming out of them as Ed and his friends.

“Well, you said the sheriff was a mook, but… still, you'd think he'd notice this many missing folks,” Dean said before bending down to examine one of the corpses. “We got a vamp over here.” Then he notices the sharp needle-like object sticking out of the dead girl’s wrist. “Nope, scratch that. We got a wraith. Holy fuck. What has teeth and a spike?”

“Don’t look at me,” Gwen responded, her eyes blinking slowly as he brain tried to catch up with what was going on. “I have never seen that in my life, and I guarantee it's not in the books.”

“Great. So Eve’s making hybrids now?” Dean grumbled. 

“Guess so,” Sam called out, finding another amalgamated creature.

“Well, the question is why. What does she want with a— what do you call these?” Dean huffed.

“Congrats. You discovered it, you get to name it,” Gwen declared, clapping her cousin on the back. “And then you get to add it to the Grimm journals.”

Dean paused for a moment, soaking in the solemnity of the situation before straightening his back and smiling.

“Jefferson Starships,” he proclaimed, getting a bunch of odd looks from his family. “Because they’re horrible and hard to kill.”

Sam let out a sigh and said, “Well, it looks like the whole bar has been turned into—”

“Jefferson Starships,” Dean cut in, walking behind the bar and bending down to analyze another body.

“Fine,” Sam relented. “But why are all the… Starships dead?”

“I don't know, but it looks like they burned up.”

Dean poked his head up over the bar counter in curiosity. “Burned up?” 

“Yeah, like a high fever or a flu,” Gwen clarified. 

“What the hell’s going on here?” Dean wondered sinking below the counter again. “Does every monster in this town have the Motaba virus?”

“HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE ‘EM!” the sheriff yelled as he stormed into the bar with his officers, their guns aimed at the trio’s heads.

Meanwhile, Dean remained hidden behind the bar counter as quiet as a mouse.

“Sheriff, this isn't what it looks like,” Gwen reasoned. “We’re the feds.”

“Yeah?” the sheriff scoffed, walking towards her. “Feds are not allowed to do this. Cuff ‘em. Turn around.”

Then the sheriff and his two officers arrested Sam, Gwen, and Castiel and took them back to the station.

When Dean finally stood up from behind the bar counter, his skin was ash-white and his eyes were pitch-black.

Kill them! The voice returned.

Sam, Gwen, and Cass were shoved through the double doors leading into the main sheriff’s office as they tried and failed to convince the officers to let them go.

Until Sam looked over at the security camera monitor and saw their eyes.

In an instant, Sam threw his head back and headbutted the sheriff, forcing the monster to release him before whirling around and kicking him square in the chest.

“Jefferson Starships,” Sam yelled to the others. 

Gwen and Cass immediately got to work fighting off the supernatural policemen as best they could. Unfortunately, with there hands tied behind their back that didn't amount to much.

One of the monsters managed to get Gwen on her back and bared its fangs, preparing to take a chunk out of her neck. However, before he could, a sharp blade pierced through the back of his head and came out through his mouth, causing him to cough and gag. Blood spurted out of his mouth, spraying across Gwen’s face and causing her to flinch, as blue electricity raced through his body, lighting up his skeleton. 

The blade left the hybrid’s body with a sickly squelch and he rolled over and collapsed dead next to Gwen, revealing Dean Winchester.

The eldest hunter squeezed Fleetwood tightly, the sword’s hilt sending a tingling sensation through his ghostly pale hand as a soft hum rang in his ears. His eyes were completely black, surrounded by inky tendrils of supernatural energy feeding into them, as he snarled and bared his teeth. 

“D-Dean?” Gwen stammered.

Kill them! The voice of his Grimm roared.

Dean looked up and walked right past Gwen, leaving her on the ground next to the body as he stalked towards the monster deputy pinning Cass to the wall and lopped of his head without even hesitating. Then, in a flash, he bolted towards the sheriff who was about to eat Sam, grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, and tossed him across the room, knocking him out cold.

But the Grimm wouldn't leave him be. 

However, as he went to finish the sheriff off, Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and told him to stop.

Instinctively, the Grimm shoved Sam back, aiming the sword at his gullet. Sam’s eyes widened in terror as the other two slowly approached the brothers.

“Dean,” Sam began shakily, swallowing thickly as his Adam’s apple bobbed pressing softly against the tip of Dean’s blade. “Dean, it's me. It's me.”

And it was only then that Dean finally snapped out of it and returned to his senses.

“Sammy?” Dean rasped, lowering the bloody sword to his side.

Sam nodded rapidly. “I'm here, man.”

Dean let out an unsteady breath as he stumbled back and turned to the others, who were staring at him anxiously.

Just then, he was reminded of something Marie had said to him weeks ago.

“It’s not a curse,” Marie had said to him. “It’s a responsibility. And if you don’t embrace it—if you don’t learn how to control it—then it will control you.”

He really needed to get a handle on this thing. Fast.

*                             *                             *

“Well, I’ll say this,” Gwen started, as she circled the monster currently strapped to a chair in the interrogation room. “You're the healthiest-looking specimen I’ve seen all day.”

“I take my vitamins,” the monster snarked. 

“So you wanna tell us what’s going on here?” Gwen interrogated. “Are you guys Eve’s clean-up crew? Is that it? You come to clean up the bodies… make sure the word doesn't get out? Is that why you snatched up the doctor?”

Meanwhile, Castiel stood in the corner of the room, eyeing the sheriff angrily as she continued her interrogation while the Winchesters stood outside on the other side of the reflective glass window. 

“You’re so wasting your time,” the sheriff chuckled. “You stupid head of cattle.”

All of a sudden, the group heard a loud thud coming from somewhere in the building, causing Dean’s Grimm to flare up. 

“More Starships,” he growled, twirling Fleetwood in his hand with lethal expertise as he stormed off to go slay some more monsters. “Gwen, keep going,” he said, disappearing around the corner in a blur of motion and shadow. 

Sam bolted off after Dean, but he was far too slow compared to the Grimm.

When he did finally catch up to him, he found Dean in full Grimm mode ripping the bars off one of the cell doors with his bare hands and getting ready to strike down two defenseless…

“Dean, wait! They're kids!” Sam shouted.

“No, they’re not, Sam!” Dean snapped. “I can see their real faces. They’re Eve’s puppets now.”

Sam looked at the two young boys cowering in the corner, huddled against each other with tears streaming down their faces before looking back at his brother.

“Dean,” he whispered.

“I know what I'm looking at Sam!” Dean insisted hoarsely, choking back the sob stuck in his throat as he raised his sword. “And I know what I have to do.”

The youngest of the two boys wailed and buried his face in his older brother’s shirt while the older boy looked at Sam one last time, eyes pleading, as he said, “Please.”

Before Sam knew what he was doing, he went barreling into the open cell and tackled Dean with all his might, knocking him off-kilter as he tried to pin him to the floor.

“Go!” Sam barked.

Quickly, the kids scrambled to their feet and ran out of the holding area and the back entrance of the building.

NO! The Grimm bellowed.

Dean broke free of Sam’s hold on him and slammed his head against the remaining bars, knocking him out, before stomping towards the back exit.

But, of course, by the time he walked outside the station, the boys had disappeared.

“Damn it!” Dean seethed, startling himself with how bloodthirsty he sounded.

Chapter Text

“You stupid son of a bitch!” Dean screamed flinging his brother across the room with little effort.

Sam flew through the air before skidding across the floor and crashing into a wall with a loud thud. He groaned as he struggled to get up, spitting up blood as he went. 

“Dean,” Sam wheezed.

“SHUT UP!” Dean ordered, silencing his brother in tone that reminded Sam all too well of their father. “I told you— I told you that they were monsters, Sam. I told you to let me handle it, and, because you didn't listen, now they are in the wind.”

“So what?” Sam coughed, clutching his stomach as he hobbled to his feet. “You were just gonna kill a couple of kids? For what? For being turned into monsters against their will?”

Dean narrowed his vibrant green eyes at his brother and stalked toward him, jabbing his finger at Sam’s chest. “No, I was going to stop whatever disease Eve was spreading through this town,” he corrected. “Those kids… they’re going to snap. They are going to attack someone innocent and turn them into monsters as well, and it is my job to keep that from happening because that's what it means to be a Grimm. It means I need to do what needs to be done to keep the balance of the universe in check and you need to stay the hell out of my way!”

A twinge of sadness flashed over Sam’s face as Castiel approached the quarreling brothers.

“Dean, can I have a word with you?” 

Dean turned away from his brother, ignoring his kicked-puppy expression, and faced Castiel with his arms folded across his chest.

“You find anything?” he asked.

“No,” Cass shook his head. “And I don't think I’ll be able to as long as I remain powerless.”

“Great,” Dean grimaced.

“Look, Dean, I understand that you want to find those boys, but we need to find Eve now,” Cass stated.

Just then, an idea sparked through Dean’s head. “Do we still have the gags that the cops put over their mouths?”

“Yes, but—”

“Where?” 

“In the cell where they were being held,” the angel answered. 

The Grimm walked off, leaving Sam and Cass in the main office.

He was only gone for a few seconds before he zoomed back in the room holding the gags and sniffed them, much to Sam’s disgust.

“What are you doing?” Sam cringed.

“Getting their scent,” Dean replied curtly.

He took one last sniff of the gags, breathing deeply as he closed his eyes, letting his Grimm instincts take over. When he reopened his eyes, they flitted black for a brief moment before returning to their natural green hue.

“They went southwest. They’re heading for Merritt, about 15 miles outside of town,” Dean informed them, dropping the gags and starting toward the door. “If we hurry we can still catch up to them.”

“Dean, hold on,” Sam called out.

“Sam, so help me God, if you don't shut up, I will play hacky-sack with your meat suit until this entire station falls apart,” Dean growled warningly. “We’re going.”

“Dean, Sam’s right. We can't afford to chase after them now, not when we’re so close to finding Eve,” Castiel replied. “Millions of lives are at stake here, not just one or two towns. Stay focused.”

“Are you kidding?” the Grimm scoffed. “Those things are out there because of me and Sam. They could turn people because of us.”

“There’s a greater purpose here,” Cass insisted.

“Trust me, I’m fully aware. But right now, I have had it with all of the greater purposes,” Dean let out. “And for now, at least, I just want to go clean up my mess, if you don't mind. If it means so much to you, then stay here with Gwen. We’ll catch up.”

It was dark out by the time they made it out of town. Sam and Dean sat there in silence as Dean sped down the open road like a bat out of hell.

“What's going on with you, Dean?” Sam finally asked after an hour of silence.

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, causing his knuckles to turn white, as he remained silent.

Sam let out an annoyed huff. “So, now you're not talking to me?” 

Dean eyed Sam out of the corner of his eye but still said nothing.

“Look, I get why you freaked out,” Dean exhaled, as he finally spoke to his brother. “Hell, I’m freaking out. But so far my… Grimm-stincts only seem to be going haywire around Eve’s minions, which is a good thing. It means we can snuff out her lackeys faster without them getting the jump on us.”

“Yeah, but that's not all, is it?” Sam countered. “Being here around all these creatures… you're starting to lose your shit, Dean. You almost attacked me and the others earlier today at Ed’s house. You keep zoning out and having these ragers. You're not okay.”

Dean smiled wryly and nodded. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I'm not okay. My whole world just got flipped on its fucking head and suddenly not only are there new monsters out there that I never even knew about, but now… now I find out that I’m not even human anymore. I never was. Hell, I'm no better than you were when you were drinking demon blood.”

“Dean,” Sam balked.

The Grimm raised one of his hands to silence his little brother. “Don’t. I’m not saying this to bring up old grudges or start a fight. I'm just saying… I see the way you look at me now. Like I'm different, like I'm a freak,” Dean confessed, still staring straight ahead. “And you're right to. Truth is, Sammy, ever since this started happening to me, I keep getting the feeling that something bad is about to happen, and that I’m gonna be the cause of it.”

Sam’s eyes softened as he took in the vulnerable expression gracing Dean’s usually hardened features. And just for a moment, Dean looked about six years younger, carrying the same wide-eyed youth and innocence— if he could even call it that— that he had when he picked Sam up from Stanford. 

“Nothing bad’s gonna happen, Dean,” Sam said reassuringly. “Not while you got me.”

Back at the sheriff’s station, Castiel was looking out of the window deep in thought.

His sister was in the wind and Father only knows if she had exposed his machinations to the other angels. Eve remained elusive. The man he cared for was losing his mind and the souls… he still needed to find a way to stop the corruption from weakening him completely.

The angel was taken out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps approaching from behind him.

“They won't take long,” Gwen said softly, cutting through the heavy silence.

“You don't know that,” Castiel groused, still staring out of the window. “They may find more wayward orphans along the way.”

Gwen pursed her lips and frowned. “Now, don't get cute.”

The angel finally turned around to gaze upon the young woman, a look of hurt and annoyance etched into his features. “Right. Pardon me for highlighting their crippling martyrdom and dangerous empathetic responses with sarcasm,” he said, making air quotes around the last word. “It was a bad idea letting them go.”

The Campbell huntress observed the angel’s behavior, plunging the room into silence once again. She watched how he moved, the way he spoke, how much concern he expressed for the boys— no, Dean.

Son of a bitch! She realized.

Well… at least now all of those earlier awkward silences and weird moments suddenly made sense.

She wondered if Dean knew. 

Probably not. She decided succinctly.

After all, her cousin may have a good eye for hunting, but when it came to matters of the heart, he didn't exactly come off as the sharpest tool in the shed. Heck, she didn't even know if he swung that way or not.

Judging by the odd— well, odder— look she was getting from Castiel, she gauged that she must have been silent for too long. 

“Well, Cass, I think you know better than anyone that you don't let Sam and Dean Winchester do anything,” Gwen chuckled. “They do what they have to. They’ll be fine. Anyway, we want Eve… we need coordinates. So we can either stand here mooning after the boys… or we can go poke that pig till he squeals. You game?”

Castiel sighed despondently, glancing back out of the window one last time before heading back towards the interrogation room.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! DAMN IT!

“I lost the scent,” Dean growled in frustration, pacing in front of the car, running his fingers through his short hair. “Shit! Those kids could be anywhere in town by now. They could have turned everyone by now. Fuck!”

Sam leaned against the hood of the Impala observing his brother anxiously. “Dean, just calm down—”

“Calm down?” Dean yelled, cutting him off. “You’re telling me to calm down? You’re the reason they're out there.”

Sam pressed his lips together tightly as he breathed through his nose sharply, his nostrils flaring. “Yeah, I did!” Sam snapped. “Because I didn't want to watch my brother butcher a couple of kids like a—”

“Like a what, Sam?” Dean challenged, his nose and lips curling into a sneer as his took on a more animalistic appearance. “Like a monster? Is that it?”

Sam opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. 

Dean chuckled derisively while nodding his head. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Dean,” Sam whispered.

The eldest Winchester briskly raised his hand to silence his younger brother as he stomped back over to the driver's side of the Impala. “Let’s get back Grants Pass,” he grunted. “Maybe if we gank the bitch, her hybrids die too.”

Dean ignored the kicked-puppy look on Sam’s face as he got into the car. Once Sam was situated inside, Dean zoomed off to get back to the others.

I should have listened to Cass. Dean thought.

Chapter Text

“She can see you, you know?” the sheriff snickered. “And you're just making her mad.”

Gwen narrowed her eyes as she slashed his face. “Then tell the bitch to come get me,” she taunted.

“Give me five minutes alone with him,” Castiel cut in, warning a confused look from the Campbell hunter.

“What for?”

Castiel stalked towards the captive monster, rolling up his sleeves as he went. Then he stretched out his hand expectantly.

Gwen cautiously put the knife in his waiting hand, saying, “You know your batteries are still dead, right?”

“Yes, but I have other interrogation methods,” he answered evenly. “And, well… I need to vent. You should leave now.”

A sharp chill raced down her spine as she saw the steely glare in his cobalt-blue eyes, even as she walked out of the room.

She waited out in the main room, walking back and forth and leaning against the desks, trying and failing to keep busy in order to drown out the screams of the hybrid coming from the interrogation room.

A moment later the screams went silent and were followed by footsteps, as Castiel walked out to find her.

She gasped and stumbled back, completely in shock by the sight of Castiel wiping the blood off his hands and forearms with a stone-cold expression on his face. 

“Cass?”

“Eve’s at 25 Buckley Street,” Castiel announced.

“Cass?” Gwen repeated. “Are… Are you okay?”

“You can call Sam and Dean,” Cass replied, avoiding the question as he walked away to find the bathroom.

Dean smelled the corpse before he saw it. The second he and his brother got out of the car, his nose itched with an almost burning stench tickling the back of his nose. 

However, when he walked into the station, that is when the full force of the odor nearly catapulted him back out the front door the way he came in. Still, he toughened it out. But the closer he got to the interrogation room, the nastier it smelled.

“Rigorous interrogation, huh,” Dean coughed, focusing on Gwen and Cass and not the tears brimming in his eyes.

“Well, we, uh… we got a location,” Gwen let out, eyeing Cass warily, as she slung her gun over her shoulders. “Now we just gotta get close enough to take the shot.”

“Alright,” Dean nodded, pulling out the five shells that Sam and Gwen made earlier. “Let's all take one. Make it count.” Then he slipped the extra one back into his pocket as the others loaded their guns.

When they left to go to the location the sheriff had given them, Dean was both surprised and annoyed when he realized where they were.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he griped. “She’s been in the diner the whole time?”

Sam swallowed thickly. “Why’d she ever let us in?”

“Real question is why’d she ever let us out?” Gwen frowned.

“Well, I know one way we can find out,” Dean exhaled, his breath solidifying in the cool night air.

“What, just walk right in?” Gwen questioned. “Because that’s a smart plan. We don't even know what the bitch looks like or who in that diner is even human.”

“Well, then, Sam and I will draw her out,” Dean plotted. “We go in and find her, but if we don't get a shot off, you two better.”

“That's the plan?” Gwen balked.

“Yeah,” Dean affirmed. “Pretty much.”

The Grimm handed off one of the duffel bags to Gwen before he and Sam crossed the street to get to the diner.

Even as they got further and further away, Dean could still hear Gwen say, “Well, at least it isn't complicated.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward in amusement, before being completely buried under the overpowering wave of supernatural energy that exploded in his body, causing him to stumble back. Luckily, Sam caught him in time and helped steady him on his feet.

“You good?” Sam inquired.

“No,” Dean growled, his voice taking on an unearthly tone, as his skin blanched and his eyes turned black. “Just follow my lead.”

Taking a slow breath, Dean closed his eyes and willed himself to calm down, until his Grimm shift disappeared. Then he grabbed the door handle and opened the door of the restaurant and walked in with his brother at his side.

Chapter Text

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood straight up the instant they entered the cafe. As the brothers went to go sit at the bar counter, Dean fought the urge to massacre everyone in the room. 

This was a bad idea. He thought.

“We got get outta here,” Dean hissed lowly.

Sam leaned in close, saying, “Why? What do you see?” 

Dean sent a sharp glare toward his brother, his nose flaring as he pressed his lips together tightly to muffle the animalistic growl rumbling at the back of his throat. 

“You mean other than a restaurant full of Starships?” he snarled in response.

Sam paled as he started looking around at the other patrons, trying his best to remain inconspicuous.

“You mean everybody in here is a flesh-eating monster?” Sam whispered.

“Besides you and me… yeah,” Dean nodded. “So let's get the hell out of here before I hulk out, huh?”

“Yeah, let's do that,” Sam agreed.

However, just as they got up to leave, a young waitress came by with two plates of food and set them in front of the boys. “Two house specials, right?”

Dean instinctively froze while Sam tried to bluff their way out of the diner.

“Oh, no, thank you,” Sam smiled forcefully. “We were just leaving.”

KILL HER!

“No, that would be rude, Sam,” the young woman replied, sending a chill down the younger Winchester’s spine.

“Eve,” Dean growled, clenching his fists together as he let his true nature appear.

Eve beamed curiously as she leaned in closer to Dean.

“So, it is true,” Eve grinned, reaching out to cup Dean’s face. “You are one of my darling Henrik’s boys.”

A pang of recognition throbbed within Dean’s chest even though he had know fucking clue who Henrik was. Nevertheless he focused back on the current threat and steeled himself for the confrontation against Eve.

“Why don't we step outside, chat?” Dean suggested.

“Why? This is private.” 

As soon as she said that, several of the patrons got up from their tables and closed all the blinds on the windows, and locked the front door before snatching the duffel bags away from the Winchesters and setting them on the table in front of Eve. She pulled out one of the guns and sniffed it, before pulling back, her lips curling into a deadly snarl as zeroed in on the hunters. 

“My son’s ashes,” she gritted out. “Well, I am impressed. I bet you had to go a long way for that.”

“You have no idea,” Sam grumbled.

She ordered one of her underlings to take the guns and destroy them before returning her gaze to Sam and Dean, the latter of whom looked just about ready to combust in a fit of pyroclastic fury.

“Easy, Henrikson, I’m not here to fight,” she admitted.

Dean scoffed dismissively. “No, just to rally every freak on the planet, bring in Goa’uld, and half-assed spider-men… and dragons. Really, Eve? Dragons?”

“So I dusted off some of the old classics. I needed help,” she replied.

“With what?” Sam asked, arching his eyebrow. “Tearing apart the planet?”

Eve studied the boys for a moment before leaning over the counter, causing them to go rigid. “You misunderstand me. I never wanted that, not at first. The humans are just as much my children as the monsters,” she began, causing Dean to shift uncomfortably in his chair. The idea that he was technically related to any of these monsters made his guts churn with unease. “And…” Eve continued. “I liked our arrangement; the natural order. Your supernatural brethren turn a few of you. You kill a few of them. I was happy.”

“So, what changed?” Dean questioned.

Eve’s eyes flared an electric shade of purple before returning to their natural brown hue. “My children, no thanks to you started getting kidnapped and tortured, even my firstborns,” she growled. “I was pushed into this. After all, a mother defends her children.”

“You’re really gonna use the mother-of-the-year defense? You?” Dean challenged.

“Maybe you’ll believe it more if I looked like this,” Eve smirked.

In an instant, Eve’s appearance morphed and twisted about until she stood before them appearing as the spitting image of their mother. 

“Oh, you bitch!” Dean cursed, his Grimm nature roaring to the surface. Despite this, he stayed his hand, unable to bring himself to attack the woman wearing his mother’s face.

“She did die to protect you both, didn't she?” Eve proclaimed smugly. “See? You understand a mother’s love. I'm no different.”

“Alright, you know what? This conversation is over,” Dean seethed. “If you’re gonna kill us, kill us.”

Eve rolled her now blue eyes and sighed. “Oh, my sweet naive boys. You still don't understand, do you? It's Crowley I want dead,” she said. 

Sam and Dean glanced at each other before looking back at the Mother of Monsters in confusion.

“You’re a little late there,” Sam chimed.

“Yeah, that little limey mook roasted months ago,” Dean snickered matter-of-factly.

Eve’s lips cracked into an eerie, knowing smile as she tilted her head to the side. “Crowley’s alive. I see his face through the eyes of every child he strings up and skins,” she retorted as she walked around the counter and went to stand beside Sam. “Any idea why he’s hurting my babies?” 

“He wants Purgatory,” Dean stated. “Location, location, location.”

Eve chuckled dryly. “Is that what he told you? It's about the souls.”

“What about them?” Sam inquired.

“They’re power, you simple little monkey,” Eve responded sardonically, as she started walking towards one of the tables behind Sam and Dean making them turn around in their seats. “Fuel. Energy. Each soul is a beautiful little nuclear reactor. Put them together, you have the sun. Now, think what the king of hell could do with that vast untapped oil well. How powerful he’d be. And now, he wants to siphon off my supply and torture my children to do it?”

The longer Eve spoke, the more sense everything made. 

Dean’s eyebrows knitted together in concentration as he carefully put the pieces together. 

The first missing girl from the dragon case that Dean and Sam couldn't rescue in time. The torn-out pages from the ancient tome that was used to summon something from Purgatory. The desperation of these monsters to reproduce as fast as they could before Samuel and his crew got to them.

It was all a cry for help. A cry for their mother to save them.

Save them from the demon who had been hunting them since the end of the Apocalypse.

Kill the demon!

Dean was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of Sam saying, “So, now you plan to make everyone a monster just to stick it to him? Good luck. Last I checked, there were a few billion of us.”

“Well, obviously,” Eve nodded. “What do you think I’m doing here? I'm building the perfect beast.”

Their eyes widened to the size of tennis balls. 

“So all those things we’ve been finding around town, that was—” Dean gasped. 

She shrugged. “Call it beta testing.”

“Well, I think your formula may be a bit off,” Dean snarked. “They’re imploding all over town.”

“Well, there were a few unfortunate failures,” the Mother conceded. “But I eventually got it right. Quiet, smart, inconspicuous… unless you have the Grimm sight, that is.”

A cold shiver raced down Sam’s back as his fake mother’s gaze turned to him, gleaming wickedly. 

“You should have listened to your brother, Sammy,” Eve taunted. “Protective older Joe and his dear baby brother… little Ryan.”

A strangled gasp escaped Sam’s lips as a guilt that he hadn't felt since he released Lucifer from Hell crashed down on him. Once again, Sam was at the epicenter of an apocalyptic event… all because he thought he knew better than his brother.

Sam risked a glance over at his brother only to find him burning a hole into the bar counter.

“If it makes you feel any better, the boys were bound to work on you,” Eve cut in with mock sympathy as she pinched Sam’s cheek. “A couple of wayward little orphan boys like yourselves. Had Dean not been a Grimm, I’m sure he would have been duped just like you. There isnothing you can do about it now, so let's talk.”

Sam wrenched himself away from Eve’s touch and glared at her. “Nothing to say.”

“That's where you’re wrong,” she countered, turning to look at Dean. “Seeing as you are the mediator between mankind and the supernatural, I have a proposal for you. Crowley, as you know, not so easy to find. So, here’s the deal. You find him, bring him to me… I let you live.”

“Pass,” Dean replied swiftly.

“Dean—” Sam started. However, was instantly silenced by his brother bringing his index finger to his lips and shushing Sam like a five-year-old.

“The adults are talking, little brother,” Dean remarked. “The answer is still no.”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “You say that like you have another option.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't,” Dean smirked.

“You think?” she queried, stepping closer to the Grimm.

A few seconds later, two more Jefferson Starships entered the diner through the side entrance with Gwen and Castiel in tow.

Fuck.

“Well, so much for your Plan B,” Eve huffed, placing her hands on her hips, before looking at Castiel. “And you, wondering why so flaccid? I have the essence of God in me, Castiel. I’ve taken on much stronger angels then you and I know what makes you tick. As long as I’m around consider yourself unplugged.”

As the First Woman traveled back behind the bar counter, she once again insisted that the boys work for her in order to catch Crowley.

“Bonus, I won’t kill your friends.”

“Alright, look. The last few months, we’ve been working for an evil dick,” Dean sneered. “We’re not about to sign up for an evil bitch. We don't work with demons. We don't work with monsters. And if that means you’ve got to kill us, then kill us.”

“Or I turn you… and you do what I want anyway,” Eve argued.

“Lady, you can beat me with a wire hangar, the answer is still no,” Dean rebuked.

Sam, Gwen, and Castiel gaped at Dean in horror as Eve suddenly appeared behind him, wrapping a slender hand around Dean’s throat. 

“Don't… test me,” she warned, as she leaned over his shoulder.

Dean looked over at his family before glancing over his shoulder at Eve and saying, “Bite me, bitch!” 

To which she happily obliged.

However, the second his blood touched her tongue, a raging fire spread throughout her body, making her stagger back as she vomited black blood. 

“Ash from the Alpha Wesen,” Dean announced, pulling something out of his pocket. “One shell, one ounce of whiskey. Down the hatch. A bit of a musty aftertaste, but not entirely unpleasant. Call you later, Mom.”

The hunters watched as the Mother of All decomposed before their very eyes, her form shifting back into that of the young girl she had initially possessed, leaving only a burned out husk of a vessel collapsed in a growing puddle of black ooze.

Chapter Text

The second Eve’s body hit the ground, the Starships went feral and tried to attack the hunters all at once. 

Until Castiel told them to get down and close their eyes moments before he conjured a blast of divine energy that exploded out of the diner and spread through the entire town, killing every last one of Eve’s beasts.

When the light faded, no monster was left standing and the diner was covered in the blood and charred remains of her wretched creations.

“We gotta take you on more monster hunts,” Gwen smiled, as she took in the bitter aftermath of Castiel’s shockwave.

Castiel, however, did not acknowledge her attempt at humor and instead focused on the corpse of the Monster Queen.

“Hey, um, Cass… Dean’s bleeding pretty bad,” Sam let out, his voice trembling slightly.

“I'm good,” Dean grunted, removing his blood-covered hand from his rapidly healing neck. “Perks of being Grimm, I guess.”

“Sure you're not turning into one of those things?” Gwen asked, folding her arms.

“Yeah, I’m all clear. Phoenix ash probably burned her venom right outta me,” Dean confirmed, getting up from the seat at the counter. “Now, we gotta high-tail it out of here and catch those damn kids before they mutate half the planet.”

“Unbelievable,” Cass groaned, making Sam wince.

Still, Cass used his powers to teleport the hunters back to the town where Dean had lost their scent only to find several bodies lying in the streets.

Dean growled and resisted the urge to glare at Sam. “So we killed the wicked witch and she still wins,” he groused.

“Dean,” Sam started.

“Sam, I swear to God, if you try to apologize right now, I will punch you in the throat,” Dean threatened, before lowering his voice and continuing. “I can't even enjoy saying I told you so, I'm so damn pissed.”

As they neared one of the houses, Gwen noticed two small bodies collapsed in a bloody heap on the front porch. 

The boys.

“Guys, I think I found them,” Gwen called out.

They all rushed towards the house and gathered around to identify the cadavers strewn across the lawn.

As they got closer, the stench of rotten eggs smacked Dean dead in his nostrils.

“So the demons ganked them,” he surmised, bending down to touch the small pile of sulfuric residue on the grass.

“But why?” Gwen inquired.

“I think demons don't give a shit about monster tweens… unless they’re told to,” Dean huffed, sucking on his teeth as he rose to his full height. “Which means… Eve was telling the truth.”

“Telling the truth about what?” Castiel questioned, already suspecting the answer.

Dean’s eyes darkened. “Crowley’s still alive.”

And there it was. The moment Castiel had been dreading since he purposefully faked Crowley’s death.

The angel did his best to look shocked and disgruntled by this new revelation. 

“But I burned his bones,” the angel lied. “Was she certain?”

“Sounded like,” Dean nodded. “According to her, Crowley is still waterboarding her kids somewhere.”

Castiel pressed his lips together tightly and shock his head in genuine frustration. “I don't understand.”

“Well, he's a crafty son of a bitch,” Dean reasoned.

“I'm an angel,” Castiel insisted. “I’ll look into it immediately.”

Then he disappeared without another word.

Even after he was gone, the tension in the atmosphere remained as Sam and Gwen shared a peculiar look with each other that did not go unnoticed by the Grimm. 

“What?” Dean queried.

Sam and Gwen hesitated, looking at each other one last time before Sam said, “How did Crowley get away? I mean, it isn't like him to fuck up like that, unless…”

“Unless what?” 

“Unless he meant to,” Sam sighed.

Dean’s eyes narrowed into slits as he clenched his jaw. “Unless he meant to what?”

“Dean,” Gwen began.

He Grimm swiftly cut her off, saying, “No, no. I wanna hear Sam say it.”

“Look, all I’m saying is that the last time Cass did something this major, he busted you out of Heaven’s waiting room to help you stop me from starting the Apocalypse,” Sam debated.

“Exactly, Sam. He took a risk to try and help us,” Dean defended. “And faking Crowley’s death doesn't help us. Therefore, he wouldn't do it. This is Cass we’re talking about. Gwen, do you believe this?”

“I don't know him as well as you do,” Gwen shrugged. “From what’ve seen, he probably wouldn't, but… I can't say for sure.”

“Look, it's probably nothing, Dean, but…” Sam trailed off uncertainly. “You’re right. It's probably nothing.”

Meanwhile, back at the diner…

Castiel once again stood in the center of the carnage he had wrought just as the jukebox magically started playing “Miracles” by Jefferson Starships (the band, this time).

“Really, Cass,” a smarmy British voice said from behind him. “This is getting ridiculous. How many times am I gonna have to clean up your messes?”

Castiel let out a deep breath to steel his nerves before he turned around to face… Crowley!

Chapter Text

END OF ACT I

Chapter Text

Spring 2011 Timeline of Events

1. Beginning Chapters:

   • Occur during the tail end of the week of February 11th, 2011, coinciding with the end of Supernatural Season 6, Episode 13.

2. Supernatural (SPN) Episode 14:

   • Takes place during the week of February 18th, 2011.

3. Supernatural (SPN) Episode 15:

   • Occurs during the week of February 25th, 2011.

4. Supernatural (SPN) Episode 16:

   • Happens during the week of March 4th, 2011.

5. Supernatural (SPN) Episode 17:

   • Replaced by Grimm training chapters, taking place over 24 days while Bobby and Elijah are on a trip (from March 4th to March 28th).

6. The Vampire Diaries (TVD) Episode 18:

   • Occurs on March 28th, 2011.

7. Supernatural (SPN) Episode 18:

   • Also begins on March 28th, 2011.

8. Supernatural (SPN) Episode 19:

   • Takes place during the week of April 4th, 2011.

Chapter Text

Every beginning has a middle. Every middle has an ending. And every ending has a new beginning.

And so the cycle repeats.

Everything you saw was merely a taste of the anarchy you are about to be thrown into.

By now, you’ve realized who has been guiding you along this journey of remembrance.

This is the Odyssey of Recollection.

Now as we journey further into the unknown, you will see how deep the roots of my family tree spreads.

Over the course of my long life, I have come to believe that we are bound forever to those with whom we share blood. And while we may not choose our family, their bond can be our greatest strength, or… our deepest regret. This unfortunate truth has haunted me for as long as I can recall.

But one truth that has always given me hope was the tether of love. The hope that family can truly last always and forever.

MISSISSIPPI RIVER, 1711…

The sea stretched endlessly in every direction, a mirror of calm azure under the cover of endless night. On the horizon loomed an ominous silhouette—a massive ship, weathered and still, as though it had emerged from the depths themselves. The two men on the small scouting boat exchanged uneasy glances as they neared the abandoned vessel.

“What do you make of that?” the first man murmured, leaning forward, his grip tightening on the edge of the boat.

The second man squinted. “No banner. No flag. Floated in out of nowhere. A miracle ship.”

The first man frowned, his unease deepening. “Why is it just sitting out there?”

The second man shrugged, his voice tinged with nervous curiosity. “Suppose we ought to find out.”

With a creak of wood and splash of water, they boarded the ship alongside a handful of other crewmen. The eerie silence aboard the vessel pressed down on them like a weight. The sound of their boots against the wet planks echoed ominously, interrupted only by the faint drip of water from somewhere below deck.

Lanterns in hand, the men descended the ladder into the ship’s bowels, the golden glow of their lights cutting through the oppressive darkness. The air was damp and cold, thick with the metallic tang of salt and decay.

“Where in hell is everyone?” the second man muttered, glancing around the barren, shadowed corridors.

“Deserted,” the first man replied after a pause, his voice lighter now, tinged with greed. “Which makes everything in the hold legally forfeit. Take what suits you.”

They moved deeper into the ship, their lanterns illuminating crates, barrels, and the scattered remnants of what had once been a thriving crew. But then the first man stopped abruptly, his light catching on something unusual at the far end of the hold.

“What do you make of that?” he asked, his voice low.

The second man followed his gaze, his lantern casting a flickering glow over two ornately carved coffins nestled in the shadows. Their polished wood gleamed faintly, the intricate designs hinting at wealth and something far older.

“Open it up,” the first man ordered, his curiosity outweighing his caution.

The second man hesitated, a shiver crawling down his spine. Something about the coffins felt... wrong. But after a moment, he swallowed his unease and bent down, prying open the lid of the nearest one. The wood creaked as the seal broke, and the lantern light revealed its grisly contents.

Inside lay a man, unnaturally still, his pale skin flawless yet somehow lifeless. A dagger protruded from his chest, embedded with precision. The second man recoiled, his breath catching. “What the hell?!”

Before the first man could respond, a deafening crash echoed through the hold. A door somewhere behind them slammed open, followed by a rush of air that sent their lantern flames sputtering. The drip of water was drowned out by panicked cries as the other crewmen began to vanish into the darkness, one by one, their screams cut short by the unmistakable sound of tearing flesh.

The second man spun around, his lantern trembling in his hand. Shadows danced erratically across the walls, and the wind howled through the ship like a living thing. He clutched the lantern tighter, his breath ragged as he strained to see who—or what—was taking his men.

A soft, almost playful voice cut through the chaos. “Hello.”

He turned sharply, the lantern’s light falling on a woman. She stood just a few feet away, her pale features unnervingly calm. Blood smeared her lips, but her delicate handkerchief soon erased the evidence. Her piercing eyes, still faintly veined, bore into him.

“Lovely to see such a handsome face after a long journey,” she said, her voice dripping with dark humor. “Can I eat him, brother?”

From the shadows, another voice answered, smooth and composed. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

The second man froze, his heart pounding as a tall figure stepped out of the darkness. The man’s tailored suit was immaculate, his expression polite yet chillingly detached. He offered a faint, almost cordial smile.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” the man said, his voice gentle but carrying an unmistakable command. His eyes met the second man’s, compelling and irresistible. “You will remember nothing.”

The lantern slipped from the second man’s hand, clattering to the floor as his face went slack. “I will remember nothing,” he echoed, his voice flat, lifeless.

Elijah stood tall, his presence commanding yet composed, as he addressed the lone surviving sailor. The man trembled, his knuckles white as he clutched the sputtering lantern, its flickering light casting eerie shadows across the bloodstained walls.

"We've had a very long journey," Elijah began, his voice calm and precise, "wherein which, unfortunately, we lost all of our crew. Therefore, I will ask you kindly to transport our belongings to the shore."

The sailor's lips parted, but no sound came out at first. His mind raced to make sense of the carnage around him: the gutted bodies of his companions, the oppressive stench of death, and the unrelenting calm of these strangers who seemed utterly unbothered by the slaughter. Finally, he managed to stammer, "What kind of hell demons are you?"

Rebekah stepped forward, the soft clink of her heels against the ship’s planks somehow louder than the howling wind outside. She tilted her head with a bemused smile, her golden hair framing her face like a halo of innocence that belied her predatory nature. "We're vampires, darling," she said with a saccharine tone that made the sailor flinch. "The Original vampires: Rebekah, Elijah, our brothers Kol and Finn—may they rest in peace."

Before the sailor could respond, another voice cut through the tense air, low and mocking. "Are we saving the best for last?"

The sailor turned sharply, his lantern casting light on another figure emerging from the darkness. Klaus stood at the edge of the hold, his predatory grin revealing bloodstained teeth. In his arms hung the lifeless body of the first sailor, limp and drained. Klaus's face was still vamped, veins stark against his skin, and his eyes burned with a dangerous gleam. He laughed softly at Rebekah's comment, the sound low and menacing.

"And our half-brother, Niklaus," Rebekah continued with a roll of her eyes, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. "Ignore him; he's a beast."

Klaus smirked, amused by her jab, before unceremoniously dropping the body onto the floor with a sickening thud. Blood pooled beneath it, staining the already slick wooden planks. "We fled Europe and survived the seas," Klaus said, his tone almost conversational despite the macabre scene. "Would you rather I arrive hungry on the shores of our new homeland?"

Elijah sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he were chastising an unruly child. "Niklaus, your manners are, as always, without equal." He turned his attention back to the sailor, whose shaking hands barely kept the lantern aloft. "Sir, would you be so good as to tell us where it is that we have landed?"

The sailor swallowed hard, his throat dry. "The French colony of Louisiana," he managed to choke out, "off the shores of a town they’ve named New Orleans."

Elijah inclined his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Thank you so much." He straightened his jacket, his composure unshaken. "Oh, I do recommend that you find yourself further assistance for the luggage. My sincere apologies."

With that, Elijah turned and strode toward the exit, his footsteps measured and deliberate. Rebekah followed, casting the sailor a wink over her shoulder. Klaus lingered for a moment, his predatory gaze locked on the trembling man. For a brief, terrifying second, it seemed as though Klaus might pounce, but then he simply smirked and turned to follow his siblings, leaving the sailor alone in the carnage.

PRESENT DAY, 2011…

Klaus entered the room, the door creaking slightly as it closed behind him. His keen eyes immediately spotted a folded letter propped neatly against a crystal glass decanter. The paper was crisp and pristine, standing out against the dark wood of the table. His name, "Klaus," was scrawled elegantly across the front in a familiar hand. The sight of it made him pause mid-step.

He approached slowly, his footsteps deliberate, and reached for the letter. As he picked it up, he turned it over in his hands, his brows furrowing in recognition of the wax seal pressed firmly on the back. The impression bore the letter "K" — a bold, mocking flourish that he knew all too well. A flicker of irritation crossed his face, though his lips twitched as if he couldn't quite decide whether to smirk or sneer.

He slid a finger beneath the seal, breaking it cleanly, and unfolded the letter. The scent of the parchment carried a faint trace of perfume, a bittersweet reminder of the author. As his eyes began to scan the neat, flowing script, her voice crept into his mind like a ghost, each word tinged with her signature blend of venom and charm.

Klaus,

I hear Elijah has refused you the cure, and in return, you have refused me my freedom. Shame on you both.

Klaus exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. "Typical," he muttered under his breath, already anticipating the rest of her taunts.

But while you boys sort out your problems, I have one last thing to offer you.

Klaus tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued despite himself. Katherine never reached out without an ulterior motive, and rarely did she offer anything without expecting a price to be paid.

I've caught wind that there is a witch in New Orleans named Jane-Anne Deveraux plotting a move against you. Hunt her down. What she has to say will rattle you so deeply to your core that chasing little old me will be the least of your concerns.

At this, Klaus's grip on the letter tightened ever so slightly. His eyes darkened, the name "Jane-Anne Deveraux" already carving its place in his mind. New Orleans. A place steeped in his history, in his past triumphs and betrayals. What could possibly await him there that Katherine deemed important enough to deflect his pursuit of her?

It's been a fun five centuries, Klaus, but I've worn down too many good heels running from you.

He could almost hear the smirk in her voice, the way she loved to needle him, even from afar.

With love and hate,

Katerina

The letter slipped from Klaus's fingers, falling back to the table, the sound of its landing barely audible. He stood there for a moment, his face unreadable, though his eyes burned with a storm of emotions — anger, intrigue, and something far darker.

Klaus reached for the decanter, pouring himself a generous glass of bourbon. The amber liquid swirled in the light as he lifted it to his lips and took a slow sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. His mind raced.

"Jane-Anne Deveraux," he said to himself, testing the name aloud, his voice a low growl. Katherine may have believed this letter would distract him, but in truth, it only sharpened his resolve.

"New Orleans," he murmured, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Let’s see what secrets you’ve been keeping from me."

With that, Klaus downed the rest of the bourbon in one swift motion, grabbed his coat, and strode purposefully toward the door. Whatever awaited him in New Orleans, he would face it head-on. And if Katherine thought this would be enough to derail him entirely, she had gravely underestimated him.

Chapter Text

NEW ORLEANS

It was a bright day in the Crescent City of Louisiana, the warm humid air of New Orleans was admittedly less oppressive than it usually was as the rays of the southern sun danced about on the buildings of the French Quarter. And it was there, deep in the heart of New Orleans off the corner of Rue Bourbon, in a tiny restaurant called Rousseau’s that a young werewolf girl presently resided.

The bar was quiet, with only the faint hum of a fan, the mellow jazz playing over the radio, and the clink of glassware breaking the midday stillness. Hayley sat on one of the weathered barstools, leaning on her elbows as she swirled a spoon through her bowl of gumbo. The rich aroma of spices wafted around her, but she wasn’t really tasting it. Her thoughts were far away, tangled in memories of a family she barely knew and questions she still didn’t have answers to.

Behind the bar, Jane-Anne wiped down a glass absentmindedly, her sharp eyes flicking toward Hayley with a mixture of curiosity and caution. “Third time in here this week,” she said, her voice lilting but direct.

Hayley looked up, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m obsessed with the gumbo, Jane-Anne,” she replied, her tone light but slightly defensive.

Jane-Anne chuckled, setting the glass aside. “You know,” she said, leaning against the counter, “ladies in the 9th Ward say my sister, Sophie, bleeds a piece of her soul into every dish.”

At this, she glanced across the room toward a petite woman working methodically on the far side of the restaurant. Sophie was arranging a tray of ingredients with precision, but her attention briefly shifted toward Hayley, her gaze lingering just a moment too long.

Hayley followed Jane-Anne’s glance, then leaned back in her seat. “I’ve been asking around the Quarter about my family,” she said, her voice dropping into a more serious tone.

Jane-Anne tilted her head, her interest piqued. “And?”

“Nothing,” Hayley admitted, frustration bleeding into her voice. “Zero. I can’t find a single person who remembers them.” She stirred her gumbo absently, staring into the bowl as though it might hold the answers she was looking for.

Jane-Anne exhaled slowly, setting her hands on the bar as she leaned closer. “Because, Hayley,” she said carefully, “people like you were run out of here years ago.”

Hayley straightened, her brows furrowing. “What do you mean, people like me?”

Jane-Anne didn’t answer right away. Instead, she moved around the bar, her steps measured and deliberate. She stood beside Hayley now, her presence closer and more deliberate. Sophie, on the other side of the room, had stopped what she was doing and was watching them, her expression unreadable but tense.

Jane-Anne reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, spreading it flat on the bar in front of Hayley. It was a map, worn at the edges and marked with smudges of ink. With a finger, she pointed to a spot on the map and circled it slowly. “In the bayou, they call the werewolves ‘Roux-Ga-Roux,’” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial.

Hayley stared at the spot on the map, her heart quickening at the prospect of finally having a lead. “You head out there,” Jane-Anne continued, “you’ll find what you’re looking for.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “Be careful. It’s the last place you’d ever want to go.”

Hayley nodded, folding the map carefully and tucking it into her jacket. She looked at Jane-Anne and gave her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks,” she said simply, rising from her seat.

As Hayley walked out of the bar, the door creaking shut behind her, Jane-Anne and Sophie exchanged a glance. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a quiet tension thick in the air.

Jane-Anne opened her hand, revealing several strands of Hayley’s hair wrapped carefully around her fingers. She twirled them thoughtfully, her expression dark and unreadable as she turned to meet Sophie’s gaze.

“We’ll see if she makes it back,” Jane-Anne said softly, her voice heavy with meaning. Sophie didn’t respond, but the slight tightening of her jaw spoke volumes.

The bar returned to its quiet stillness, but the sense that something far larger had just been set in motion lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.

The road stretched out before Hayley like an endless ribbon of cracked asphalt, flanked by towering trees draped in Spanish moss. The headlights of her car cut through the dimming light, casting flickering shadows across the dense Louisiana wilderness. She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, the map resting on the seat beside her, its edges slightly crumpled from being handled too many times.

Her search had led her here, down this desolate road, chasing whispers of a past no one seemed willing to talk about. The silence was thick, pressing against her ears like a weight, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional rustling of the wind through the trees. She exhaled slowly, glancing at the map again. If Jane-Anne had sent her on a wild goose chase, she was going to be seriously pissed.

*                               *                              *

Elsewhere, in the heart of a centuries-old cemetery, Jane-Anne and Sophie Deveraux moved purposefully between rows of above-ground mausoleums, their steps hushed on the stone path. The flickering candlelight from scattered offerings cast eerie shadows over the weathered names carved into the tombs.

Sophie hesitated, clutching her arms around herself, her expression drawn tight with unease. "Don't do it," she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please. What if I'm wrong about her?"

Jane-Anne kept walking, her jaw set with quiet determination. "That's the beauty of you," she said, sparing her sister a glance. "You're never wrong." She stopped in front of an altar they had prepared earlier, a simple wooden table adorned with ritual markings. "She's the only way we're gonna get to Klaus."

Sophie shook her head, her eyes glistening with emotion. "Can’t we get someone else to do the spell?"

Jane-Anne turned fully to face her, her patience fraying. "Who, Sophie? Half the witches don’t believe you. The other half are too scared." Her voice softened, though her resolve did not. "Because they know we're gonna get caught."

Sophie looked away, blinking rapidly. She knew Jane-Anne was right, but that didn’t make this any easier.

"We don’t have any other options," Jane-Anne pressed, reaching out and taking her sister’s hands in her own. The warmth of her touch was grounding, even as Sophie felt her stomach churn with dread.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Jane-Anne squeezed Sophie’s hands gently. "Now go. You know what you need to do."

Sophie hesitated but nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat before turning away. As she disappeared into the night, Jane-Anne inhaled deeply, steadying herself. There was no turning back now.

Hours later, the cemetery was still and silent, save for the flickering glow of candlelight. Jane-Anne sat before the altar, the table now covered in intricate salt patterns. She worked meticulously, sprinkling the last lines into place before reaching for a small, smoking goblet.

At the same time, miles away in the bayou, Hayley pulled into a clearing and parked. She killed the engine, the sudden quiet unsettling. Taking the map from the passenger seat, she unfolded it and ran her fingers along the route Jane-Anne had marked.

Back in the cemetery, Jane-Anne lit another candle, the flame burning high before she whispered an incantation. The moment the words left her lips, the map in Hayley’s hands ignited.

"What the...?" Hayley yelped, dropping it as the flames consumed the paper in an instant. She quickly threw it out the window, watching as it disintegrated into ash upon hitting the damp ground.

Jane-Anne continued her work, lifting the goblet and placing it carefully on the altar.

Hayley, unsettled, reached for her keys and turned them in the ignition. The car sputtered, coughed, then suddenly began spewing thick smoke from the hood.

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, hitting the steering wheel in frustration. She grabbed her phone and quickly dialed a number.

"Hey, I’m looking for a tow service?" she asked as soon as someone picked up.

Before she could get an answer, an ear-piercing screech erupted from the phone. Hayley winced, yanking it away from her ear as pain lanced through her skull. "Ah, what the hell—"

The sound intensified, ringing in her head like nails on a chalkboard. Grimacing, she threw the phone to the ground, covering her ears as the noise became unbearable.

Meanwhile, Jane-Anne’s voice rose in cadence as she continued the spell. The air in the cemetery thickened, the candles flickering wildly.

In the bayou, Hayley panted, trying to shake off the pain, but something else was happening now—movement in the trees. Shadowy figures emerged from the darkness, stepping forward slowly, deliberately.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Hey!" she called out, stepping back toward her car, her instincts screaming at her to run.

In the cemetery, Jane-Anne reached for the last candle and lifted it, holding it in front of her face. With a final whispered word, she blew out the flame.

In the bayou, Hayley’s vision blurred. The world tilted sideways as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. She gasped, stumbling forward, then crumpled to the ground.

Before she could hit the dirt, arms caught her—Sophie.

The others closed in around them, their expressions grim as Sophie carefully lowered Hayley’s unconscious body.

"Let’s hope she’s as important as you think she is," one of them murmured.

Sophie exhaled shakily, brushing a stray curl from Hayley’s face.

"She has to be," she whispered.

Chapter Text

The midday sun hung high over New Orleans the next day, casting golden light that filtered through the twisted iron balconies and ancient oaks lining the street. The city pulsed with life, a symphony of sounds—street musicians playing lively jazz, the chatter of tourists, the distant hum of traffic. Yet, beneath the vibrant energy, an undercurrent of something darker lingered, woven into the very fabric of the Quarter like an old, whispered secret.

A tour guide led a group of eager visitors down the cobblestone street, his voice carrying over the bustle of the afternoon crowd. Dressed in a crisp white button-up and khakis, he had the air of someone who had told these stories a thousand times before yet still relished the thrill of his captive audience.

“Welcome to the dark side of New Orleans,” he began theatrically, pausing near the shadow of a centuries-old gas lamp. “A supernatural playground where the living are easily lost, and the dead stick around to play.”

A ripple of excitement coursed through the group. Some exchanged amused glances, while others leaned in with rapt attention. The Quarter had a way of making even skeptics wonder, even if just for a moment, whether the ghosts of the past truly walked among them.

A few feet away, Klaus Mikaelson stood at the edge of the scene, a silent observer in the chaos of the midday crowd. His presence was effortless, yet somehow commanding—leaning casually against the iron railing of a nearby stoop, hands resting in the pockets of his tailored coat, the flicker of a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He had heard every legend spun about this city, every ghost story, every myth. After all, many of them were about him.

His sharp blue eyes flicked over the tour group, lingering for a brief moment on the eager faces of those who hung on the guide’s every word. Humans—so enamored with the idea of the supernatural, yet so blissfully unaware of how close they truly stood to the monsters in their bedtime stories.

He let out a quiet chuckle, barely more than a breath of amusement. If only they knew.

As the guide continued down the street, leading his unwitting flock deeper into the city’s haunted heart, Klaus remained where he was, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. He wasn’t here for ghost stories. He was here for something real, something far more dangerous than any legend these tourists would carry home.

“New Orleans? What the hell is Klaus doing there?” Rebekah asked, furrowing her eyebrows at her brother.

“Hopefully entombing himself with the spirits of the dead,” Bobby prayed grouchily, folding his arms across his chest as he sat back in one of the elegant chairs in the Mikaelsons’ living room.

Elijah shot the old hunter a sharp look, which faded almost as soon as they locked eyes. 

Admittedly, things had been tense when Elijah brought his beau home to meet the rest of his family. More than a few times, Robert threatened to shove the White Oak Stake up Niklaus's… ahem… derriere, and one time Elijah had actually caught him in the attempt. 

Niklaus was, of course, no better, making threats to Robert’s well-being, which the eldest Mikaelson swiftly nipped in the bud with several threats of his own. A few of these involved the White Oak Stake or some other kind of violence. A few involved preying on his younger brother’s insecurities and weaknesses. In the end, the vampire-hybrid submitted, albeit reluctantly and begrudgingly.

Elijah shook his head, focusing back on the present situation, and cleared his throat before saying, “Evidently, there are witches conspiring against him. So knowing our brother, this was a mission to silence and slaughter.”

“Good, let’s join ‘em,” Bobby chimed as he and Rebekah shared impish grin that sent a shiver of unease down Elijah’s spine. 

*                              *                             *

The marketplace in New Orleans was alive with movement and sound. Colorful fabric canopies fluttered in the warm breeze, shading vendors and their wares from the relentless Louisiana sun. The air was thick with the scent of spices, roasted pecans, and the occasional sharp tang of incense burning from a nearby stall. Voices called out in a rhythmic symphony—merchants hawking their goods, musicians strumming lively tunes, and tourists chattering excitedly as they drifted from table to table, eager to absorb the city’s intoxicating energy.

Klaus Mikaelson moved through the crowd with the quiet confidence of a predator, his keen eyes scanning the maze of vendors until they settled on a particular table tucked beneath the shade of an old cypress tree. The woman seated there, draped in flowing garments with a vibrant headscarf wrapped around her head, was surrounded by an assortment of mystical trinkets—tarot decks, small vials of herbs, talismans said to ward off evil. At the center of her display sat a crystal ball, its surface gleaming in the fractured light.

The moment her gaze met Klaus’s, her expression shifted. Fear. Recognition. Without a word, she reached for her belongings, hurriedly packing them into a worn leather satchel as if she could disappear before he reached her.

Klaus smirked, his pace never wavering as he closed the distance between them.

*                              *                              *

“I agree with my younger brother-in-law,” Rebekah nodded. “We deserve to finally be rid of Klaus.”

“Plus, I’ve heard stories ‘bout them New Orleans witches,” Bobby added. “They don't play around. If Klaus did something to piss ‘em off, which I’m sure he did, who knows what they might do?”

Rebekah’s blue eyes gleamed wickedly as she leaned against the entryway of the living room nursing a glass of blood and wine. "You don’t suppose they’ve found a way to kill him once and for all, do you?" she mused, arching a delicate brow as she set her drink down with a soft clink.

Elijah, standing beside her with the posture of a man perpetually burdened by responsibility, exhaled sharply through his nose. His disapproval was as palpable as the bourbon in his glass. "Rebekah, in the name of our family, you might try to dial down your glee."

Rebekah scoffed, rolling her eyes before tossing back the rest of her drink with practiced ease. She turned to face him fully, tilting her head in mock contemplation.

"What family?" she challenged, her voice laced with bitterness. "We’re three distrustful acquaintances who happen to share a bloodline." A smirk ghosted across her lips, cruel and satisfied. "I, for one, hope they’ve found a way to make that traitorous bastard rot."

“Seconded,” Bobby agreed, raising his hand just in time for Rebekah to high-five him.

Elijah’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. There was no point in arguing. Not when, deep down, he feared she might not be entirely wrong.

Without waiting for an invitation, Klaus lowered himself into the seat opposite her, his lips curling into an easy smile.

"Good afternoon," he said smoothly, fingers tapping idly against the wooden table. "Time for one more?"

The woman, Agnes, barely looked up as she continued gathering her things, her gnarled hands swift and practiced. "I have nothing to say to you," she replied curtly.

Klaus feigned a look of offense, placing a hand over his heart. "Oh, now that’s not very amiable, is it? You don’t even know me."

At that, Agnes finally met his gaze, her dark eyes sharp with recognition. "I know what you are," she said, voice low but steady. "Half-vampire, half-beast. You’re the hybrid."

Klaus’s smirk widened, his amusement unmistakable. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers lacing together as he studied her. "I’m the Original hybrid, actually," he corrected, his tone almost teasing. "But that’s a long story for another time."

*                              *                              *

“Just where the hell do you think you're going?” Bobby queried, standing up from his chair to follow his husband.

Elijah adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, his voice calm but firm. "To find out who's making a move against my brother." He reached for his pocket square, straightening it with meticulous care. "And then I'll either stop them..." He paused, his lips pressing together in thought before he met Rebekah’s gaze with a glint of amusement. "Or I'll help them, depending on my mood."

Bobby groaned in exasperation, as he grabbed his jacket. “Of course you are.”

“I didn't say you had to come with me,” Elijah replied with a small smile.

“You didn't have to, idjit. Our vows were in good times and bad,” Bobby sighed. “And seeing as your brother is content on making your life a living hell, I’d say this constitutes as bad.”

Rebekah let out a soft laugh as she watched the couple, swirling her drink again before downing the rest in one smooth motion. "How very noble of you," she mused, leaning back with a smirk. "Should I be placing bets on which way your conscience swings tonight?"

“If I call you and say peace on earth, that means that bastard is finally dead. If not well…” Bobby retorted.

“Then I shall pray for peace on earth,” Rebekah grinned, setting her drink down for a moment and pulling Bobby into a tight hug. Then she leaned in closer and whispered to the old hunter. “Take care of Elijah. He’s the one brother I can actually tolerate.”

*                             *                              *

"I'm looking for someone," Klaus said smoothly, his tone was casual, almost polite, but his eyes gleamed with something far more dangerous. "A witch. Perhaps you might be able to help me find her. Jane-Anne Deveraux."

The name landed like a thunderclap. Agnes stilled, her breath hitching just slightly—just enough for Klaus to notice.

"Sorry," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I don't know."

Klaus smiled, tilting his head. "Well, now that's a fib, isn't it?"

Before she could react, he reached across the table, his fingers curling around her frail wrist with deceptive gentleness. His touch was light, his expression charming, but there was a warning in his eyes.

"Now, you see," he continued, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur, "I know that you're a true witch amongst this sea of poseurs, so enough with the fabrications." His grip tightened just slightly, enough to make her pulse stutter. "I've quite a temper."

Agnes yanked her hand back, rubbing at her wrist as she glared at him. "Witches don't talk outta school in the Quarter," she hissed. "The vampire won't allow it. Those are the rules."

Klaus arched a brow. "The vampire?"

"Marcel," she clarified, her voice carrying the weight of something unshakable. "I don't break Marcel’s rules."

Klaus leaned back, his smirk growing. "Marcel's rules..." he echoed, amusement creeping into his tone. "And where do you suppose I might find this Marcel?"

The bar pulsed with life, a riot of sound and color, filled with the scent of alcohol and the distinct energy of New Orleans at night. A bluesy jazz tune hummed in the background, blending with the low chatter of patrons nursing their drinks or lost in their own affairs. The dim lighting cast warm shadows along the rustic wooden walls, the entire place buzzing with an undercurrent of something both inviting and dangerous.

Klaus Mikaelson stepped inside, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room with quiet authority. His presence, though unannounced, sent a ripple through the air—as if the very city could sense the return of its prodigal king. His eyes flicked toward the stage where Marcel Gerard stood, gripping a microphone in one hand as he belted out the final notes of a song.

As the melody came to an end, Marcel flashed a dazzling smile and gave a playful bow.

"Thank you," he said into the mic, his voice dripping with charisma.

The bar erupted into applause, patrons cheering as Marcel leaped gracefully from the stage, landing effortlessly among his companions. A drink was immediately pressed into his hand.

"You killed it, man," one of them praised, clapping him on the back.

Marcel lifted his glass in acknowledgment, but before he could take a sip, something shifted in his expression. His easygoing demeanor faltered for just a second, his senses catching on to something—or rather, someone. Slowly, he turned, his gaze locking onto the figure standing near the entrance.

A slow, knowing smile spread across Marcel’s face.

"Klaus."

"Marcel."

The air between them crackled with unspoken history, years of blood and loyalty layered beneath the simple exchange of their names.

Marcel stepped forward, his movements smooth, controlled. "Must be a hundred years since that nasty business with your papa."

Klaus tilted his head, feigning mild curiosity. "Has it been that long?"

They closed the distance between them, their steps measured, almost predatory.

"The way I recall it," Marcel continued, his tone light but edged with something sharper, "he ran you outta town. Left a trail of dead vampires in his wake."

"And yet," Klaus murmured, eyes gleaming, "how fortunate you managed to survive." He tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of amusement in his voice. "My father, I'm afraid, I recently incinerated to dust."

The words carried weight, an unspoken challenge. At once, Marcel’s companions stiffened. The room shifted, tension rolling through the air like an impending storm. One by one, vampires rose from their seats—no longer just a handful of loyalists, but an entire legion. It seemed half the bar was standing, ready for confrontation.

Marcel’s expression remained unreadable, his fingers curling loosely around the rim of his glass.

"Well, if I'd known you were coming back to town," he said, voice carefully casual, "if I had a heads-up—"

Klaus smirked, stepping even closer, their noses almost brushing. "What, Marcel?" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "What would you have done?"

A beat of silence.

Then, Marcel’s face split into a wide grin, and he let out a rich, genuine laugh.

"I’d have thrown you a damn parade," he declared, his voice carrying through the bar.

The laughter spread like wildfire, rolling through the room as Marcel clapped a hand on Klaus' shoulder. The two men embraced, their camaraderie momentarily overriding the unspoken tension. Marcel grasped both sides of Klaus’ neck, studying him as if confirming he was truly there.

"Niklaus Mikaelson," Marcel said with a smirk, shaking his head in disbelief. "My mentor, my savior, my sire." He released him with a chuckle and gestured toward the bar. "Let’s get you a drink."

*                              *                              *

The atmosphere in the private lounge was noticeably different—quieter, more intimate, but no less charged. A few of Marcel’s men flanked the entrance, their eyes trained on Klaus with wary curiosity, while Marcel himself settled into a seat across from him.

A crystal decanter of bourbon sat between them, catching the low candlelight as Marcel poured two generous glasses. He slid one toward Klaus with a grin.

"It is good to see you," Marcel admitted, raising his drink.

Klaus lifted his own glass, swirling the amber liquid as he leaned back. "It’s good to be home." He took a slow sip, savoring the taste before casting an unimpressed glance toward the street visible through the window. "Although please tell me the current state of Bourbon Street is not your doing."

Marcel chuckled, draping an arm over the back of his chair. "Something’s gotta draw in the out-of-towners," he reasoned. "Otherwise, we’d all go hungry."

Klaus hummed in response, but his attention drifted toward one of the vampires standing by the door. He observed the way they carried themselves, the telltale confidence of someone who could walk in the sun.

"I see your friends are daywalkers," Klaus noted, his gaze flicking back to Marcel.

Marcel grinned. "Yeah, yeah," he admitted with a shrug. "I shared the secret of your daylight ring with a few buddies. Just the inner circle, though—the family."

Klaus exhaled a short laugh, swirling his drink once more. "Tell me," he mused, eyes narrowing, "how did you find a witch willing to make daylight rings?"

Marcel smirked, drumming his fingers against the table. "I got the witches around here wrapped around my finger."

"Is that so?" Klaus murmured, his interest piqued. He set his glass down, lacing his fingers together as he leaned forward. "I'm looking for a witch by the name of Jane-Anne Deveraux. Has some business with me."

For the first time, Marcel’s playful demeanor wavered. His gaze flicked toward one of his men, a silent message passing between them.

Klaus caught it immediately.

"You're looking for Jane-Anne?" Marcel repeated, a slow smile stretching across his lips. He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he pushed away from the table and stood.

"You probably oughta come with me," he said, clapping his hands together. His voice lifted with excitement as he turned toward the door.

"Ha-ha! Showtime!"

Chapter Text

The warm night air of the French Quarter pulsed with life, the rhythmic hum of jazz mixing with the chatter of tourists and locals alike. The streetlights cast a golden glow over the cobblestone streets, their flickering light dancing in puddles left behind by an earlier rain. But beneath the lively surface of New Orleans, another crowd was forming—one that thrived in the shadows, unseen by the city’s unsuspecting revelers.

Vampires prowled along the rooftops, their predatory movements fluid and effortless as they leaped from building to building, reveling in their strength. Others moved through the streets, slipping through the throng of human life with a sense of ownership. A few, more brazen, jumped atop parked cars, their weight setting off alarms that added to the chaotic symphony of the night.

In the midst of it all, Marcel Gerard strode forward, his presence commanding. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who owned this city and everyone in it. Klaus Mikaelson walked beside him, his expression unreadable, his sharp blue eyes taking in everything—the rooftops, the gathering crowd, the way the vampires seemed to worship Marcel like a god.

Marcel glanced at Klaus, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So, how’s the family?"

Klaus exhaled, a low chuckle laced with bitterness. "Those who live hate me more than ever."

Marcel scoffed, shaking his head. "Ah, forget ‘em. If your blood relations let you down, you make your own, eh? You taught me that." He gestured to the crowd, his grin widening. "And what's mine is yours, as always. Even my nightwalkers, the riff-raff."

As if on cue, the vampires on the rooftops erupted into a display of reckless abandon. One launched himself onto the hood of a sleek black car, denting the metal with the force of his landing. Another sprinted along the edge of a building before diving onto a passing streetlamp, gripping it for a split second before flipping onto the pavement below.

Klaus arched a brow, unimpressed. "They're hardly subtle, are they?"

Marcel let out a short laugh. "It’s the Quarter. Ain’t no such thing as subtle, baby."

With that, he brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle. The sound cut through the noise of the night, and the crowd roared in response. The energy in the air shifted, excitement crackling like a live wire as a pair of Marcel’s men dragged forward a woman with bound wrists. Her long, dark hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders, and though she stood tall, there was no mistaking the tension in her frame.

Marcel’s smile turned sharp as he addressed the growing assembly. "Jane-Anne Deveraux!" His voice rang out, laced with theatrics. "Give it up for Jane-Anne! Come on, let’s hear it!"

The gathered vampires responded with jeers and cheers, their amusement evident.

Marcel’s voice swelled to address the throng. “Jane-Anne Deveraux, you have been accused of the practice of witchcraft beyond the bounds of the rules set forth—and enforced—by me. How do you plead?” Marcel sauntered toward Jane-Anne, the movement casual, as if he were about to embrace an old friend. Instead, he stopped just short of her and turned to Klaus, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Was that convincing? I studied law back in the ‘50s." He grinned, but before Klaus could respond, he pivoted back to his prisoner. "Seriously, Jane. Tick-tock. You know the drill. How do you plead?"

Jane-Anne lifted her chin, her dark eyes burning with defiance. "I didn’t do anything."

The crowd rippled with quiet laughter, some shaking their heads, others watching with predatory amusement.

Marcel tilted his head, as if considering her words. "Mm, that’s a lie. You know it, I know it, and you hate that I know it." He took a step closer, his tone turning almost playful. "It drives you witches crazy that I’m aware of your every move. That you can’t do magic in this town without getting caught."

Jane-Anne clenched her jaw but said nothing.

Marcel sighed, feigning disappointment. "So why don’t we just cut to the chase, huh? You tell me what magic you’re brewing, and I’ll grant you leniency. Hey, I am, after all, a merciful man."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, Jane-Anne smirked. "Rot in hell, monster."

A murmur of surprise swept through the crowd. Marcel, however, simply smiled, his eyes darkening with something far more dangerous than anger.

"I’ll tell you what," he said smoothly. "I’ll give you one more chance..."

He took a slow step backward, the air thick with anticipation. Then, with lightning speed, he swung the branch he’d been holding—a jagged piece of wood, stripped of its leaves—straight across Jane-Anne’s throat.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips, followed by a gurgle as blood poured from the deep gash. She crumpled to the pavement, clutching at her neck as the life drained from her eyes.

The crowd erupted into cheers, some howling their approval, others laughing as if they had just witnessed a well-played joke.

Klaus remained still, his gaze locked on Jane-Anne’s lifeless body. His expression did not betray his thoughts, but the tightness in his jaw spoke volumes. Finally, he turned to Marcel and gripped his shoulder, spinning him around.

"What was that?" His voice was quiet, but the edge in it was unmistakable.

Marcel’s easy grin never faltered. "Hey. Come walk with me." He gestured for Klaus to follow as he stepped over Jane-Anne’s body without a second glance. "The witches aren’t allowed to do magic here—she broke the rules."

Klaus didn’t move. "I told you I wanted to talk to her."

Marcel exhaled, shaking his head. "Hey, I’m sorry. I got caught up in the show." He spread his arms in an exaggerated shrug. "Those witches, they think they still have power in this town. I have to show them that they don’t. I never waste an opportunity for a show of force—another lesson I learned from you." He smirked. "And besides, anything you could’ve gotten outta her, I can find out for you. And I will. I promise."

For a long moment, Klaus simply stared at him, the gears turning behind his sharp gaze. Then, slowly, he let his lips curl into a smile.

"Well, whatever it was," he murmured, "doesn’t matter anymore, does it?"

Marcel’s grin widened, and he clapped Klaus on the back. "Good, good. Then let’s eat, ‘cause all that spilled blood makes me hungry!" With a laugh, he turned and walked off, the crowd following him like a pack of wolves scenting fresh prey.

Klaus lingered, watching as Jane-Anne’s blood pooled on the street, glistening beneath the city lights.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward and stopped one of Marcel’s men with a firm hand to the chest.

"Hey, Thierry, isn’t it?" Klaus asked smoothly. His gaze flicked to the dead woman before locking onto the younger vampire. "Any more Deveraux witches where she came from?"

The amber glow of Rousseau’s bar softened the shadows that clung to the corners, casting flickering light over the polished wood and well-worn brick walls. The scent of aged whiskey and Cajun spices lingered in the air, mixing with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. It was a quiet night, the kind that made the bar feel intimate rather than crowded.

Elijah stepped inside, his tailored suit crisp despite the Louisiana humidity. He took in the room with a glance, his sharp eyes scanning the patrons, the dimly lit tables, the long stretch of the bar. Beside him, Bobby let out a low grumble as he pulled off his cap, running a hand through his graying hair before settling onto a barstool.

"Place ain't changed much," Bobby muttered, glancing around. "Still got that old-school New Orleans charm—means it smells like bourbon and bad decisions."

Elijah smirked faintly, taking the seat beside him. "Some things are timeless."

“For the record, I still think this is a bad idea,” Bobby huffed.

Elijah snickered wryly. “So you said… the entire time here.”

Behind the bar, a young woman in a simple black top and dark jeans wiped down the counter with practiced ease. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder in soft waves, and when she looked up, her green eyes were sharp with curiosity.

"You boys look like you’ve seen some things," she remarked, setting down her rag and folding her arms. "What can I get you?"

Bobby tapped the counter. "Whiskey, neat."

Elijah glanced at the bottles behind her before offering a polite smile. "Nothing for me, thank you."

She nodded, pouring Bobby’s drink before leaning forward slightly. "So what brings you to the Big Easy?"

Elijah rested his hands on the counter, considering his words before responding. "I used to live here."

Her brow lifted. "Really? When?"

He exhaled, his gaze drifting toward a distant memory. "Oh, it feels like a hundred years ago."

Camille let out a small laugh. "Well, that’s vague. I just moved here myself. What brought you back?"

Elijah’s smile was faint, touched with a shadow of concern. "My brother’s here somewhere. I’m afraid he may have gotten himself into a bit of a bind."

Camille tilted her head, intrigued. "You say that like it’s a common occurrence."

Bobby snorted into his drink. "Kid's got a talent for it."

Elijah gave a slow nod. "He’s… complicated. Defiant, ill-mannered, and a little temperamental." His voice held the warmth of long-suffering affection, but also the weight of unspoken history. "We don’t share the same father. Of course, that never bothered me, but my brother resents it deeply. He has never quite felt like he belongs."

Camille listened intently, her fingers absentmindedly toying with a cocktail napkin.

"All told," Elijah continued, "he has a long history of getting himself into trouble."

"And I’m guessing," Camille said, a knowing look crossing her face, "you have a long history of getting him out of it."

A small, knowing smile tugged at Elijah’s lips. He inclined his head in silent confirmation.

Camille leaned against the bar. "What kind of trouble is he in now?"

Elijah’s expression darkened just slightly, though his voice remained composed. "He believes there are people in this town conspiring against him."

Camille huffed a quiet laugh and shook her head. "Wow. Narcissistic and paranoid." At Elijah’s raised brow, she offered a half-smile. "Sorry. Bartender with a grad degree in psychology. Total cliché."

Elijah glanced at the small nameplate pinned to her shirt and nodded slightly. "Camille," he said smoothly, testing the name on his tongue. Then, leaning forward just enough to lower his voice, he continued, "I’m looking for someone who might shed some light on his current predicament. She works here. Jane-Anne Deveraux. Any idea where I might find her?"

Camille’s easy demeanor shifted slightly. A flicker of caution crossed her face, though she masked it well.

"No," she admitted. "But I know someone who might."

*                              *                              *

The French Quarter was bursting with vitality and life under the cover of night. Citizens and tourists alike gathered in large crowds dancing and drinking as the moon inched higher into the sky completely unaware of the dangers that lurked in the darkness. 

“All these people living it up like there’s no tomorrow,” Bobby murmured as he took in the festivities while walking alongside his vampire husband. “I bet you none of them have any idea what the hell’s going on in this town.”

Elijah smirked. “Perfect cover for a vampire.”

“Perfect cover for anything with fangs or claws or an affinity for magic is what you meant to say,” Bobby quipped, groaning slightly as he trudged behind Elijah. “Igh! Too much damn walkin'.”

“Do you need me to carry you, my love?” Elijah asked, half-jokingly.

“Har-har. No!” Bobby pouted. “Just wish this Sabine girl was less far away.”

As the duo made their way deeper into the heart of the French Quarter, the air became thick with the scent of Cajun spices, spilled liquor, and the damp musk of the Mississippi. Laughter and jazz spilled from dimly lit bars, mingling with the distant chatter of street performers and the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carriages. Neon signs cast eerie glows against the old brick walls, flickering like restless spirits in the night.

Elijah moved through the throng with quiet purpose, his sharp eyes trained on the woman ahead of him and his hunter companion at his side. She wove effortlessly through the crowd, her movements unhurried, as though completely unfazed by the shadow trailing her. Her tour group had dispersed, stepping into the voodoo shop she’d led them to, but she remained outside, waiting.

As if sensing their presence before the vampire spoke, she turned slightly, her lips curving into a knowing smirk.

"Are you going to continue following me, Elijah, or do you wanna talk?"

He and Bobby stopped just a few paces away, tilting his head in mild amusement. "You know who I am."

"Original vampire. Always wears a suit." Sabine’s eyes glinted with mischief as she observed him. "You and your family are famous among the witches. Especially now that your brother’s back in town."

Elijah’s smile remained, though his gaze darkened. "Niklaus is here because he learned that a witch was conspiring against him. Someone by the name of Jane-Anne Deveraux."

Sabine’s smirk faded. She crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip. "Well, if he's looking for Jane-Anne, he's a little late."

Something in her tone made Elijah’s posture stiffen ever so slightly. "Are you telling me she's dead?"

Sabine exhaled, nodding toward the end of the street. "Come on," she said, voice softer now. "Her sister Sophie’s gonna want to talk to you."

The narrow street beyond the bustling Quarter was dimly lit, lined with aging townhouses whose wrought-iron balconies cast long, twisted shadows. Here, away from the drunken revelers and glowing marquees, a quiet sorrow hung in the air.

A crowd of witches had gathered, their expressions somber, their presence a silent vigil for the fallen. At the center of their mourning stood Sophie Deveraux, her face streaked with tears as she knelt beside her sister’s lifeless body. Blood stained Jane-Anne’s throat, the deep crimson stark against the pale blue of her blouse. Around her, flickering candles and scattered flowers formed a makeshift altar, the scent of melted wax mixing with the iron tang of death.

Elijah, Bobby, and Sabine stopped a short distance away, the weight of the moment settling over them. For the first time in centuries, Elijah Mikaelson felt something akin to shock.

“Good God,” Bobby muttered.

"That’s Jane-Anne?" Elijah said, his voice quiet, yet edged with disbelief. "Killed in public for anyone to find."

Sabine's lips pressed together. "Only people that come around here are the witches. Now her sister has come to take her body. Her spirit can’t rest until it’s been properly interred in the cemetery."

Elijah clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose as he fought the surge of anger creeping into his chest. "Please tell me that my brother had nothing to do with this."

Sabine shook her head. "No. Jane-Anne died because she got caught doing magic."

Both the vampire and the hunter turned to look at her, their gazes equally confused. "What do you mean she got caught doing magic?"

Before she could answer, a sharp whistle pierced the night air.

Sabine stiffened. "You wanna know who killed Jane-Anne?" She cast a wary glance toward the approaching figures. "You're about to get your first glimpse of Marcel in action."

Elijah’s brow furrowed. "The vampire Marcel?"

“Whoa, whoa,” Bobby cut in. “Who the hell is Marcel?”

"Things have changed since your family left town. Marcel has changed." Sabine’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I'm asking you, stay hidden. If Marcel finds out that a witch lured the Originals and a hunter into town, my people will be slaughtered."

At her warning, Elijah grabbed Bobby and moved swiftly, ignoring the surprised “balls” erupting from Bobby as they vanished from sight. They reappeared on a nearby balcony, shrouded in shadow, Elijah’s sharp eyes locked onto the scene below, while Bobby doubled over, trying not to puke.

A group of vampires strode into the clearing, their presence immediate and oppressive. Leading them was a man with a confident gait and an easy smirk, his dark eyes gleaming in the torchlight. Marcel Gerard.

"Well, well, well," Marcel drawled as he approached the grieving witches. "What have we here?" He exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. "I gotta tell you, Soph, this street corner is not proving the luckiest spot for your family tonight. Not half an hour ago, we had to teach your sister a little lesson."

Sophie Deveraux lifted her tear-streaked face, her expression carved from grief and fury. "We're putting her to rest, Marcel. Leave us alone."

Marcel tsked, shaking his head. "I never said you could move the body." He gestured lazily to his men. "Matter of fact, I left her here for a reason: send a message. If anybody is thinking of joining some kind of rebellion, my rules state that witches can't practice magic in the Quarter, and yet a little birdie informed me that Jane-Anne was cooking up something magically delicious."

“That him,” Bobby questioned, once he recovered enough to watch the scene below.

He squatted down, eyeing Sophie with casual cruelty. "Oh yeah, while I have you—quick Q&A. My old friend—the hybrid, Klaus—he just happened to show up out of the blue asking for, of all people, Jane-Anne. Any idea why?"

“Indeed,” Elijah confirmed, eyes narrowed.

Sophie’s hands curled into fists in her lap. "I don’t know," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her frame. "Witches don’t get involved in vampire business."

Marcel’s smirk widened. "Hmm. That would be pretty stupid, that’s for sure." He stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust from his jacket. "Tell you what, go back to the restaurant, cook up some of that famous gumbo, and keep those tourists happy." He turned to his men. "Take the body."

A murmur of protest rippled through the gathered witches.

"What?" Sophie shot to her feet. "No! Stop! Stop! Marcel!"

The vampires ignored her, lifting Jane-Anne’s limp form.

“I'm gonna hold on to your sister’s body, in case maybe you remember why Klaus is here,” Marcel said as he started backing away nonchalantly.

Sophie rushed forward, desperation in every step. "Marcel, please! Her body won’t be at peace!"

Marcel gave a careless shrug. "Not my problem."

With that, he turned, leading his men away as Jane-Anne’s body was carried off into the night.

From his perch above, Elijah remained still, his hands clenched at his sides. The witches were not his people, their quarrels not his concern. And yet, something in the way Sophie Deveraux looked as she watched her sister’s body disappear into the darkness stirred something within him.

It was the same look he had seen countless times before. On the faces of those who had lost everything.

His mate must have sensed this because soon Elijah was flooded with warmth as he felt Robert’s hand cradle his nape. The vampire sighed and leaned into his touch holding his wrist to keep his hand there.

Just then Bobby’s phone rang, interrupting the quiet intimacy between the couple. 

“You should answer it,” Elijah suggested, loosening his grip on Bobby’s wrist.

Bobby let go of Elijah and pulled out his phone to answer it and he was not surprised to see Sam’s name pop up on the screen.

He clicked the button to answer the phone and said, “Hey, Sam, what’s going on?”

“Hey, Bobby. Sorry to interrupt your time off, I know you and Elijah are still on your honeymoon,” Sam began.

Bobby chuckled. “Marie told you, huh?” he acknowledged. “Well, thank you for the concern, but our honeymoon was over a few weeks ago.”

“What? Really?” Sam inquired.

“Yeah, now we’re on a case. Well, Eli is, at least,” Bobby replied earning a soft snort from the Original. “Anyway, what’s up?”

“Well, we stopped Eve, but now we got a new problem,” Sam informed his surrogate father.

Having been listening to the entire conversation, Elijah now turned his focus on his husband and stepson with renewed intrigue.

“Which is?” Bobby prompted.

There was a long pause on the other line. 

“Crowley is still alive and looking for Purgatory,” Sam huffed.

Chapter Text

Bobby’s eyes widened in disbelief. “The hell you mean Crowley’s still around and looking for Purgatory, Cass torched his bones.”

“Well, that's the other thing,” Sam responded grimly. “Apparently Crowley tricked Cass into torching the wrong ones and Crowley used that to fake his death.”

“Then why do I sense an edge in your voice?” Bobby frowned.

“Look, Dean doesn't want me to say this, but… Cass isn't exactly known for fucking up this bad. Not unless he intended to. And I hate myself for even thinking it, but…”

“You’re saying you think Cass intentionally burned the wrong bones?” Bobby concluded. “But why?”

“I don't know,” Sam confessed. “But I was hoping you two could come home and help us figure it out.”

Before Bobby could answer, Elijah grabbed the phone from him and put it up to his ear. “Sam,” he said.

“Elijah?” the young Winchester hunter balked over the phone.

“I'm sending Robert home to help you deal with this “Crowley” threat. Right now, I’m in New Orleans trying to wrangle my brother, but the first chance I get, I’ll be heading to Sioux Falls,” Elijah told Sam. “In the meantime, keep me updated on the situation and I’ll try to provide any assistance I can until I arrive. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam saluted. “Be careful.”

Elijah quirked his lips upward in a smile. “I always am.”

With that, he handed the phone back to Bobby to let him say goodbye before ending the call.

“Are you sure about this, Eli?” Bobby asked. “I don't feel right leaving you alone to deal with all of this.”

“I will be fine, Robert,” Elijah said reassuringly, cupping Bobby’s face in his hands.

“But what if something happens?” Bobby worried.

Elijah cut him off with a tender kiss, pulling his lover closer to him. When they broke apart, the hunter coughed awkwardly to clear his throat, stomping down the slight flutter of emotion in his ribcage.

“Nothing on this earth can keep me from your arms,” Elijah vowed. “And if anyone tries, I'll rip their hearts out through their spines.”

“God damn you, Mikaelson,” Bobby swore, shaking his head as a begrudging smirk stretched across his lips. “You even make murder sound sexy.”

“Well, darling, I am a vampire,” Elijah sassed, before leaning in for another kiss. “Now, let’s get you to the airport. I do believe our boys are worried sick about you.”

Bobby arched his eyebrow and smirked, not missing the way Elijah called Sam and Dean their boys instead of just his.

The bathroom was dimly lit, the flickering glow of candlelight reflecting off the marble walls and the still surface of the bathwater. Rebekah Mikaelson lounged in the oversized clawfoot tub, a glass of champagne balanced between her slender fingers, her cellphone pressed against her ear. The warm water lapped at her skin as she listened to Elijah’s voice on the other end of the line.

“You mean to tell me,” she drawled, swirling the golden liquid in her glass, “after all these years, Marcel is alive and well?”

Elijah’s voice came through, smooth but edged with concern. “Quite. And our brother, as usual, seems to have wandered into a war zone. I haven't been able to locate him. Marcel, who Klaus sired and raised under his own wing, now rules this city with an iron fist. A menagerie of savage vampires running wild, leaving bodies in public for anyone to find. The witches are under his thumb, completely subjugated.” A pause. “I doubt Niklaus had any idea what he was walking into.”

Rebekah took a slow sip of champagne, rolling her eyes. “Sorry, what was that? I stopped paying attention at ‘our brother.’”

“Rebekah,” Elijah chided, his patience thinning.

She scoffed. “Our hateful, traitorous bastard of a brother, who's done nothing but sabotage any shred of happiness I’ve ever tried to grasp? That brother? The one who’s made it his life's mission to ensure neither you nor I ever have a life outside of his own selfish universe?” She exhaled sharply. “Forgive me if I’m not eager to throw myself into yet another one of his messes.”

Elijah’s voice remained steady. “Always and forever, Rebekah. That is what we once swore to each other.”

She smirked bitterly, tilting her head back against the cool porcelain. “Consider this me calling take-backs.”

Elijah sighed, a long-suffering sound. “You’ve called take-backs dozens of times over the centuries. And yet, when our father found us and chased us from this very city—”

“I may be old, Elijah, but I’m hardly senile,” she snapped, sitting up straighter in the tub. “I remember perfectly well that I stayed. I stayed with Klaus, despite everything, and do you know how he repaid my loyalty?” She tightened her grip on the champagne glass. “Three years later, he stuck a silver dagger in my chest and left me to rot in a coffin for ninety years. And why?” Her voice was thick with resentment. “Because I dared to try and live my life without him.”

“Rebekah,” Elijah started, however, his sister was too far gone.

“And to top it off, you, out of all of us, finally managed to find some sense of purpose and happiness outside of his wretched tyranny, and yet, even now, you are still willing to jeopardize it by fawning after that beast,” Rebekah shouted. “Tell me, brother dearest, what will you do when Klaus’s jealousy and, or, recklessness causes the demise of your husband. Will you abandon Nik then?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line before Elijah spoke again, softer this time. “Enough, Rebekah.” He took a measured breath. “I believe our brother is in trouble. Whatever is happening between Marcel and the witches, it’s dire enough that they risked drawing an Original back to town. They lured Niklaus here for a reason.” A pause, his voice lowering into something almost pleading. “I need to know why. As for your concern about Robert, while touching, you needn't worry. He went back to Sioux Falls to handle some business with the boys.”

Before she could respond, the line went dead. Rebekah stared at the phone, her lips parting slightly in disbelief before she scoffed and tossed it onto the floor beside the tub.

She took another sip of champagne, her mind racing.

Damn Elijah.

And damn Niklaus even more.

The scent of onions and garlic filled the dimly lit restaurant as Sophie Deveraux worked the blade of her knife against the cutting board, her strokes sharp and methodical. The rhythmic chopping was a poor distraction from the anger simmering beneath her skin, from the grief clawing at her throat. She barely registered the creak of the floorboards behind her until she turned and nearly dropped the knife.

A man stood in the doorway, his presence as effortless as it was imposing. Dark curls framed an angular face, sharp blue eyes studying her with a knowing amusement that only deepened her unease.

“You’re Klaus,” she said, breathless, gripping the counter behind her for support.

The hybrid smirked, tilting his head as he stepped further into the warm glow of the restaurant’s kitchen. “I am,” he confirmed, his voice a silken drawl. His gaze flickered over her face, assessing. “And you’re upset. Sophie, isn’t it?” He glanced down at the vegetables she’d been cutting, now forgotten on the board. “I assume this has something to do with what I just witnessed on the corner of Royal and St. Ann?”

Sophie stiffened, the knife in her hand suddenly feeling useless. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Klaus clicked his tongue, his smirk deepening. “A little melodramatic for my tastes.” He leaned against the counter, watching her closely. “But let’s not dance around the subject. What did your sister want with me? Why did Marcel kill her?”

She opened her mouth, words threatening to spill before she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Two men had entered the bar, their eyes locking onto her like wolves scenting weakness. Her stomach twisted.

“I see you brought friends,” she muttered under her breath, her jaw tightening.

Klaus turned, casting a bored glance over his shoulder at the newcomers before looking back at her. “They’re not with me.”

“They’re with Marcel,” Sophie corrected, lowering her voice. “That’s all that matters. I know you built this town, but it belongs to him now.” She swallowed, the weight of her sister’s loss pressing against her ribs. “He killed Jane-Anne because she broke his rules. If I talk to you in front of them, I’m next.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Klaus alone to deal with the men.

Klaus exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before strolling toward the bar, where the two lackeys had taken up position. His hands landed heavily on their shoulders, his fingers curling like steel around muscle and bone.

“Are you two gentlemen following me?” he asked casually, his grip tightening just enough to make them shift uncomfortably.

One of them swallowed hard. “Marcel said we’re your guides.”

Klaus let out a slow chuckle, nodding as if amused. “Oh, he did, did he?” His fingers dug in deeper, the pressure mounting. “Well then, let me be exceedingly clear about something—if either of you follow me again, you’ll do so without the benefit of a spine.”

The men stiffened under his hold, their breath hitching in unison.

“Sorry for the wait.”

Klaus turned his head slightly as a voice cut through the tension. A blonde woman stood behind the bar, her green eyes meeting his with an effortless confidence that intrigued him.

“If you’re here for the gumbo,” she continued, offering a faint smile, “I’m about to break your heart. We just ran out.”

Klaus released his hold on the men, reaching into his coat and pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He set it down on the bar with an easy flick of his fingers.

“Your oldest Scotch for my two friends here, love,” he said smoothly.

The bartender—Cami, her name tag read—arched a brow but took the money without question, disappearing to fetch the drinks.

The moment she was gone, Klaus resumed his grip on the lackeys, his fingers pressing warningly into their shoulders.

“If Marcel wants to know what I’m up to,” he said, his voice dropping to a quiet menace, “he can ask me himself.”

With that, he shoved them back roughly, watching as they stumbled against the bar, their faces pale.

Klaus turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his coat billowing slightly behind him. From across the room, Sophie watched him leave, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides.

*                              *                              *

The night air in New Orleans was thick with the scent of spice and damp earth, the distant hum of jazz bleeding through the alley behind Rousseau’s. Sophie Deveraux stepped out of the restaurant, letting the back door swing shut behind her with a heavy thud. She exhaled shakily, the tension in her shoulders weighing her down as she approached a small table nestled against the brick wall. A cluster of candles flickered there, their soft glow illuminating the anguish on her face.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing off the alley walls.

Sophie swallowed hard and pressed her hands together as she stared at the candles. Her voice wavered as she whispered, “Oh, you got me into this, Jane. Give me the strength to finish it.”

Her breath hitched, a sob threatening to break free, but she forced it down. Grief could come later. Right now, she needed resolve.

A sharp snap echoed through the alley.

Sophie stiffened, turning quickly toward the sound. The door had shut—but she hadn’t heard anyone open it. Before she could react, movement blurred at the edges of her vision, and suddenly, two vampires were standing in the alley, blocking her path.

She crossed her arms and raised an unimpressed brow. “The doors work, you know.”

One of the vampires, a lean man with dark, hungry eyes, tilted his head, his lips curving into a smirk. “You doing magic?”

Sophie scoffed, stepping closer to the candlelit shrine. “I’m praying to my dead sister.” She gestured toward the table. “Go ahead, pay your respects.”

The second vampire, taller and broader, sighed, clearly impatient. “Don’t make this a thing, Sophie. The hybrid was looking for Jane-Anne. Marcel wants to know why.”

Sophie’s hands curled into fists, her grief turning to anger. “I’d say ask her yourself, but I guess you can’t, seeing as Marcel killed her.”

The taller vampire’s expression darkened. In a blink, he sped toward her, his hand clamping around her throat as he slammed her against the brick wall.

Sophie gasped, struggling against his grip, but before she could fight back—before she could even scream—the vampire was gone.

Not moved. Not thrown. Gone.

Her breath came in short, panicked bursts as she staggered forward, eyes darting around in confusion. Then, something hit the ground with a sickening thump. A severed heart.

The second vampire froze, his cocky bravado evaporating as terror set in.

A shadow moved.

Before he could react, an unseen force seized him, lifting him clean off the ground and sending him crashing against the wall with bone-snapping force. A dagger buried itself deep in his chest, pinning him in place like an insect in a display case. His body twitched once, then went still.

Sophie’s breath came in ragged gasps as she turned, her heart pounding.

A man stood near her now, the flickering candlelight casting his chiseled features in sharp relief. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit, his presence was both elegant and unnerving, his eyes calm but unreadable as they settled on her.

He inclined his head slightly. “I’m Elijah.” A pause. Then, his voice softened with a knowing weight. “You heard of me?”

Sophie’s mouth was dry, but she nodded. “Yes.”

Elijah took a slow step forward, his gaze steady, unwavering.

“So,” he said, voice like silk over steel, “why don’t you tell me what business your family has with my brother?”

Chapter Text

The iron gate of the cemetery groaned as Sophie Deveraux pushed it open, its rusted hinges protesting against years of wear. The scent of the dead and aged stone filled the air, mingling with the faint traces of candle wax and burnt herbs from forgotten rituals. She stepped inside, her boots crunching against the gravel path, but as she reached the threshold, she realized Elijah had not followed.

Turning, she saw him standing just outside the entrance, his posture poised but unmoving. The flickering torchlight from the street behind him cast elongated shadows across his sharp features.

Sophie sighed, glancing around before lowering her voice. “This is sacred ground, which means vampires have to be invited in.” She hesitated, knowing the weight of her next words. “But since I’m desperate… Come on in.”

The moment the invitation left her lips, Elijah stepped forward, crossing the boundary with the ease of a man accustomed to walking through locked doors.

She gestured for him to follow deeper into the graveyard, where crumbling tombs lined the narrow pathways, their names worn by time. The moonlight cast eerie patterns over the marble slabs, and the air was thick with the weight of history. Here, they would not be overheard.

“We can talk freely here,” Sophie murmured, leading him toward an old burial vault lit by the dim glow of candlelight.

Elijah’s expression remained unreadable, though his presence alone was commanding. “Then I suggest you start talking.” His voice was smooth, calm—yet edged with quiet authority. “What did your sister want with Niklaus?”

Sophie crossed her arms, shifting her weight slightly. “Isn’t it obvious? We have a vampire problem, and we need help.” She met his gaze, unwavering. “Marcel has an army backing him. The witches have been trying to fight back. We haven’t had much luck… until my sister, Jane-Anne, met a girl. A werewolf, passing through the Quarter from a small town in Virginia. She had a special connection to your brother.”

Elijah’s gaze sharpened. “What kind of connection?”

Sophie took a slow breath before delivering the truth. “Apparently, they spent some time together. One thing led to another, and now this special werewolf girl—she’s pregnant.” She let the words settle before adding, “And the father of the child she’s carrying is your brother Klaus.”

Elijah’s brow furrowed slightly, though his voice remained measured. “That’s impossible.”

Sophie let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “Nothing is impossible. Especially not when it comes to your brother.” She glanced to the side and raised her voice. “Bring her out!”

From the shadows, three witches emerged, moving in quiet formation. Between them stood a young woman with dark, wavy hair and defiant hazel-brown eyes. She was visibly annoyed, her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at the witches before shifting her gaze to Elijah.

He studied her with quiet interest.

Hayley let out an exasperated breath. “Who the hell are you?”

Elijah took a step closer, his voice gentle yet firm. “Give us a moment, please.”

The witches hesitated, exchanging glances before silently retreating into the darkness, leaving only the flickering candlelight between them. The burial vault’s stone walls seemed to press in around them, enclosing them in the weight of unspoken truths.

Elijah turned his attention back to Hayley. “So, have they been holding you here against your will?”

Hayley scoffed, leaning against one of the stone tombs. “They lured me out to the bayou and grabbed me. Then they did all these… weird witchy tests. Not that I understand how this could even happen.” She threw up her hands. “I mean, vampires are dead. They can’t have children.”

Elijah’s lips pressed together in thought before he offered, “Perhaps if you knew my brother’s story, it might explain how this is possible.” He took a measured step forward. “Here, if I may.” He lifted his hand slightly, a silent request.

Hayley recoiled instinctively. “What are you doing?”

Elijah’s expression remained patient. “Relax. If you open your mind to me, I can show you.”

A beat passed before Hayley, hesitant but curious, allowed him to place his fingers lightly against her temple. They both closed their eyes.

A thousand years ago…

The world shifted.

Suddenly, they were no longer in the vault but in a distant past, in a village untouched by time. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of burning wood and pine.

A young blonde woman, Rebekah, walked beside a small boy, Henrik, their laughter echoing as they made their way through the village.

Elijah’s voice, steady and distant, narrated over the vision.

“In the beginning, our family was human… A thousand years ago now. Although our mother dabbled in the dark arts, we were just a family, trying to survive in a time when it was quite difficult to do so. And, for better or worse, we were happy.”

The image darkened. The laughter faded.

“That is, however, until one night, our youngest brother was killed by our village’s greatest threat.”

The vision shifted.

Klaus, younger but unmistakable, staggered into their home, cradling Henrik’s lifeless body.

“Mother!” he cried, his voice thick with grief.

Elijah’s voice continued. “Men that could transform themselves into wolves during the full moon. Our family was devastated. None more than Niklaus. Desperate to protect us, our father forced our mother to call upon her black magic in order to make us stronger.”

The image changed again—Mikael, their father, forcing Rebekah to drink from a bleeding human.

“Thus, the first Mikalaen vampires were born. But with this strength came a terrible hunger. And no one felt this hunger more than Niklaus.”

Klaus appeared again, sinking his teeth into a human, his eyes burning gold—until something changed. His body twisted in agony, bones breaking, his screams piercing the night.

Elijah’s voice was solemn. “When he killed for the first time, we knew what he truly was.”

Mikael’s fury burned through the vision.

“He’s a beast. An abomination.”

The image of Klaus, bound to a wooden cross, eyes filled with betrayal as Mikael ordered Elijah to hold him down.

“Brother, please!” Klaus begged. “Don’t let them do this to me!”

But Elijah had.

The vision faded, and they were back in the crypt.

Hayley exhaled slowly, her expression shifting from disbelief to something more contemplative.

“Well,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Your dad was a dick.”

Elijah chuckled, a rare glint of amusement in his eyes.

She extended a hand. “I’m Hayley, by the way. You should probably know my name if you’re gonna tell me your whole life story. I mean, I know yours. Your family is legendary. Your brother is a notorious psycho… who I slept with.” She sighed. “Classic me.”

Elijah tilted his head, considering her words. “I cannot excuse his behavior,” he admitted. “But you must understand, when our father hunted us for centuries, every time we found a moment of happiness, we were forced to flee.” He hesitated. “Even here, in New Orleans, where we were happiest of all. And when Niklaus broke the curse that prevented him from becoming a hybrid, he defeated our father. I thought this would bring him peace.” He shook his head. “Instead, he was angrier than ever.”

He met her gaze. “I wonder if perhaps this child might be a way for my brother to find happiness. A way to save him from himself.”

Before Hayley could respond, Sophie stepped into the vault.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she said, her voice firm. “Because we need your help.”

Elijah turned to face her. “What, precisely, is it that you want?”

Sophie’s gaze was unwavering. “We want to run Marcel and his vampires out of town. Klaus is the key. Convince him to help us, and no one has to know about the newest member of the Original family.”

Elijah arched a brow. “That sounds remarkably like blackmail.”

Sophie smirked. “Like I said… I’m desperate.”

Elijah exhaled, glancing between them.

“Well then,” he murmured. “I have my work cut out for me, don’t I?”

Klaus moved through the lively streets with purpose, his piercing gaze scanning the crowd. He turned down a narrow alleyway, the worn cobblestones echoing beneath his measured steps. Ahead, the passage opened into a covered courtyard where people drank, danced, and celebrated the night, utterly oblivious to the predator in their midst.

His gaze locked onto one of Marcel’s men. The vampire wore a daylight ring—the unmistakable mark of the Original family’s craft. That alone was enough to set Klaus’s blood boiling. He approached with swift precision, aggression rolling off him in waves as he closed the distance.

“Where is Marcel?” Klaus demanded, his voice deceptively calm.

The vampire, Diego, turned to him, eyes assessing, unimpressed. “And who the hell is asking?”

Klaus arched a brow, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “I assume you’re joking.”

Diego remained unfazed. “I only answer to Marcel.”

Klaus’s patience snapped like a brittle twig. Before Diego could react, Klaus’s hand closed around his throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. His eyes darkened, the whites swallowed by hunger and fury, veins creeping like cracks across his face.

“Well then, in that case, perhaps you’ll answer to this,” Klaus snarled, his grip tightening. “You’re aware the bite of a werewolf can kill a vampire? Well, as you can see, I’m half werewolf.” He bared his fangs, voice rising to a vicious roar. “So I’m going to ask you one more time—where is Marcel!?”

A voice cut through the tension, smooth and controlled, carrying the weight of authority.

“Hey-hey, I’m right here, I’m right here. Easy now.”

Marcel appeared, striding forward with practiced ease, his tone light but edged with warning. His eyes flickered between Klaus and Diego, then back again. “Diego’s just looking out for me. Nobody harms my guys—those are the rules.”

Klaus, unmoved, threw Diego aside as though he were nothing more than a ragdoll. The vampire staggered but quickly regained his footing, shooting a glare in Klaus’s direction. Klaus didn’t spare him another glance.

“I don’t care about your rules, Marcel,” he snapped. “And I don’t need chaperones. Why are you having me followed?”

Marcel exhaled, lowering his voice as he stepped closer, ushering Klaus away from the others. “Come here,” he said, his usual charm flickering back into place like an old habit. “I get it—a show of force. You’ve made your point. Let it go, friend, yeah? For me.”

Klaus studied him, considering, then gave a slow nod. “Fine. Why don’t you show me what you’ve done with the place while you explain exactly what it is you’ve been up to in my town?”

For the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered in Marcel’s expression, but it vanished as quickly as it came. A wide grin replaced it. “Follow me.”

He led Klaus up a winding staircase, the iron railing cold beneath their fingertips as they ascended. When they emerged onto a gallery overlooking the street, Marcel gestured outward with a flourish.

“Look at that skyline, huh?” he said proudly. “That there? That’s progress. More hotels, more tourists, more fresh blood. And the humans? I taught them to look the other way.”

Klaus took it in, unimpressed. “And what of the witches?” he asked. “In my time, they were a force to be reckoned with. And now? They live in fear. How do you know when they’re using magic?”

Marcel leaned against the railing, smirking. “Maybe I got a secret weapon. An ace up my sleeve. Something that gives me complete control over all the magic in this town.”

Klaus narrowed his eyes. “Is that a fact?”

“Might be,” Marcel popped something into his mouth, the sharp scent of vervain wafting through the air as it sizzled slightly against his tongue. “Maybe I’m just bluffing.”

Klaus’s lip curled. “You take vervain?”

“Burns like a bitch, but I figure I should limit the number of things I’m vulnerable to.” Marcel shrugged, unbothered. “Don’t be mad about that chaperone thing. I’ve told my guys to look out for you, that’s all. That’s what we do here—look out for each other.”

His attention shifted downward, spotting a woman walking alone on the street below.

“Mm, m-m-mm. New blood,” he murmured, intrigued.

Klaus followed his gaze and recognized her immediately. “Bartender,” he observed. “Walking alone at night. She’s either brave or dumb.”

Marcel grinned. “Let’s see: brave, I let her live. Dumb, she’s dessert.”

Without hesitation, he vaulted over the railing, landing gracefully on the cobblestone street below. The woman spun around at the sound of his arrival, her expression guarded but not fearful.

“You know, it’s not safe here alone,” Marcel said smoothly.

She arched a brow. “You know, I have a black belt in karate.”

Marcel chuckled, clearly amused.

Above them, Klaus didn’t bother to turn when he sensed another presence join him on the gallery. Instead, he greeted him with cool detachment.

“Evening, Elijah.”

Elijah’s voice was steady, unreadable. “Niklaus.”

Klaus finally turned, leveling his brother with a sharp look. “What an entirely unwelcome surprise.”

Elijah remained composed. “And what an entirely unsurprising welcome.” He gestured slightly, his meaning clear. “Come with me.”

Klaus smirked. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I find out who’s conspiring against me.”

Elijah held his gaze. “I believe I just found that out for you.”

Klaus’s expression darkened. He turned fully to face his brother, interest piqued. “Well then,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

The metal gate creaked as Klaus followed Elijah inside, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet the only sound between them.

Klaus sighed, already weary of whatever tedious errand his brother had led him into. “What are we doing here, Elijah?” he asked, his tone laced with impatience.

Elijah didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he strode forward with the same composed confidence that had always irritated Klaus. He gestured toward one of the mausoleums, its stone façade worn by time, the entrance shrouded in darkness. “You want to know what the witches have in store for you?” Elijah said, glancing back. “Follow me.”

Klaus narrowed his eyes but stepped inside, the cold air of the crypt wrapping around him like a vice. Candles flickered along the stone walls, casting eerie shadows across the interior. A woman stood at the center of the room, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

“Sophie Deveraux,” Klaus muttered, recognizing her from the whispers he'd overheard among the city’s supernatural circles. He arched a brow, already unimpressed. “What is this?”

Elijah gave a slight nod toward Sophie. “He’s all yours. Proceed.”

Sophie tilted her head, sizing Klaus up. “You know, you’re famous in this town,” she said, her voice edged with something between respect and resentment. “The witches tell bedtime stories about the powerful vampire Klaus. We all know Marcel was nothing but an orphan street rat until you made him what he is. And now, he’s out of control. He does what he wants. He kills who he wants. I’m going to stop him, and you’re going to help me.”

Klaus let out a sharp, amused laugh, shaking his head. “This is why you brought me here?” He turned to Elijah, irritation flickering across his face. “Hear her out? I don’t need to hear her out. I assure you, love, there is not a thing on this earth that will matter enough for me to waste even thirty more seconds of my time.” His expression darkened as he faced his brother. “Elijah, what madness is this?”

Before Elijah could respond, the sound of soft footsteps echoed through the crypt. Klaus turned just as Hayley stepped forward, flanked by two others. Her presence here was unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome—until she opened her mouth.

“Klaus,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “You need to listen to them.”

Klaus’ amusement returned in full force, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re all out of your minds if you think some liquor-fueled, one-night stand—no offense, sweetheart—means a thing to me.”

Hayley crossed her arms, unimpressed, but before she could reply, Sophie spoke again. “Marcel may have stopped us from practicing real magic in this town, but as keepers of the balance, we still know when nature has cooked up something new.” She took a deliberate step forward, meeting Klaus’ gaze. “For example, I have a special gift... the ability to sense when a woman is pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken implications.

Klaus’ smirk faded instantly. His jaw clenched as he turned his gaze back to Hayley, searching her expression for some kind of joke, some absurd misunderstanding. “What?” he breathed.

Hayley looked just as unsettled as he felt. “I know it’s impossible…” she murmured.

Klaus’ patience snapped. “What are you saying?” His voice was sharp, his body suddenly rigid with tension.

Elijah, ever the bearer of dramatic revelations, took a slow step closer. “Niklaus… the girl is carrying your child.”

Klaus felt the words land like a physical blow, the sheer impossibility of them making his head spin. He let out a hollow laugh, a bitter scoff of disbelief. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “It’s impossible. Vampires cannot procreate.”

Sophie held his gaze, unwavering. “But werewolves can.” She let the words sink in before continuing. “Magic made you a vampire, but you were born a werewolf. You’re the Original hybrid, the first of your kind, and this pregnancy is one of nature’s loopholes.”

Klaus’ breathing quickened. His hands clenched into fists, his mind racing. No. No, this couldn’t be real. He turned to Hayley, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ve been with someone else. Admit it.”

Hayley’s expression darkened. “Hey,” she snapped, stepping forward. “I’ve spent days held captive in a fucking alligator bayou because they think I’m carrying some magical miracle baby. Don’t you think I would’ve fessed up if it wasn’t yours?”

Sophie cut in before Klaus could argue further. “My sister gave her life to perform the spell she needed to confirm this pregnancy,” she said, her voice cold, measured. “Because of Jane-Anne’s sacrifice, the lives of this girl and her baby are now controlled by us.”

Klaus turned his head slowly toward her, his expression deadly. Elijah and Hayley exchanged looks, realizing this was new information to them as well.

“If you don’t help us take down Marcel,” Sophie continued, her tone leaving no room for negotiation, “so help me, Hayley won’t live long enough to see her first maternity dress.”

Hayley’s breath hitched. “Wait, the fuck?” she whispered, taking a step back.

Elijah’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. “Enough of this,” he said sharply. His usual restraint cracked, revealing something dangerous beneath. “If you want Marcel dead, he’s dead. I’ll do it myself.”

Sophie shook her head. “No. We can’t, not yet. We have a clear plan that we need to follow, and there are rules—”

The crack of Klaus’ laughter cut her off. He turned toward her, slow and deliberate, his voice dropping to something almost inhuman. “How dare you command me…” His face twisted into a snarl. “Threaten me with what you wrongfully perceive to be my weaknesses.” His voice rose to a furious roar. “I won’t hear any more lies!”

He moved to leave, his every step a promise of carnage.

“Niklaus,” Elijah called after him, his voice urgent. “Listen.”

Klaus was ready to ignore him, ready to put this madness behind him, but then—he heard it. A rapid, steady heartbeat.

His steps faltered.

He turned back toward Hayley, his piercing gaze dropping to her abdomen. The sound pulsed in his ears, a rhythm foreign yet familiar, impossibly real. He stared, transfixed, the weight of it pressing down on him in ways he didn’t fully understand.

Hayley met his gaze, her expression unsure, almost vulnerable.

Something flickered in Klaus’ eyes—wonder, confusion, maybe even fear—but just as quickly as it appeared, he crushed it. He straightened, his face once again a mask of cold detachment.

He turned back to Elijah, his voice void of emotion. “Kill her and the baby.” He turned away, striding toward the exit. “What do I care?”

Without another word, Klaus disappeared into the night, leaving nothing but stunned silence in his wake.

The instant the hybrid vanished, the air became thick with the weight of unspoken threats, of revelations too impossible to comprehend. Hayley stood at the center of it all, her expression caught somewhere between fury and disbelief. Her heart pounded—she could feel it hammering in her chest, a violent, unrelenting rhythm.

And then, she'd had enough.

“Fuck this,” she snapped, throwing up her hands. “I’m out of here.”

The words rang through the dimly lit mausoleum, her voice laced with anger and defiance. She turned on her heel, her boots scraping against the stone floor as she moved toward the exit, her every step fueled by sheer determination. Whatever twisted game these witches were playing, whatever this insane power struggle between Klaus and Marcel was—she wanted no part of it.

Before she could take another step, Elijah’s voice cut through the charged silence, calm yet commanding.

“No one touches the girl.”

His words were not a request, nor were they spoken in desperation. They were a decree, absolute and unwavering. The kind of statement that could change the course of events, that demanded obedience. Hayley froze, her breath caught in her throat as she turned back toward him.

Elijah stood tall, his gaze steady as he looked at Sophie. Though his posture remained composed, his presence alone was enough to send an unspoken message—he would not tolerate any harm coming to Hayley.

“I’ll fix this,” he said, his voice firm, assured.

For a moment, Sophie simply watched him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. There was none. Whatever plan she had, whatever leverage she thought she held over them, Elijah Mikaelson had just shifted the scales.

Finally, after a long pause, Sophie gave a slow, measured nod. It was a silent agreement, an acknowledgment that—for now—Elijah was in control.

The tension didn’t dissipate, but there was a shift, subtle yet undeniable. Hayley exhaled, her body still wound tight with frustration, but she hesitated before making another move. Whether she liked it or not, Elijah had just placed himself between her and whatever fate these witches had in store.

And somehow, despite everything, she believed him.

Chapter Text

Klaus strode down the deserted but well-lit street, his hands curled into fists, his mind a storm of anger and disbelief. The audacity. The sheer absurdity of it all. A child? His child? It was a trick. It had to be. The witches were desperate, playing their final hand, hoping to twist him to their will.

Footsteps echoed behind him—measured, steady. A presence he knew before even glancing over his shoulder.

“Niklaus.”

Elijah’s voice was calm, composed, as always. The sound of it scraped against Klaus’s nerves like a blade against stone. He didn’t stop walking.

“It’s a trick, Elijah,” Klaus bit out, his voice low, vibrating with controlled rage.

“No, brother.” Elijah’s tone softened, filled with something heavier than mere conviction. “It’s a gift. It’s your chance—it’s our chance.”

At that, Klaus finally stopped. His shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned, meeting Elijah’s steady gaze with a glare of suspicion.

“To what?” he asked, voice sharp, cutting.

Elijah took a measured step closer. His expression, so often unreadable, held something rare—hope.

“To start over,” he said. “To take back everything we lost, everything that was taken from us. Niklaus, our own parents came to despise us. Our family was ruined—we were ruined. And since then, all that you have ever wanted—all that we have ever wanted—was a family.”

Klaus let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “I will not be manipulated.”

He turned on his heel, ready to put as much distance as possible between himself and this madness, but in a blur of movement, Elijah was suddenly in front of him again, blocking his path.

“So they’re manipulating you,” Elijah said, unfazed. “So what? With them, this girl and her child—your child—live.”

Klaus felt his patience snap. His hand shot out, shoving Elijah back with supernatural force. “I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

Again, he turned. Again, Elijah was there, stepping directly into his path, unwilling to let him go.

“And then what?” Elijah demanded, voice rising just slightly, his composure cracking at the edges. “Then you return to Mystic Falls to resume your life as the hated one, as the evil hybrid? Is it so important to you that people quake with fear at the sound of your name?”

Klaus sneered, his lips curling back just enough to show the flash of his fangs. “People quake with fear because I have the power to make them afraid,” he spat. “What will this child offer me? Will it guarantee me power?”

Elijah exhaled, his eyes dark with something Klaus couldn’t name—something ancient, something deeply felt. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of centuries.

“Family is power, Niklaus. Love, loyalty—that’s power.” He took a step closer, his presence pressing in. “This is what we swore to one another a thousand years ago, before life tore away what little humanity you had left. Before ego, before anger, before paranoia twisted the man before me into someone I can barely even recognize as my own brother.”

Klaus’s breath hitched, just slightly. His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides.

“This is us,” Elijah continued, unyielding. “The Original family. And we remain together—always and forever.”

Silence stretched between them, thick, heavy. Elijah reached out then, his hand clasping Klaus’s shoulder. It was not a demand, not a plea. It was a promise. A vow.

“I am asking you to stay here,” Elijah said, his voice softer now. “I will help you, and I will stand by you. I will be your brother. We will build a home here—together.” His grip tightened, just slightly. “So save this girl. Save your child.”

For a long, excruciating moment, Klaus stood there, his gaze locked onto Elijah’s. Then, slowly, he reached up, mirroring the gesture, placing a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder.

For a flicker of a second, Elijah thought he had won.

But then Klaus’s grip tightened—an anchor, a warning. And in a voice colder than the grave, he said,

“No.”

Then he pulled away, turned, and walked off into the night, his silhouette swallowed by the glow of the Quarter’s flickering streetlights.

Elijah stood alone, watching his brother disappear, the promise of a family slipping through his fingers once more.

The hum of the city surrounded Elijah like a distant symphony of voices, car horns, and the occasional burst of laughter from the late-night crowd. The streets of New Orleans pulsed with life, but he felt strangely detached from it all, his mind consumed by the same relentless question that had haunted him for centuries: Would Niklaus ever change?

He stood near the edge of a bustling street, phone pressed to his ear, the glow of a nearby streetlamp casting long shadows across his face.

“Well, he’s doing what he does,” Elijah said without preamble, his voice measured but weary. “Given a chance at happiness, Klaus runs in the opposite direction.”

Miles away, in Mystic Falls, Rebekah rolled her eyes, reclining on the couch with a glass of wine in hand. She had been expecting this call.

“Then let him run,” she said, her voice clipped. “That child, if it’s even his, is better off without him.”

Elijah’s jaw tightened. “He’s not better off without that child, Rebekah. And neither are we.”

Rebekah exhaled sharply, setting down her glass with a distinct clink. “Darling, kind Elijah,” she said, her tone laced with exhaustion. “Our brother rarely brings us anything but pain. At what point in your immortal life will you stop searching for his redemption?”

Elijah hesitated only for a moment before responding, his voice firm with quiet resolve. “I’ll stop searching for his redemption when I believe there is none left to be found.”

And with that, he ended the call.

Rebekah stared at the phone for a moment before sighing and tossing it onto the table. The familiar ache of disappointment settled in her chest, a feeling she had long since stopped trying to fight. Elijah will never stop trying to save him. And Klaus will never let himself be saved.

The room was quiet—until a faint noise behind her shattered the silence.

Rebekah stiffened. She turned her head slowly, already knowing who she would find.

Katherine stood leaning against a nearby table, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.

“I’d give you a play-by-play,” Rebekah said dryly, “but you have the air of someone who’s been lurking and listening.”

Katherine’s smirk widened as she pushed off the table and sauntered forward. “He’ll come around,” she said confidently. “You know Elijah—he won’t stop until he’s convinced Klaus to do the right thing.”

Rebekah scoffed, standing to face her fully. “I know you consider yourself an expert in brotherly dynamics, but you don’t know my brothers half as well as you think you do.”

Katherine tilted her head, studying her with the sharp, knowing gaze of someone who had spent a lifetime surviving by understanding others’ weaknesses. “You’re wrong.” Her voice was softer now, but no less certain. “Klaus won’t be able to walk away from this.”

Rebekah arched a skeptical brow. “And what makes you so sure?”

Katherine’s expression darkened slightly, a flicker of something almost vulnerable passing through her features before she masked it with that same confident smirk. “Because he and I are the same. We manipulate, we thirst for power, we control, we punish... but our actions are driven by one, singular place deep inside.”

Rebekah frowned, folding her arms. “And what’s that?”

Katherine met her gaze, her voice quiet but unwavering.

“We’re alone,” she said. “And we hate it.”

Rebekah held her stare for a long moment, unsure whether she wanted to laugh or scoff or simply admit that, perhaps, there was a sliver of truth in those words.

Katherine took a step back, already moving toward the door. “Tell Elijah to call me when he comes home,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll be waiting for him.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Rebekah alone with her thoughts—and the ever-growing weight of knowing exactly how this story would end.

The shadows flickered along the stone walls as the gathered witches murmured among themselves. The tension in the room was palpable, each woman exchanging glances of uncertainty and determination.

Sophie stood at the center, her posture rigid with conviction. "Marcel and his vampires are out of control," she stated, her voice steady despite the unease swirling around her. "Something had to be done."

Across from her, Agnes, the eldest among them, narrowed her eyes in disapproval. "And the solution is to bring in more vampires?" she challenged, her tone laced with skepticism.

Sophie held her ground. "These aren't just any vampires, Agnes," she reasoned. "They're the Originals."

A murmur rippled through the witches, the weight of the name hanging heavy in the room. Even Agnes hesitated for a beat before scoffing. "And what makes you think you can control the hybrid?"

A familiar low and cultured voice cut through the air, sending a shiver through the assembled witches. "She can't," Elijah scoffed.

All heads turned as the Original stepped from the shadows, his impeccable suit unstirred by the damp air of the crypt. He leaned casually against the stone wall, his expression composed but his sharp eyes gleaming with intrigue.

"I'm not entirely certain that I can, either," he admitted, his voice as smooth as silk. His gaze flickered across the room before settling on Sophie with polite scrutiny. "But now that your coven has drawn my brother’s ire, I have a question." He pushed off the wall and took a measured step forward. "What, pray tell, prevents my brother from murdering you instead of cooperating?"

Sophie said nothing at first. Instead, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a slender needle, holding it up for Elijah to see. Without hesitation, she turned her palm upward and drove the sharp tip into her flesh.

A sharp gasp filled the room.

The werewolf flinched, clutching her hand as a sting of pain radiated through her palm. She lifted her hand in shock, eyes widening when she saw a drop of blood forming at the very same spot where Sophie had pricked herself.

"What the hell?" Hayley breathed, glancing wildly between Sophie and Elijah.

Sophie regarded her impassively. "The spell my sister performed—the one that got her killed—it didn't just confirm the pregnancy," she explained. "It linked me to Hayley."

Elijah's expression darkened ever so slightly, the easy grace in his posture becoming taut as realization settled over him.

"Anything that happens to me," Sophie continued, "happens to her." She lifted her chin, unwavering as she met Elijah’s gaze. "Which means her life is in my hands."

A slow, amused smile ghosted across Elijah’s lips, as he listened to her speak.

"Your brother may not care for his own child," she continued, arching a single brow. "But it is abundantly clear what that child already means to you." Sophie took a step closer, her tone turning steely. "If I have to hurt Hayley—or worse—to ensure that I have your attention," she said, "I will."

For a long moment, silence stretched between them. Then, Elijah let out a quiet chuckle, his amusement unmistakable. "You would dare threaten an Original?"

Sophie remained steadfast. "I have nothing to lose."

The smirk disappeared from Elijah’s face in an instant. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, the witches shifting uneasily under the weight of his scrutiny.

Sophie frowned, remaining resolute. "You have until midnight to get Klaus to change his mind," she said, her voice firm, unwavering.

The Original inhaled slowly, his sharp gaze flickering to Hayley for the briefest moment before he gave Sophie a single nod of acknowledgment. The witches held their breath as he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his composed exterior betraying none of the turmoil simmering beneath.

As he disappeared into the night, the air inside the mausoleum felt heavier than before.

The Abbatoir pulsed with life, music pouring through the open courtyard as revelers danced and drank beneath the warm glow of lanterns. The energy was intoxicating, the air thick with the scent of blood, spilled liquor, sweat, and something uniquely New Orleans. The Original Hybrid stormed into the compound, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the party. He moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his presence commanding yet effortless, like a king returning to his throne.

From across the courtyard, Marcel spotted him and grinned, lifting his glass in greeting as he strode over.

"Hey, man. Where'd you run off to?"

Klaus barely spared him a glance, his voice laced with derision. "You mean your minions aren’t still documenting my every move?"

Marcel chuckled, but there was a flicker of tension beneath his easygoing exterior. “Someone put you in a mood. What can I do?”

Klaus turned to him fully now, his piercing gaze locking onto Marcel’s. “What you can do is tell me what this thing is you have with the witches.”

Marcel’s smile faltered for the briefest of moments before he shook his head, exhaling. “Oh, we’re back to that?”

Klaus tilted his head. “Yeah, we’re back to that.”

Marcel sighed, his good humor slipping. “Look, you know I owe you everything I got. But I’m afraid I have to draw the line on this one. This is my business. I control the witches in my town. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Klaus arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Your town?”

“Damn straight.” Marcel’s voice was firm, unwavering.

Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken history. The music still played, but those closest to the confrontation began to slow, sensing the shift in energy.

Klaus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s funny. Because when I left a hundred years ago, you were just a pathetic little scrapper still trembling from the lashes of the whips of those who would keep you down,” he said, his voice deceptively soft, each word slicing like a blade. “And now look at you. Master of your domain. Prince of the city.”

The music had stopped entirely now. The crowd stilled, eyes darting between the two men.

“I’d like to know how,” Klaus demanded.

Marcel studied him for a moment, then let out a short laugh. “What’s the matter? Jealous?” His voice carried easily over the hushed courtyard, each word carefully measured. “Hey, man, I get it. Three hundred years ago, you helped build a backwater penal colony into something. You started it. But then you left. Actually, you ran from it. I saw it through.”

Klaus said nothing, but his eyes darkened.

Marcel gestured around them, his voice rising as he continued, feeding off the attention of the onlookers. “Look around. Vampires rule this city now. We don’t have to live in the shadows like rats. The locals know their place. They look the other way. I got rid of the werewolves. I even found a way to shut down the witches.” He stepped closer to Klaus, meeting him eye to eye. “The blood never stops flowing, and the party never ends.” His smile was razor-sharp. “You wanna pass on through? You wanna stay a while? Great. What’s mine is yours.” He leaned in slightly. “But it is mine. My home. My family. My rules.”

Klaus tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “And if someone breaks those rules?”

“They die.” Marcel didn’t hesitate. His voice was calm, certain. “Mercy is for the weak. You taught me that, too.” He took a step back, spreading his arms wide. Then, with a smirk, he shouted for all to hear, “And I’m not the prince of the Quarter, friend.” He let his words hang in the air before finishing with a deadly edge, “I’m the king!”

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, ready to snap. Klaus surveyed Marcel, then the crowd, taking in the wide-eyed admiration in their faces. Marcel had won them over, ruled them with an iron fist wrapped in velvet.

And that would not do.

Klaus moved before anyone could react. In a blur, he vamp-sped toward one of Marcel’s men, sinking his teeth viciously into the unfortunate vampire’s neck. The man barely had time to cry out before Klaus tore into him, blood spilling over his lips. With casual cruelty, Klaus released him, letting the body crumple to the ground.

A hush fell over the courtyard.

Klaus straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming with menace. “Your friend will be dead by the weekend,” he said, his voice carrying through the courtyard, rich with amusement. “Which means I’ve broken one of your rules.” His gaze locked onto Marcel’s, unyielding. “And yet I cannot be killed. I am immortal.” He stepped closer, the barest smirk tugging at his lips. “Who has the power now, friend?”

The tension was suffocating. Marcel said nothing.

Klaus let the silence drag on before flashing a grin at the stunned crowd. Then, with deliberate ease, he turned and walked away, leaving them to absorb the lesson he had just administered.

*                            *                              *

Klaus moved through the city like a whirlwind, his anger pushing him further away from his old family home and the consequences of his actions, as he slipped effortlessly into the flow of people. He stopped as he caught sight of a small group of musicians, their instruments filling the air with a melancholic jazz tune. Just beyond them, an artist stood before a massive canvas, his brush sweeping furiously across its surface, painting with wild, aggressive strokes.

The hybrid studied the painting—deep reds, sharp blacks, chaotic lines all converging into something raw and tormented. It struck something deep within him.

He wasn’t alone in his observation. A familiar figure stood nearby, watching the artist with quiet fascination. The bartender from earlier.

She turned slightly, noticing him at her side. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by a wry smile. “The hundred-dollar guy.”

He returned her smirk. “The brave bartender," he retorted softly. “Camille.” He let the name roll off his tongue, recalling her nametag from earlier. “That’s a French name.”

Cami snorted. “It’s a grandma’s name. Call me Cami.” She nodded toward the artist. “Amazing, isn’t he?”

Klaus returned his gaze to the canvas. “Do you paint?”

“No,” she admitted, “but I admire. Every artist has a story, you know.”

Klaus tilted his head slightly. “And what do you suppose his story is?”

Cami studied the painting, then the man behind it. “He’s… angry. Dark. Doesn’t feel safe and doesn’t know what to do about it.” Her voice grew quieter. “He wishes he could control his demons instead of having his demons control him.” She exhaled. “He’s lost. Alone.”

Klaus’ throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the painting, the words sinking into him, unraveling something raw.

Then, with a rueful smile, he looked away.

Cami caught herself, laughing lightly. “Or maybe he just drank too much tonight. Sorry. Overzealous psych major.”

Klaus turned to her, something softer in his expression now. “No.” He shook his head. “I think you were probably right the first time.”

Cami smiled at him, then turned back to the painting. “So, do you—” She glanced back toward him, only to find empty space, “paint?”

He was gone.

Chapter Text

"He's willing to give up everything," Elijah said without preamble.

A scoff crackled through the line. "Come on, Elijah, does that really surprise you?"

Elijah exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could already see the path Niklaus was barreling down—destructive, reckless, furious at the world for disappointing him yet again. It was a path he’d walked before, one that spanned centuries, leaving carnage in its wake.

"I already see it," he admitted, his voice measured, but heavy with concern. "He's spiraling. Lashing out in blind rage." Elijah closed his eyes, the weight of memory pressing down on him. "You know, the last time I saw him like this, it lasted two hundred years."

Rebekah snorted. "Then leave him to his temper tantrum and come home. With any luck, this misadventure will give us a reprieve from all his insanity."

Elijah shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. "He was so close, Rebekah. When he heard the baby's heartbeat..." His voice faltered for a moment, the image flashing vividly in his mind—Klaus, for once in his long, miserable existence, looking hopeful. "I could see it in his eyes. He... he wanted..." Elijah swallowed. "He could almost taste happiness."

A silence stretched between them before Rebekah scoffed again, though it lacked her usual bite.

"And now his temper has destroyed it," Elijah continued, his voice firm again. "Even if I was to return him to sanity, he's lost Marcel’s trust. That means I'm almost out of time to get the girl."

Rebekah's exasperation flared. "Get her? Have you lost your mind? Are we running an orphanage now?"

Elijah’s jaw clenched. "Say what you will about Niklaus, but on my life, I am not letting anything happen to that baby."

This time, Rebekah didn’t respond right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. "And what happens if Klaus never steps up, Elijah? What if he never cares the way you think he should?"

Elijah's gaze drifted down to the streets below, watching as the city moved on, oblivious to the storm brewing in its midst.

"Then I will," he said simply.

Marcel sat at a dimly lit table in his private corner of the bar, the remnants of a fine meal before him. He was relaxed, legs stretched out, a whiskey glass twirling between his fingers, but his tone was all business as he spoke into his phone.

"You find him, then you call me," he instructed smoothly. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Don’t worry—I know how to deal with Klaus."

"Is that so?"

The voice was calm, refined, and unmistakable.

Marcel stiffened ever so slightly before lowering his phone. He lifted his gaze to find Elijah Mikaelson standing just a few feet away, his suit impeccable, his presence commanding.

"Please," Elijah continued, arching an eyebrow. "Elaborate."

Recognition passed through Marcel’s entourage—vampires scattered around the restaurant. They shifted in their seats, backs straightening, fingers flexing toward weapons.

Marcel held up a hand. "No. I got it." His voice was casual, but his stare remained locked onto Elijah’s. "It's all good."

At his command, the tension in the room eased—but only slightly.

Elijah took his time as he moved forward, lowering himself into the chair across from Marcel with effortless poise. "It's time we had a little chat," he said smoothly.

Marcel leaned back, his smirk returning. "Well, if you’re gonna talk, talk. I got things to do."

Elijah studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Oh my, you have grown quite confident over the last century, haven’t you?"

Marcel’s smile didn’t waver. "Me? I'd say it's you and your brother who got cocky—coming into my town like you own the place."

Elijah chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Well, we did own the place once." His tone was light, but there was something sharp beneath it. "We were all quite happy here, as I recall." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze turning calculating. "But we could never quite control those pesky witches of the French Quarter. Tell me, how do you do it?"

Marcel exhaled, unimpressed. "Your brother asked me the same thing. I gave him the same answer: It’s my business. Everything in the Quarter is my business," the younger vampire sneered.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Klaus waltzes into town all nice and friendly, then he starts looking down his nose at what I’ve built—like it’s some cheap knockoff of one of his dumb paintings—then he gets pissed off like a little bitch and bites one of my guys."

Elijah sighed, feigning mild disappointment. "Well, I do apologize for Klaus' poor behavior," he offered. "I assume you know that that bite will kill your friend within a matter of days."

Marcel’s irritable demeanor faltered slightly. "What?"

Elijah smiled, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. "Yes, apparently the blood of the hybrid will cure a werewolf bite. Quite a handy little thing when one needs leverage in negotiation."

Marcel sat up straighter. "What kind of negotiations are we talking about?"

Elijah folded his hands atop the table, his expression mild. "Return the body of the witch Jane-Anne. Allow her people to put her to rest."

Marcel frowned, studying him carefully. "What do you care about the witches?"

Elijah leaned in slightly, his voice dipping lower, silk and steel intertwined.

"Well," he murmured, "that's my business now, isn’t it?"

Agnes turned to Sophie, her gaze cold, expectant. "His time is up. What are you going to do now, Sophie?"

Sophie stood rigid, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had hoped—prayed—that Elijah would return with an answer, with proof of his promise. But the bell had rung, and the silence stretched long.

"I'm going to do what I said I was going to do," she said, her voice steady, though her fingers trembled.

Sabine’s eyes widened in alarm. "What, kill the girl? Kill yourself?"

Agnes sniffed, unimpressed. "Klaus does not care about the child."

The moment the words left her lips, a presence filled the space—calm, deliberate, powerful.

"I do."

The voice was smooth as velvet, but laced with quiet menace.

The witches turned as one, as Elijah stepped into the mausoleum, his figure illuminated by the dim candlelight. He moved with his usual effortless grace, but his presence carried an unmistakable weight, a barely contained storm beneath the surface.

Cradled in his arms was a lifeless form, wrapped in cloth—Jane-Anne Deveraux.

Gasps rippled through the coven. Sophie staggered forward, her breath catching in her throat. "Jane-Anne..."

Elijah met her gaze, his expression grave but resolute. "May she be granted peace," he said, lowering the body with the reverence of a solemn oath. He turned to Sophie, his tone measured but firm. "Klaus will agree to your terms. I just need a little more time."

Agnes, unshaken, folded her arms. "You had your time," she declared. "It's passed."

Sabine shot her a sharp look. "Shut up, Agnes," she hissed.

Elijah straightened, his presence commanding, his next words slow and deliberate. "For now, accept the deal." His eyes flicked between them, settling on Sophie. "The girl and the child remain unharmed, or Klaus will kill you all."

A hush fell over the room, heavy and unyielding.

Elijah turned on his heel, walking toward the exit, his confidence unwavering. But just as he reached the threshold, he paused. He let the silence hang for a beat longer before he turned back to face them, his expression dark, his voice as smooth as polished steel.

"And I will help him."

The room reeked of whiskey and frustration, the dim candlelight barely illuminating the wreckage of Klaus’ latest bender. He sat slouched in an old chair, swirling the amber liquid in his bottle before taking another slow sip. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark, haunted.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, steady, deliberate. Klaus didn’t need to turn to know who had arrived.

"Have I not made clear my desire to be left alone?" he muttered, his voice low, dangerous.

Klaus' brother stepped further into the room, his expression as composed as ever, though his patience had long since frayed. "Oh, you demand to be left alone at least once a decade," he remarked, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. "Your words have ceased to have impact."

The crack of shattering glass rang through the room as Klaus flung the bottle against the stone floor, the liquid spreading in dark rivulets across the cracks.

"Why must you keep harping on about the baby?" he roared, his eyes burning with something between fury and anguish. "That child will never be born. In fact, Hayley is probably dead already."

The words had barely left his lips before Elijah moved.

In a blur of supernatural speed, Elijah was upon him, his hand closing around Klaus' throat with a force that sent the hybrid stumbling back against the wall.

"You will not walk away from this," Elijah growled, his voice low and brimming with fury.

Klaus' eyes flared golden, his hybrid nature bubbling beneath the surface. "Let. Me. Go."

"I WILL NOT!" Elijah thundered, his grip tightening, his control slipping for the first time in centuries.

With a snarl, Elijah threw Klaus down, the floor shaking with the impact. But he didn’t let up. In an instant, he yanked Klaus up again, gripping him like a man refusing to let go of a sinking ship.

Klaus' lips curled into a sneer, his voice dark with warning. "Don't make me say it again."

Elijah's eyes locked onto his brother’s with a determination that could weather centuries. "I will not let go," he said, quieter now, but no less resolute. "I will never let go."

Klaus lunged. With an effortless display of brute strength, he hurled Elijah backwards, sending him crashing into the iron fence that lined the courtyard. The metal groaned under the force, several rods bending on impact.

Elijah was on his feet in seconds, unfazed. He ripped one of the iron rods free from the fence, the tip jagged and sharp.

"Even if I have to spend eternity saving you from your own stubborn, petulant, vile self…"

With that, Elijah blurred forward and drove the rod into Klaus’ side.

Klaus grunted, staggering, but Elijah did not stop. He yanked the rod back and struck again, his voice rising with every blow.

"If I have to beat you as our father used to beat you, to remind you of your own humanity—" Another strike. "—to make you care about anything—" Another.

This time, Klaus moved faster. His hand shot out, catching the iron rod mid-swing. With a vicious snarl, he wrenched it from Elijah’s grasp, and in an instant, the tables turned.

Klaus struck hard. The force of the blow sent Elijah flying several meters back, his body crashing against the ground, motionless.

Klaus stood over him, chest heaving, the iron rod slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the cobblestones.

"You're beyond pathetic, Elijah," he growled, his voice raw, the edges fraying with something unspoken.

Elijah lay still for a moment, then, with a painful exhale, pushed himself onto his elbows. His lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk. "Well, who is more pathetic?" he asked, voice rasping but steady. "The one who still sees hope to make his family whole, or the coward who only sees the world through his own fear?"

Klaus’ jaw clenched.

"I haven't cared about anything for centuries," he said, the words hollow, tired. "Why on earth do you?"

Elijah's expression softened, the rage slipping away, replaced with something far heavier. "Because I failed you," he admitted. "Because the first time our father laid a hand on you, I should have struck him dead." His voice wavered, but his gaze remained steady. "I made a promise to you: Always, forever. Family above all."

Silence stretched between them, thick, unyielding.

Then, Klaus let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. He extended his hand toward his brother.

Elijah hesitated, then took it. Klaus pulled him up effortlessly.

"You are a sentimental fool," Klaus muttered.

Elijah dusted himself off, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But I've lasted this long in spite of it, haven’t I?"

With that, he turned and walked away, his posture composed, his presence still lingering even as he vanished into the night.

Klaus remained standing there, staring at the broken bottle on the floor, lost in thoughts he would never speak aloud.

Chapter Text

After leaving his brother, Klaus found himseld walking alone, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders slightly hunched. This city—it had once been his. Every brick in the Quarter, every whispered promise of power, had been built under his rule. And now, he was nothing but a visitor, a ghost in his own kingdom.

He came to a small, empty park and settled onto a weathered bench, exhaling slowly as he leaned back. The cool night air did little to soothe the storm within him.

Minutes passed before the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Elijah.

Always fucking Elijah.

Without a word, Elijah took a seat beside him, hands clasped neatly in his lap, posture as composed as ever. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words.

Klaus let out a short, dry chuckle. "Are you here to give me another pep talk on the joys of fatherhood?"

Elijah’s gaze remained fixed on the street ahead. "I’ve said all I needed to say."

Klaus smirked, shaking his head. "I forgot how much I liked this town," he admitted, glancing up at the familiar skyline.

"I didn’t forget," Elijah said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something close to nostalgia. "All the centuries we’ve spent together, and yet I can count on one hand the number of times that our family has been truly happy." He exhaled, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through his carefully maintained composure. "I hated leaving here."

Klaus nodded, his expression darkening. "As did I."

Elijah finally turned his head, studying his brother. "What is on your mind, brother?"

Klaus was silent for a long moment, his fingers tightening around the edge of the bench. When he spoke, his voice was lower, edged with something raw. "For a thousand years, I lived in fear," he admitted. "Every time I settled anywhere, our father would hunt me down… chase me off like an animal. He made me feel powerless, and I hated it." He turned his gaze to the cityscape before them, eyes burning with old anger. "This town was my home once. And in my absence, Marcel has taken everything that I ever wanted. Power. Loyalty. Family." His jaw clenched. "I made him in my image, and he has bettered me."

Elijah remained quiet, listening.

Klaus tilted his head slightly, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "I want what he has. I want to be king."

Elijah exhaled, his brow furrowing slightly. "And what of Hayley and the baby?"

Klaus barely hesitated. "Every king needs an heir."

His smirk widened, a glint of something dangerous flashing in his eyes.

The city pulsed around them, distant laughter echoing from Bourbon Street, the scent of burning tobacco drifting through the air.

Elijah's voice came softer now, threaded with something deeper. "So is that all this child means to you?" he asked. "A grab for power?"

Klaus’s expression flickered—just for a second—before he turned his gaze toward Elijah, meeting his brother’s steady, knowing stare. "What does it mean to you?"

Elijah held his brother’s gaze, unwavering. "I think this child could offer you the one thing that you’ve never believed you had."

Klaus scoffed. "And what’s that?"

Elijah’s voice did not waver. "The unconditional love of family."

The words hung between them, heavy as the past they carried.

Klaus didn’t respond right away. He simply stared at Elijah, his smirk fading into something unreadable. A long silence stretched between them, before finally, Klaus let out a breath, slow and measured.

"Tell Sophie Deveraux we have a deal."

And just like that, the tides began to turn.

It was early the next day and the late morning sun hung high in the clear New Orleans sky, chasing away the long, skeletal shadows dancing across the rows of crumbling tombs. The cemetery was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city beyond the iron gates.

Elijah walked with his usual deliberate grace, one hand in his pants pocket while the other hung idly at his side, his sharp gaze surveying the decaying crypts as he approached his waiting companion. Sophie Deveraux stood near an ancient mausoleum, arms crossed, a look of determination hardening her features.

Elijah came to a stop beside her, his expression unreadable. "So, how do you propose this will work?" he asked.

Sophie glanced at him, then turned her gaze to the ground, as if measuring her words. "Your brother needs to cement his place in Marcel’s world. His inner circle, the daywalkers—that’s where we begin." She lifted her eyes, sharp with intent. "They’re his friends, his family. We’ll be hitting him where it hurts."

The vampire studied her for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. He had spent centuries maneuvering through power struggles, threading through the delicate weave of politics and bloodshed. This was no different.

"And you’re certain this is the best course of action?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Sophie’s jaw tightened. "It’s the only course."

Elijah exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting toward the tombs. There was no turning back now.

The scent of blood and werewolf venom hung thickly in the air.

Klaus Mikaelson strode into Marcel’s quarters like he belonged there, his every movement steeped in confidence. The room was tense—vampires gathered around a dying man, the pale sweat of impending death glistening on his brow. Marcel and Diego stood at the ready, their postures defensive the moment Klaus entered.

"I had time to sleep on it last night," Klaus said smoothly.

Marcel lifted a hand to Diego, silently ordering him to stand down (honestly, the little brat's temperament was starting to annoy the Original), but his eyes never left Klaus.

Klaus smirked, stepping toward a silver tray of crystal glasses. "I am not your enemy," he continued, pouring himself a drink. "Where my family and I failed this town… Marcel succeeded."

The words hung in the air, surprising even Marcel, who tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for the catch.

Klaus didn’t give him the chance to question. Without hesitation, he lifted his own hand and bit into it, crimson welling instantly. He held his hand over an empty glass, watching the rich, dark blood trickle inside.

"My blood will heal him," he said simply, offering the glass. "As though it never happened."

Marcel’s gaze flickered to Diego, who stepped forward, carefully taking the offered cure. The room held its breath as the dying vampire drank deep, his trembling form beginning to still, color returning to his cheeks.

Klaus took a measured step back. "The Quarter is your home," he continued, his tone even, deceptively casual. "But I would like to stay a while, if I’m still welcome."

A slow, wide grin spread across Marcel’s face. A chuckle rumbled from his chest as he clapped a firm hand on Klaus’s neck, giving him a light shake. It was not submission, but an acknowledgment—a game just beginning.

Outside, the sound of the city carried on as it always did. Klaus found himself drawn into its rhythm, watching a street parade wind its way through the Quarter. Music, laughter, the scent of spices and rum—New Orleans was alive.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over the screen before he pressed a number. As the call went to voicemail, he spoke, his voice softer than usual.

"Caroline," he murmured, watching the dancers weave through the streets. "I'm standing in one of my favorite places in the world, surrounded by food, music, art, culture... and all I can think about is how much I want to show it to you."

A small, wistful smile played at his lips.

"Maybe one day you'll let me."

He ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket, then continued down the street, disappearing into the heartbeat of the city.

The old house was silent, but the air between its walls crackled with tension.

Elijah had returned from New Orleans to find Rebekah standing in the middle of the room, her arms crossed, her expression a storm barely held in check.

"So that’s it?" she demanded, her voice sharp with accusation. "I’m just supposed to pack up my things and leave for good? Forget my life here and my pursuit of the cure?"

Elijah, ever composed, tilted his head slightly. "Oh, the cure was a fool’s errand," he countered. "Taking it would have stripped you of everything you are—for what? More high school proms?"

Rebekah’s eyes flashed with fury. "I wanted to be human," she shot back. "I wanted children. A family."

Elijah’s expression softened, though his resolve remained firm. "And I stand before you to offer you both."

She let out a bitter laugh, stepping closer, her chin lifting defiantly. "And if I decide against you?" she challenged. "What then? A dagger in my heart and back in a box?"

Elijah exhaled, his eyes searching hers. "I’ve made my case," he said quietly. "Your family needs you, and what choice you make right now is your own."

Rebekah held his gaze for a long moment, the weight of a thousand years pressing between them.

Then, with a slow shake of her head, she whispered, "I owe him nothing."

Her voice wavered only slightly, but there was no mistaking the finality in it. "I wish him no joy, no love. I will stay here and live my life the way I want to, and if you’re smart, I suggest you do the same."

She didn’t wait for a response. Turning on her heel, she strode out, leaving Elijah standing in the quiet emptiness she left behind.

A soft chuckle broke the silence.

From the shadows, Katherine, ever the clever seducer, stepped forward, arms crossed, lips curled in amusement.

"She’s right," Katherine mused. "Be smart, Elijah. Klaus is stark raving mad, not to mention completely irredeemable."

Elijah’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Katherine smirked, stepping closer. "You’re a fool if you think you can save him."

Elijah’s gaze darkened.

"Perhaps," he murmured, his voice unreadable.

And yet, he knew in his heart—he would try anyway.

"Have a nice life, Katherine," Elijah said.

Then he turned and walked away.

Chapter Text

“So, I just got off the plane,” Bobby said over the phone. “I'm headed to baggage claim now.” 

Elijah smiled softly as he meandered through the halls of the old plantation he and his family once resided in.

“Good. Be sure to check on Marie for me and let the boys know I said hello, will you?” the vampire replied.

“Sure thing. And lemme know how things go with the Big Bad Wolf, yeah?” Bobby insisted. “Keep me posted and don’t forget to call.”

The Original chuckled as he came to a stop in front of the large window, soaking in the midday sun.

“As long as you constantly update me on whatever’s going on with Castiel, I think I can manage to keep you informed about my brother’s exploits,” Elijah retorted, before biting his lower lip. “Be careful, Robert.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Bobby responded somberly. “I… Love ya, idjit.”

Elijah’s heart nearly flew out of his chest as a lovestruck grin danced across his lips.

No matter how many times he heard it, the Original vampire still got swept off his feet everytime Bobby told him he loved him.

“I love you more, min nordsterjerne,” Elijah sighed. “I’ll try to return home as soon as I can.”

“You better,” Bobby quipped.

Then the phone call ended, leaving Elijah in silence.

As Elijah put his phone back into his jacket pocket, he heard a pair of footsteps approach him from behind, causing him to turn around.

It was Hayley.

“Hayley,” Elijah acknowledged. “Is something wrong?”

She quickly shook her head saying, “No, I was just wondering if you could help me set up the bedroom upstairs, if you don't mind.”

“Yes, of course,” Elijah nodded. “Shall we?”

*                              *                              *

The air inside the grand old bedroom was thick with dust, swirling into the beams of afternoon sunlight filtering through the room’s tall windows. Hayley coughed as she pulled a tattered sheet off an old crib, the fabric slipping through her fingers like ghostly remnants of the past. The place smelled of age—of wood left to rot in silence, of memories that had long since been forgotten.

Elijah stepped forward, his brow furrowing in concern. "Are you alright?"

Hayley waved a hand in dismissal, trying to clear the dust from the air. "Just dust. This place is ancient."

Elijah allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "Yes, but it should serve our purposes. A sanctuary, away from the troubles in the Quarter." His expression softened as he turned toward her, his voice quieter, more intimate. "Right now, you are the most important person in this family. You deserve a good home. So tell me, in all this time... has anyone asked you how you feel?"

Hayley hesitated, caught off guard by the question. She crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight. "About having a miracle baby with a psychotic one-night stand?"

Elijah didn’t flinch. "About being a mother."

She exhaled slowly, the words lodging in her throat before she could fully form them. "I—I was abandoned when I was born. My adoptive parents kicked me out the second I turned into a wolf." She looked down at the crib, brushing her fingers over the worn wood. "So... I don’t really know how I feel about being a mother. Because I never really had a good one."

Elijah stepped closer, his voice steady and resolute. "I will always protect you, Hayley. You have my word on that."

Before she could respond, a familiar voice cut through the room like a blade.

"And noble Elijah always keeps his word."

Klaus stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his smirk just shy of cruel amusement. His presence was effortless, as though he had been standing there all along, waiting for the perfect moment to make himself known.

Elijah turned to face him, his face unreadable. "Is it done?"

Klaus strolled in, inspecting the house with a casual glance. "As a matter of fact, yes. Your underhanded deal worked quite well. Marcel was only too happy to accept my blood, even as he accepted my heartfelt apologies." He poured himself a drink from an old decanter left behind on a dusty table. "His man, Thierry, yet lives. And I remain a welcome guest in the French Quarter." He took a slow sip, savoring it. "My only concern now is this coven of impudent witches."

Elijah regarded him carefully. "I believe them to be honorable. They did release Hayley to me." He glanced at her briefly before returning his gaze to Klaus. "But they haven't been entirely forthcoming. Marcel obviously has something that they need. They don’t want him dead. There must be a reason why."

Klaus twirled the glass in his hand, watching the liquid swirl. "Then perhaps it’s time we found out."

Meanwhile, across town, deep in the heart of the French Quarter, Marcel found himself heading to the empty— seemingly abandoned— cathedral near Jackson Square.

The attic was a world unto itself—dark and dusty, a hidden realm untouched by time. A small bed rested in the corner, surrounded by stacks of canvases leaning against the walls, their surfaces unfinished, whispering of stories yet to be told. The air smelled of candle wax and old wood.

Near the window, a girl sat, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. A candle flickered before her, its flame dancing in response to her will, brightening and dimming with the smallest gesture. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips slightly parted.

The door creaked open, but she didn’t flinch.

"All quiet out there?" she asked without turning around.

Marcel stepped into the room, his silhouette framed against the dim light of the hallway. His usual swagger was present, but there was something softer in the way he spoke to her. "The witches know better than to use magic. They know you can sense it when they do."

Davina finally looked up, her expression uncertain. "What about the old ones? They're dangerous, and I don’t want them to hurt you."

Marcel chuckled, stepping closer. "The Originals?" He crouched beside her, his gaze warm but firm. "Davina, as powerful as you are, they don’t stand a chance."

She searched his face for reassurance, and for a moment, the storm of doubt in her eyes settled into something calmer. But the flame on the candle still flickered—uncertain, unsteady.

Back at the plantation, Elijah stood near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid with the weight of unspoken words.

"In addition to the secret weapon he uses to control the witches," Elijah said, measured and calm, "Marcel has assembled a small army of vampires. Working together, we can destroy them from the inside."

Klaus lounged nearby, arms resting against the back of a chair, watching Elijah with a faint smirk. "And what of Rebekah? Has she stopped her pouting long enough to join the fun?"

Elijah barely reacted. "She has made her disinterest quite clear."

Klaus scoffed. "One too many times daggered and shoved in a box, I gather?" He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "Or perhaps she doesn’t share your unwavering belief that I can be saved."

Elijah met his eyes without hesitation. "Rebekah may surprise us yet. After all, we all swore the same vow."

Klaus tilted his head, his smirk darkening into something almost melancholic. "I hope she stays far away." He stood, pacing slightly, as though restless with a decision already made. "Because in my desire to reclaim this town, to steal from Marcel that which he holds most dear, I have realized one massive vulnerability. One weakness that Marcel could exploit."

Elijah’s gaze narrowed. "And what is that?"

Klaus turned to face him fully, his expression suddenly unreadable. "You."

The moment stretched unbearably long—then, without warning, Klaus lunged.

The silver dagger plunged into Elijah’s chest before he could react, sinking deep. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as his body convulsed, his hands clawing weakly at Klaus’s arms. His eyes, wide with shock, met his brother’s for one fleeting moment before the paralysis set in.

Klaus caught Elijah as he collapsed, lowering him gently to the ground. He hovered over him, brushing a stray curl from his brother’s forehead, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Forgive me, my brother," he murmured.

Elijah’s eyes remained open, frozen in betrayal as the silver worked its way through his veins.

Klaus exhaled, his expression hardening. He rose to his feet, looking down at Elijah’s still form. "There is no power in love," he said to no one in particular. "Mercy makes you weak. Family makes you weak. If I am going to win this war, I have to do it alone."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving his brother behind.

Chapter Text

Four days.

It had been four days since Klaus Mikaelson had been lured back to New Orleans. Four days since he discovered he was to be a father by some dark twist of irony. Four days since he discovered that Marcel had surpassed him in nearly every way that mattered. And four days since he daggered his ever-faithful brother and served him up to Marcel as a peace offering in order to continue the charade of friendship.

And since then everything had been going exactly according to plan.

The streets of New Orleans pulsed with life, a heady mix of music, laughter, and the scent of too many bodies packed into narrow alleyways. Tourists moved in clusters, some seeking out cheap thrills, others chasing the city’s darker, more illicit promises. It was a place of indulgence, of excess, and—if one knew where to look—of monsters hiding in plain sight.

From his balcony overlooking the heart of it all, Marcel Gerard stood with his hands braced against the iron railing, surveying his domain with a satisfied smirk.

“The city of New Orleans,” his voice carried easily, rich with amusement. “People of all stripes and flavors come here to party on our streets. Some just want a good time…” He cast a glance down below, where a steady stream of revelers moved toward the entrance of an old warehouse, drawn in by the lure of something exclusive, something forbidden. “Some want something darker. Something dangerous.”

Across the way, Diego—one of his most trusted lieutenants—approached a pair of tourists, a man and a woman, their wide-eyed expressions already betraying their intoxicated mix of curiosity and recklessness. Diego grinned and handed them a sleek black flyer, the gilded ‘M’ at the top gleaming beneath the neon glow of the streetlights.

ABATTOIR
WHERE THE PARTY NEVER ENDS

A promise. A trap.

The couple exchanged glances, enticed, and within moments they were stepping past the iron gates, laughing as their wrists were stamped with the same elegant ‘M’ from the flyer. The ink shimmered, a quiet mark of ownership.

Marcel chuckled. “So, we invite them in, and we give them exactly what they’re looking for.”

Klaus Mikaelson, standing beside him with an air of detached amusement, observed the spectacle in silence. Below them, the party raged, a pulsing, fevered celebration. Music throbbed through the walls, bodies pressed together in the heat, alcohol flowed freely. To the untrained eye, it was nothing more than an extravagant, hedonistic gathering.

Until the clock struck midnight.

A single chime. The energy shifted.

The laughter turned to startled cries as the true hosts of the evening revealed themselves. Fangs gleamed in the flashing lights. The scent of fresh blood cut through the air like perfume. Screams rang out, some swallowed by the bass-heavy music, others carrying through the cavernous space as Marcel’s night-walkers descended on their prey with ravenous hunger.

From their vantage point, Klaus watched the carnage unfold, his lips curving into a smirk. Below, the woman who had so eagerly accepted Diego’s invitation was pinned against a stone pillar, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath the mouth of the vampire drinking deeply from her throat. Across the room, another human writhed in the grip of his captor, the ecstasy and horror of the moment battling for control in his glassy eyes.

Marcel gestured with a flourish. “This is how I keep my guys happy—the occasional, all-you-can-eat buffet.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “My night-walkers work hard, trying to earn one of these daylight rings. They deserve to blow off a little steam.”

Klaus hummed in agreement, though his gaze had drifted to an engraving set into the stone wall below. A crest. The monogrammed ‘M’ intertwined with a coiled serpent. His eyes narrowed briefly, but he made no comment.

Marcel followed his gaze before continuing, unfazed. “The day-walkers, my trusted few? They just like the party.”

Klaus turned back to him, lips quirking. “It’s quite an operation. Though, I must ask—what of the victims? You don’t seem the type to enjoy digging graves.”

Marcel laughed. “Can’t kill ‘em all. Too many folks go missing, tourism drops. And we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” He shot Klaus a knowing look. “So, we heal them up with a little vamp blood, erase their memory, and send them on their way. No muss, no fuss.”

Klaus inclined his head, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I’m impressed.”

Marcel clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing I didn’t learn from you back in the day.”

The moment of camaraderie was broken by the arrival of Thierry, his expression grim as he approached.

“Marcel.”

Marcel turned, instantly catching the tension in his second-in-command’s stance. “’Sup, Thierry?”

“Six of our guys were killed in a bar outside the Quarter.”

Silence settled over them, thick and expectant. Marcel’s casual air didn’t shift, but there was a sharp glint of something dangerous in his eyes.

“Night-walkers?”

Thierry nodded. “No one saw who.”

Klaus glanced away as if suddenly disinterested. But his silence spoke volumes.

These last four days had been quiet. Easy, even. 

However, a pool of dread churned and twisted in his gut, and Klaus just knew— he knew— that the quiet atmosphere was about to be upturned by something utterly catastrophic. Something he wouldn'tbe able to fully control.

Four fucking days of peace and quiet, before the chaos erupted.

Bloody hell. He thought. 

*                              *                              *

Elsewhere, miles beyond the city’s pulse, the wind whipped through the open window of a red convertible speeding down a dark highway. Rebekah Mikaelson glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, smirking as she wiped away a stray drop of blood from her cheek.

She didn’t bother to check over her shoulder.

She simply pressed her foot down on the gas and kept driving.

The blonde vampiress drove her cherry-red sportscar into the roundabout cobblestone driveway in front of the Mikaelson mansion, with her phone pressed against her ear.

Meanwhile, inside the manor, Hayley was startled awake by the loud purr of a car engine and crept downstairs to investigate.

Back outside, Rebekah got out of her car and slammed the door, her face contorting angrily as she stormed up the steps of the front porch, gripping her phone tightly. 

“Elijah,” she began, her voice thick with annoyance. “If not answering your phone is part of your clever plan to get me back to this godforsaken city, then, well done. I'm here and I’m worried. Now, pick up, before I kick in your bloody door.”

Inside, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t sit right. The air carried the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic—blood, perhaps, long since cleaned but never truly gone. Rebekah stepped inside, taking it all in, just as movement on the stairs caught her eye.

Hayley stood halfway down the staircase, grip tight around the iron poker she held like a weapon.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, voice sharp, eyes wary.

Rebekah tilted her head, unimpressed. “Oh, you must be the maid.” She flicked a hand dismissively toward the car outside. “My bags are in the car—get them, will you?”

The young werewolf arched a brow, then smirked as she lowered the poker. “Hello. Not the maid.”

Rebekah’s lips quirked. “Right. You’re that werewolf girl my brother Klaus knocked up.” She eyed her critically, as if expecting to see something more remarkable. “I was expecting some kind of supernatural, miracle baby bump. Guess you’re not showing yet.” Her gaze flicked back up to meet the woman’s glare. “It’s Hayley, isn’t it?”

Hayley crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You have your brother’s manners.”

“And his temper too, so watch it.” Rebekah’s expression darkened as she stepped further into the room. “Where’s Elijah?”

Hayley’s smirk faded. “Beats me. He’s long gone.”

Rebekah’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘long gone’?”

Hayley let out a dry laugh and leaned against the railing. “One minute he was here, making epic promises about protecting me in this predicament that a bottle of scotch and some bad decisions got me into—he was all poetic about how we’re family. And then Klaus told me he bailed.” She shrugged. “Guess that’s what I get for trusting a vampire.”

Rebekah’s jaw clenched. “Elijah is not just any vampire, and he doesn’t break promises.” Her gaze flickered toward the darkened hall beyond. “Which means Niklaus has done something dastardly and Klaus-like.” Her voice rose, echoing through the grand halls. “Klaus! Get out here and tell me what you’ve done with our brother, you narcissistic, back-stabbing wanker!”

The silence stretched for only a moment before the double doors at the far end of the room swung open.

Klaus stepped through, lazy amusement in his eyes. “Enough with all the shouting.” His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Little sister, I should have known. I assume the six dead vampires were your doing?”

Rebekah tilted her head, feigning innocence. “They were very rude.”

His expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—calculation, perhaps. Rebekah leaned against the back of a chair, crossing one leg over the other as she examined her nails.

“They were trying to victimize a poor, innocent girl just trying to find her way to the Quarter,” she continued, voice dripping with faux sympathy. “So sorry—were they friends of yours? Oh, that’s right…” She lifted her gaze, smirking. “You don’t have any friends.”

Klaus’s smile didn’t falter. “I do have friends,” he countered smoothly. “I have Marcel.” He took a slow step forward, watching her reaction. “You remember him, don’t you?”

Rebekah’s expression twitched—just slightly—but she quickly masked it with a scoff.

“Of course you do,” Klaus went on, voice teasing. “He fancies himself the ‘King of the Quarter’ now. And he has these rules about killing vampires.” He leaned in slightly, the smirk widening. “It’ll be fun to see what sort of punishment he comes up with for you.”

Rebekah met his gaze without flinching. “I don’t care about Marcel or his rules,” she snapped, the name carrying too much history, too many wounds she refused to acknowledge. “Elijah doesn’t welch on deals. What did you do to him?”

Klaus let out an exaggerated sigh, waving a hand. “Perhaps he’s on holiday… or taking a long autumn nap upstairs.” He gestured toward the grand staircase. “Well, go on. Take a look around. You remember this house as well as I.”

Rebekah turned, fully intending to storm off in search of her brother. But something made her pause. A pull—an old memory, an old wound.

Slowly, she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes locking onto Klaus’s.

“I remember everything,” she said, voice steady.

And she did. The blood, the betrayals, the centuries of devotion and heartbreak intertwined. This house was more than just bricks and wood. It was a graveyard of every broken promise and shattered dream they had ever had.

And she had no doubt Klaus had just buried another.

NEW ORLEANS, 1820…

The grand ballroom of the governor’s estate was alive with music and laughter, chandeliers casting golden light over men and women clad in their finest silks and velvets. Rebekah moved through the throng, her fingers grazing the arm of a young man with warm brown eyes and a charming smile—Emil, the governor’s son. He kissed her knuckles reverently, whispering something that made her laugh.

She had been happy, once.

She had believed in love.

Upstairs, Elijah had held Celeste in his arms, stealing kisses down a quiet hallway. Further down, behind closed doors, Klaus had indulged his baser appetites, draining two women dry before wiping the blood from his lips.

Celeste turned her nose up in disgust.

“Your brother, he’s gone too far,” Celeste whispered, as she and Elijah watched him through the cracks of the door.

"Niklaus," Elijah had said, stepping into the corridor, his voice heavy with warning. "There is no hope for you, is there?"

Rebekah had appeared then, her hand clasped in Emil’s. "Are we interrupting?" she had asked playfully.

"Yes," Klaus had answered.

"No," Elijah had countered.

Rebekah had turned to her eldest brother, eyes pleading. "Dearest Elijah. You've only ever wished happiness for me. Emil and I are in love. Please, let me turn him."

Elijah had hesitated. "Rebekah… the governor has graciously agreed to hide many of our… indiscretions. It would not do to turn his son into one of us."

"Please," she had whispered. "For me."

But Klaus had only chuckled. "It’s not going to happen, Sister. If we turned every man you dropped your knickers for, then human beings would cease to exist and we'd have no bloody food."

Emil had bristled, puffing out his chest. "How dare you, sir! You would do well to—"

Klaus had silenced him with a single hand around his throat, dragging him down the hallway as Rebekah screamed.

"Niklaus, stop!" Elijah had called.

But Klaus had simply smirked and tossed Emil over the balcony.

Rebekah had wept, clinging to Elijah while her legs gave out beneath her, as she watched as her lover’s body struck the ground below, lifeless.

NEW ORLEANS, PRESENT-DAY…

She turned back to Klaus, her voice cold. "No one was ever good enough for me, Nik, you made sure of that. Now where is Elijah?"

Before he could answer, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and smirked, rising to his feet.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"It appears the night is not quite over, yet," Klaus replied airily. "I'm off for another drink with Marcel."

"You’re drinking with him now?" Rebekah scoffed. "Elijah told me about your plan to dismantle Marcel’s empire. I don’t remember it involving cocktails and drinking New Orleans dry together."

“I know you don’t have many friends, Rebekah,” Klaus paused at the door, glancing back. "But what some friends do is drink together. And when they drink, they tell secrets. Marcel has found a way to control the entirety of witches in the Quarter, and I aim to uncover how, so I might take it for myself. Finding Elijah didn't make my to-do list today."

Rebekah sneered at him in frustration, but said nothing to challenge him. It would do her nor Elijah any good to piss off the bastard further and get herself daggered in a box for the next century.

His smirk widened. "Welcome home, little sister."

The door shut behind him.

Rebekah exhaled sharply, then turned to find Hayley watching from the landing above.

"You, wolf girl," she said briskly. "We're going to search this house until we find what my evil brother has done with my good one. You’re helping."

Hayley sighed, pushing herself to her feet. "Fantastic."

With a sigh, Hayley followed, her footsteps echoing against the grand yet eerily silent walls of the Mikaelson mansion.

They descended a spiral staircase, the air growing heavier with dust and age as they moved deeper into the bowels of the house. The sconces lining the walls flickered, casting long, shifting shadows as they stepped into a narrow hallway.

"The governor had lots of secret rooms," Rebekah said, almost to herself, her fingers tracing the wall as if she were remembering something long buried. "I'll show you his favorite."

At the end of the hall, she pushed open a heavy wooden door, revealing a cellar thick with cobwebs and the musty scent of forgotten things. The room was dimly lit, but Hayley could see the outlines of several large objects resting in the gloom. As they stepped inside, the flickering light revealed them—coffins.

Rebekah strode forward without hesitation, her gaze sharp as it landed on the wooden caskets. Hayley, on the other hand, felt a wave of unease churn in her gut.

"You think Klaus killed him," Hayley said, her voice quieter than before.

Rebekah scoffed, brushing dust off the nearest coffin. "We can't be killed, silly girl. That doesn’t stop Nik from finding creative ways to make our lives miserable." She ran a hand over the lid with an almost casual familiarity. "He has a set of mystical silver daggers. One in the heart, and we’re out like a light. A deep, dreamless slumber—until he decides to wake us up." She gestured around them. "Klaus gets his jollies from keeping us in a box, waiting for the day we amuse him again." She sighed, shaking her head. "That must be what he's done to Elijah."

Rebekah stopped in front of one particular coffin and smirked. "This one's mine."

Hayley frowned, taking a step closer. "He keeps your coffin on standby?"

Rebekah let out a dry laugh. "He likes to be prepared for when his family inevitably disappoints him." She lifted the lid slightly and peeked inside before letting it drop with a dull thud. "Elijah’s isn’t here. He must’ve stashed him somewhere else."

Hayley swallowed hard, looking around at the rows of coffins. A deep unease settled in her chest. "I feel sick."

Rebekah gave her a pitying glance, though there was little warmth in it. "Welcome to the family, love." She tilted her head slightly. "You should've run the second you realized Elijah was gone."

Hayley crossed her arms, her jaw tightening. "Yeah, well, the witches put some sort of hex on me. As long as I’m carrying this baby, I can’t leave New Orleans. If I try, they kill me."

Rebekah studied her for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she said, "Well, knowing Klaus, he’s planning a box for you the second you give birth to whatever’s cooking in your tum."

Hayley felt a cold shiver crawl up her spine.

"I’m leaving as soon as I find Elijah," Rebekah continued. "Being daggered in a box for decades sucks, trust me. You’d best find a way to break that hex and run."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode off, disappearing into the darkness of the cellar, leaving Hayley standing there—alone, uneasy, and more trapped than ever.

Chapter Text

The early-morning silence of the French Quarter hung over Rousseau’s with a deceptive air. The silence felt too deliberate, as if something unseen lurked just beyond the flickering candlelight. Sophie Deveraux moved with muscle memory, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on one of the wooden tables, her thoughts elsewhere. The creak of the restaurant door interrupted the monotony, swinging shut with a sharp finality.

She tensed. That wasn’t the wind.

A chill ran up her spine as she caught the almost imperceptible whoosh of something fast—too fast. Vampire fast. She set the rag down, her fingers tightening into a fist as she listened for any further sounds. The air felt charged, unnatural.

"Hello?" she called, forcing a note of irritation into her voice instead of fear. "Seriously, Marcel? Trying to scare me? I had nothing to do with the attack on your guys last night!"

Silence answered her.

quiet of Rousseau’s was deceptive, a silence that felt too deliberate, as if something unseen lurked just beyond the flickering candlelight. Sophie Deveraux moved with muscle memory, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on one of the wooden tables, her thoughts elsewhere. The creak of the restaurant door interrupted the monotony, swinging shut with a sharp finality.

She tensed. That wasn’t the wind.

A chill ran up her spine as she caught the almost imperceptible whoosh of something fast—too fast. Vampire fast. She set the rag down, her fingers tightening into a fist as she listened for any further sounds. The air felt charged, unnatural.

"Hello?" she called, forcing a note of irritation into her voice instead of fear. "Seriously, Marcel? Trying to scare me? I had nothing to do with the attack on your guys last night!"

Silence answered her.

Just then, behind her, the hanging pots above the stove clanged softly against each other, as though stirred by a passing breeze. But there was no breeze.

Sophie whirled around, her breath shallow. She took cautious steps toward the kitchen, her heart hammering against her ribs. She reached for the knife block, her fingers closing around the handle of a chef’s knife, its weight grounding her.

In one swift motion, she lifted the blade, ready to defend herself—

A cold hand clamped around her wrist.

Sophie gasped, her eyes flying up to meet the pale, piercing blue gaze of Rebekah Mikaelson.

"Well, well," the Original vampire drawled, her grip firm but not painful, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Sophie Deveraux. My brother, Elijah, told me about you." She cocked her head slightly, scrutinizing Sophie like one might an interesting insect. "Know who I am?"

Sophie swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her throat. "Yeah," she managed, voice steady despite the sharp coil of fear in her gut. "I know."

Rebekah released her wrist, but her expression remained unreadable. "Then you know we need to talk."

*                             *                              *

Not much later the two women found themselves walking through the labyrinth of tombs and graves of the City of the Dead discussing the current state of New Orleans and the deal the witches made with Rebekah’s brothers.

Despite the rising light of the sun as the morning transitioned into midday, the towering vaults cast long, eerie shadows over the cobblestone pathways, their stone faces etched with names long forgotten. The scent of damp earth and aging marble lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of old magic, remnants of the witches who had once ruled this city.

Rebekah strode through the narrow pathways between the tombs, her heels clicking against the stone, a sharp contrast to Sophie Deveraux’s cautious steps beside her. The witch kept glancing around, as if expecting Marcel’s enforcers to emerge from the aether at any moment, in spite of the protective barrier around the cemetery that kept out the vampires.

"Let me guess," Rebekah began, voice laced with dry amusement. "Knowing my dear brother’s history, Elijah has a dagger in his chest." She didn’t need confirmation; it was always the same story with Klaus. "It’s a magical object, and you’re a witch. Do a locator spell—find the dagger, find Elijah."

Sophie exhaled sharply, her arms crossing over her chest. "I can’t use magic," she muttered. "It’s punishable by death—Marcel’s rules."

Rebekah rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "Marcel?" she scoffed. "What do you think I’m going to do to you if you don’t give me what I want?"

Sophie stood her ground, her gaze unwavering. "Not much," she said, and though there was a hint of fear beneath her defiance, she held firm. "I’ve been linked. Anything you do to me, you do to Hayley."

Rebekah’s expression flickered with surprise, then quickly shifted into something unreadable. "Who?"

Sophie gave her a significant look, letting the silence fill the space between them.

Then realization dawned, and Rebekah let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh, right—the mumzy." She studied Sophie, calculating. "Well, lucky for you, Elijah seems to care about her. Otherwise, I’d break your neck right here."

Sophie swallowed but said nothing.

Rebekah glanced around at the graveyard, her lips pressing together in frustration. "How did Marcel get so bloody powerful, anyway? He wasn’t like this when I left a hundred years ago."

Sophie hesitated, then said, "Marcel has a way to know when any magic is performed in the Quarter."

Rebekah’s eyes narrowed. "How?"

"It’s not relevant."

"I’ll tell you what’s not bloody relevant," Rebekah snapped, her patience thinning. "A coven of witches who can’t do magic. Here’s an idea: move away."

Sophie let out a bitter chuckle. "We practice ancestral magic," she explained, her tone laced with exhaustion. "This cemetery is filled with the remains of our witch ancestors. Without access to them, we’re powerless. If we run, we leave behind everything—our legacy, our home, our family."

Rebekah let out a slow, measured breath, her gaze flickering over the graves. "Well, family’s overrated," she muttered, moving to sit down on one of the stone altars. "Look at me—I’m back in a city that’s given me nothing but heartache, looking for a brother who’s hell-bent on protecting a baby I don’t even care about."

Sophie studied her, her eyes filled with something close to understanding. "I find that hard to believe," she said quietly. "You’re here, aren’t you?"

Rebekah’s jaw tightened. "I’m here for Elijah," she corrected, her voice edged with something too sharp to be mere indifference. "The second I find him, I’m gone. He was the one idiotically convinced that this baby would be Niklaus’ redemption." She exhaled, shaking her head. "And now he’s missing—probably at the hands of Klaus himself. And you were foolish enough to believe that Elijah could convince Klaus to go against Marcel, when everyone knows the history between them."

Sophie glanced away, but she didn’t argue.

"Klaus sired Marcel," she said finally. "I’m aware."

Rebekah gave a humorless smirk. "You don’t understand." She turned, stepping closer, lowering her voice as if speaking a hard truth. "Marcel isn’t just some guy Klaus turned into a vampire." Her gaze darkened, the memory of a century past flickering through her mind. "Klaus loved him like a son."

NEW ORLEANS, 1820

The air hung thick with the scent of incense and flowers, but grief was stronger still. The funeral procession moved in solemn silence, a sea of black veils and heavy coats, following the slow roll of a horse-drawn carriage carrying a casket.

Rebekah walked beside Elijah, their expressions carefully schooled into impassivity.

"I was there they day that they met. We were burying Emil," her voice murmured over the memory, "the governor’s only son… or so we thought."

A sharp, echoing crack split through the still air. A whip.

“It turns out the governor had another son, from a mother that he owned.”

Rebekah’s head turned, her eyes locking onto a small figure in the distance. A boy.

Barefoot, skin marked with fresh welts, his tiny hands clutching a half-rotten apple. The overseer raised his arm again, the whip curling back, poised to strike.

The boy didn’t run. He glared up at the man with seething hatred, then hurled the apple at his face.

The whip lashed out—

But Klaus moved first.

In a blur of motion, he plucked a loose cobblestone from the ground and sent it flying with deadly accuracy. It struck the overseer’s forehead with a sickening crack, sending him toppling from his horse.

The street fell into shocked silence.

The boy, panting, his small chest heaving, turned slowly to face the man who had saved him.

Klaus stepped forward, his eyes locked onto the child’s. There was something there—recognition. Understanding.

"What’s your name?" Klaus asked, his voice softer than anyone had ever heard it.

The boy squared his shoulders. "Don’t got one," he said, his voice rough but unwavering. "Mama wouldn’t name me till I turned ten. In case the fever took me." A pause. "Then it took her."

Klaus crouched down, leveling his gaze with the boy’s.

"You’re a survivor," he said, his lips quirking up at the edges. "And survivors need names." He considered for a moment, then murmured, "How about Marcellus?"

The boy frowned. "Marcellus?"

"It comes from Mars—the god of war," Klaus explained. "It means ‘little warrior.’"

The boy hesitated. Then, for the first time, he smiled.

Klaus stood and extended a hand.

Marcellus took it.

Elijah, watching from afar, murmured, "Perhaps there is hope for our brother after all."

Rebekah turned her gaze back to Sophie, the weight of the past lingering in her expression.

"Klaus saw himself in that boy," she said. "He remembered how our father used to beat him—how he, too, was the bastard son of a man who saw him as nothing but a beast." Her voice dropped to a near whisper, as she rose to her feet. "That is why your plan will fail. All you’ve done is bring back together two long-lost souls."

She turned, stepping away into the darkness, her final words lingering in the air.

"Without Elijah between them… who knows what they’ll do."

Sophie stood motionless, absorbing the truth in Rebekah’s words, the weight of it settling deep in her chest.

And for the first time, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.

Chapter Text

Marcel Gerard sat in the dimly lit bar, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass as he stared into the amber liquid. The usual revelry of the French Quarter had died down for the night, leaving the bar with a quiet, subdued energy. The air smelled of aged whiskey, stale beer, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke—a contrast to the heady scent of blood and power that accompanied his usual company.

The door creaked open, and without needing to turn, Marcel knew who had arrived.

"Well, this is a far cry from last night's party," Klaus' voice carried an amused lilt as he sauntered in, his sharp eyes surveying the near-empty establishment. His gaze landed on a familiar blonde sitting at the bar, scribbling notes into a worn notebook.

"Ah," Klaus drawled, a smirk curving his lips. "In pursuit of the bartender from Rousseau's, I see."

Marcel merely exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. "She's a work in progress."

Klaus leaned against the counter, an eyebrow arched. "And yet here you are, pining over her when you should be eating her for lunch. Oh, she must be special."

Marcel gave a nonchalant shrug, but before he could reply, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. "Business first," he muttered, locking eyes with Klaus. "The coroner called. He's got my number in case any dead tourists show up."

"Let me guess—dead tourists with a stamp on their hands and vampire blood in their veins?" Klaus’s smirk widened as he picked up on the implication.

Marcel sighed, swirling the liquor in his glass. "It happens. Someone takes a drunken tumble off a balcony, or into the Mississippi... And today I got two of them to deal with."

Klaus straightened at the movement from the bar. Cami was closing her notebook, gathering her things. Klaus took the opportunity to step toward her, his gaze settling on her with intrigued curiosity.

"Excuse me, love," he said smoothly, his voice dripping with charm. "What's that you're studying?"

Cami turned to him, unimpressed but polite. "Abnormal psychology."

Klaus chuckled. "Abnormal psychology, well. Perhaps you could help me diagnose my friend over here. He's been a little bit depressed, can't keep his mind off a girl. He tells me she's a queen, fit for a king. I think he should cut his losses and move on. What's your professional opinion?"

Cami cast a quick glance at Marcel before offering a small smirk. "Be a nice guy, and maybe the opportunity will present itself someday."

Marcel grinned. "How about tonight, nine o’clock? I'll meet you right here?"

Cami simply raised an eyebrow. "I'll take it under consideration."

With that, she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out, leaving the two vampires watching her departure.

"Mm, harsh," Marcel mused, shaking his head.

Klaus chuckled, lifting his glass. "I daresay I've lost my touch. Or you've lost yours."

They shared a smirk, taking slow sips of their drinks, the night continuing around them.

The scent of dried herbs and old wood greeted Hayley as she approached the quaint, tucked-away storefront of Jardin Gris. The small apothecary was dimly lit, its windows covered in dust and the faint traces of protective sigils. Just as she reached the door, the shopkeeper, a young woman with wary eyes and a quick step, was pulling on her coat, ready to leave.

"Hey, hey!" Hayley called, quickening her pace.

The woman, Katie, turned with an apologetic frown. "We're closed, sorry."

Hayley placed a hand on the doorframe, blocking her way. "I just need one teeny, tiny little herb. Please?"

Katie sighed, her suspicion evident. "Which herb?"

"Crushed aconite flower."

Katie’s gaze sharpened. "Wolfsbane? That's a poison. You're gonna kill a wolf?"

Hayley offered a tight smile. "Just a little one."

Katie hesitated before exhaling and unlocking the door. "Give me a minute."

She disappeared into the shadows of the shop, returning moments later with a small vial filled with fine, dark powder. She held it out but didn’t immediately let go. "Cut it with jimson weed. A few drops in some hot tea—that should do it."

Hayley reached into her pocket and handed over some cash, but Katie refused it with a small shake of her head.

"It’s an ugly town for wolves," Katie murmured. "You’re doing the right thing."

Hayley offered a small nod of thanks before slipping the vial into her pocket and walking away. Behind her, Katie pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen as she made a call.

"Hey, wanna gain points? Tell Marcel there’s a werewolf in the Quarter."

"You take me to the nicest places," Klaus mused, his tone laced with mock amusement, while he curled his nose up at the rancid odor of old oil and rust that filled the air.

Nevertheless, Klaus followed Marcel into the dimly lit garage, his eyes taking in the peeling paint and the flickering fluorescent lights above. The tension in the room was thick, punctuated by the sound of dripping water and the distant hum of the city beyond.

Marcel didn’t respond, merely nodding to Thierry and Diego, who stepped forward and opened the doors of a parked coroner’s truck. Inside, two figures sat up in their open body bags and looked around frantically—Tina and Josh. Their bodies were pale, their eyes blinking rapidly as they shifted around and the hunger set in.

Marcel stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "Welcome to the land of the newly dead. I won't waste your time." He glanced at Thierry. "I trust you filled them in?"

Thierry sighed. "To be honest, not much in the way of potential here."

Marcel exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, well, I just lost six night-walkers. I got holes to fill. I'll keep this quick. That itch you feel? That’s the need to feed coming on strong, a hunger for human blood. Drink it—you’re a vampire. Don’t—you die. Again. This time for good. Right here in a body bag."

He turned to Klaus with a smirk. "Hey, what do you think—cute dorky girl or gay best friend?"

Klaus smirked, uninterested. "Dealer’s choice."

“Ooh, dealer’s choice. Okay,” Marcel pulled out a coin, flipping it between his fingers. "Whoever picks up this coin gets to live forever. The other one dies."

He let it drop in between the fledglings. "Go."

Josh hesitated, looking to Tina. She lunged forward, snatching the coin before he could move.

Marcel let out a raucous laugh, clapping his hands together. "Damn girl! I said, damn!"

Josh’s face twisted in betrayal. "How could you?!"

Tina scoffed. "Get over it, Josh. It’s not like I had a choice. Besides, you would have done the same thing, but you're such a weak—"

Her words were cut off as Marcel’s hand snapped her neck.

He zipped the body bag back up over Tina’s limp corpse before he looked over to Thierry. "Let her die in cold storage. Got a thing about people who betray their own friends."

He clapped Josh on the shoulder. "C’mon. Let’s go for a ride."

The music of the New Orleans jazz bands echoed vibrantly throughout the French Quarter, as Klaus, Marcel, and Diego took their latest vampire out to the Escalade parked outside the garage while explaining the rules of his new life— er, unlife. 

Above, unseen, Rebekah watched from the shadows, her gaze flickering between Klaus and Marcel, memories stirring.

NEW ORLEANS, 1820

The clatter of steel rang out in the humid New Orleans air, a symphony of sharp, precise movements and breathless exertion. Young Marcel’s blade clashed against Rebekah's, his grip tight, his stance determined. He was smaller than her still, his form lean but growing stronger under Klaus’s rigorous tutelage. Rebekah, in contrast, was a vision of grace and ferocity combined, her golden hair tied back, her smirk ever-present as she parried every thrust Marcel attempted.

Klaus leaned against a wooden pillar, watching with amusement. “Attack au Fer! Now counter-parry—” his voice rose in excitement when the tip of Marcel’s blade skidded just shy of its mark. Rebekah seized the opening. With a flick of her wrist, she maneuvered past his guard, pressing the dulled edge against his chest. “A hit!” Klaus declared, grinning. “A palpable hit.”

Marcel let out an exasperated huff, lowering his weapon. His dark eyes gleamed with something other than frustration as he looked up at Rebekah. “I’m going to marry you someday.” His tone was not one of a mere boy boasting, but of a promise—unwavering, absolute.

Rebekah scoffed, though there was amusement in her voice. “I would never marry someone who couldn’t best me in a duel.” She extended her foil again. “Another lesson?”

*                              *                            *

The setting had changed, but the challenge remained the same. The grand courtyard was alight with flickering torches, casting long shadows over the stone pavement where two figures moved in tandem, blades flashing in the dim glow.

Marcel was no longer a boy. He had grown into his own, his once-slender frame now lean with muscle, his footwork confident, his attacks precise. Rebekah, still as deadly as ever, found herself testing him in ways she hadn’t needed to before. They moved like dancers, an unspoken rhythm carrying them forward—lunge, parry, feint, thrust.

With a final, well-timed maneuver, Marcel disarmed her, pressing her back against the stone wall. Their breathing was heavy, their bodies close. Slowly, they removed their fencing masks, the heat between them no longer just from the fight.

Marcel’s gaze flickered to Rebekah’s lips. His hand was still braced against the wall beside her, his body keeping her trapped. For a moment, he hesitated—this was the precipice of something long in the making.

Rebekah’s smirk softened into something unreadable. She didn’t move away.

But before he could close the distance, a voice, sharp as a dagger, cut through the night.

“Am I interrupting?”

Klaus.

They both froze. Marcel stepped back immediately, the moment shattered. Rebekah looked away, her expression unreadable.

Marcel exhaled slowly. “Not at all.”

But they both knew something had been lost in that instant—something neither of them was willing to admit.

NEW ORLEANS, PRESENT-DAY— 2011

The present was colder than the past, and the years that had passed between them carried their weight in silence.

Rebekah stood on the wrought-iron balcony, the city sprawled out beneath her. She looked the same, yet different. More hardened. More cautious. And yet, Marcel could still see the girl who had once laughed as she bested him in a duel.

He approached with slow, measured steps. “Rebekah Mikaelson,” he greeted, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Come to teach me another lesson?”

She turned slightly, her piercing gaze meeting his. “Last time I saw you, Royal Street was burning, and you were just another casualty in my family’s war.”

Marcel chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “And you never looked back to find out if I survived.”

Rebekah’s silence was telling.

Marcel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why are you here, Rebekah?”

“Elijah,” she said, her voice tight. “I think Klaus has done something to him.”

Marcel stiffened. His jaw tensed. “Stop. Stop right there.” He stepped closer, his eyes dark with warning. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you Mikaelsons, it’s that getting in the middle of your family feuds never ends well.”

*                              *                            *

NEW ORLEANS, 1820

“There is nothing going on between us,” Marcel said firmly, his voice steady. “I swear it. On my life.”

Klaus hummed, tilting his head. “Your life means something to me, Marcel.” He stopped, meeting Marcel’s gaze. “So do me the courtesy of honesty, or that life will cease to be of any concern.”

Marcel inhaled sharply. His next words were careful, measured. “I like her.” A pause. “And I think it’s mutual.”

Klaus’s expression darkened.

“But I haven’t done anything about it,” Marcel added quickly. “I wouldn’t—not—”

“And you won’t,” Klaus interjected coldly.

Silence.

“I love my sister,” Klaus continued, his voice softer now, though no less dangerous. “But she lacks fortune when it comes to men. They come and go for her, but I am the constant. I am her family.”

Marcel’s lips parted, the sting of the words cutting deeper than he anticipated. “You said I was family. I have begged you to turn me into a vampire.”

“And I’ve told you before, I will turn you when you are ready.” He took a step closer, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Marcel’s skin. “But go near Rebekah again…” his tone dropped into something nearly gentle, nearly affectionate—nearly.

“And you never will be.”

Marcel swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

And from the shadows, Rebekah stood unseen, watching.

Waiting.

Knowing the choice had already been made for both of them.

*                              *                            *

NEW ORLEANS, PRESENT-DAY— 2011

“Even after all these years, you're still afraid of him,” Rebekah scoffed, shaking her head.

Marcel scoffed. “I’m not scared of anyone.”

She took another step toward him, her voice low, dangerous. “If I find out you know where Elijah is, you needn’t fear Klaus.” Her eyes glinted under the moonlight. “I’ll kill you myself.”

Marcel smirked, shaking his head. “Nostalgia’s a blast and all, but I can’t help you.” He took a step backward, closer to the balcony railing. “It was nice seeing you, though. Good luck finding what you're looking for.”

Then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he vaulted over the edge, disappearing from sight.

Rebekah remained where she was, fists clenched at her sides, staring after him.

Chapter Text

Later that night, back at the bar, Marcel found Klaus by himself nursing a glass of bourbon.

“Way to be a dick, Klaus,” Marcel called out as he stormed up to his maker. 

Klaus chuckled in amusement, his blue eyes lighting up mischievously. “Oh, I know that look. Woman trouble.”

“Why didn't you tell me that your sister was back in town?” Marcel asked sharply.

The Original Hybrid shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Well, I thought it would be more amusing for you to find out for yourself,” he replied.

“Oh, really?” Marcel scoffed and nodded his head. “Well, is there anything else I need to know?”

Klaus reached for the bottle of Bourbon and poured more of the golden brown liquid into his glass as he said, “Only that she’s grown considerably more insane in the last century.”

“Or maybe it was her who killed my guys,” Marcel countered evenly.

Klaus shrugged off the accusation with ease and took a swig of the amber liquid, relishing in the burning sensation as the alcohol slid down his throat.

“Doubtful,” Klaus lied. “Unless that biker bar is frequented by small-town, high school quarterbacks, I can't imagine she’d be interested.”

Before he could respond, Marcel’s phone chimed in his pocket, forcing the vampire to temporarily pause his discussion with his maker and answer the call.

It was Thierry.

“Thierry, what is it?” Marcel questioned, his tone clipped. 

Without being noticed, Klaus focused his super-hearing on Thierry’s voice coming from the other end of the line.

“Just got a tip. Someone saw a werewolf in Vionville Park,” he said.

Hayley.

It had to be Hayley.

Damn it! What the bloody hell is that girl doing out of the house? Klaus snarled to himself.

“Get a couple Nightwalkers to run it down,” Marcel ordered. “Bring me back its head.”

“Well, I guess that solves the mystery of the murdered riff-raff,” Klaus piped up. “Least my sister is in the clear.”

“Which brings us back to that,” Marcel started, taking a deep breath. “I don't have time for Mikaelson family drama. You're my guest, keep your sister in line.”

Now it was Klaus’s turn to scoff, as he brought his glass to his lips. “I’d have greater chance of draining the Mississippi with a straw!” he retorted, calling out after his fledgling as Marcel walked out of the bar.

“Come on, Hayley. One upset stomach and all this stupid drama is ancient history,” she said under her breath as she sat alone, hunched over a small paper cup, her fingers gripping it tightly.

The amber liquid inside swirled as she hesitated. She exhaled slowly, then raised the cup toward her lips, tilting it just enough to catch the bitter scent of the concoction. Her throat clenched. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second—just one sip, just enough to end this madness before it spiraled any further.

Then she stopped.

Her grip faltered, and with a sharp breath, she lowered the cup back into her lap. A sigh left her lips, heavy with frustration. She knew what had to be done, but something inside her rebelled against it.

The sound of a snapping branch jolted her back to reality.

Her head shot up. The park was supposed to be empty, but now the air felt different—charged, tense. Shadows stretched long over the grass, and for a moment, she could hear only the rustling leaves. Then, before she could turn fully, a figure emerged from the darkness.

A vampire.

He was right in front of her, his grin sharp and predatory. His voice carried a smug certainty, the kind that came from underestimating his prey.

“Dumb move, coming into the Quarter,” he drawled. “You're coming with me, wolf.”

Hayley’s grip on the cup tightened. Her jaw clenched.

“I have had it up to here with vampires telling me what to do!” she gritted out.

Without a second thought, she flung the cup’s contents into his face. The effect was immediate.

The vampire let out a bloodcurdling scream, his skin sizzling where the liquid made contact. He stumbled backward, clawing at his face, eyes wide with pain. Hayley turned to run, but she barely made it a step before two more vampires appeared, closing in fast.

Shit.

She pivoted, her body tensing, but before she could make a move, a blur of white and fury descended from the trees.

The first vampire didn’t even have time to react before his neck was snapped with a sickening crack. His body hit the ground like a sack of stones. The second barely turned in time to see a hand punch straight through his chest.

The vampire choked, eyes wide with shock, before Rebekah Mikaelson wrenched her arm back, pulling his heart free in one smooth motion.

A wicked smirk played on Rebekah’s lips as she flicked the heart onto the ground like it was nothing more than a discarded apple core.

“Now, that is no way to treat a pregnant lady," she mused, tilting her head at the bodies. "I do hate bad manners.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Hayley stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering against her ribs. She was still processing what had just happened—one moment she was fighting for her life, and the next, Rebekah was standing before her like some vengeful angel, blood dripping from her fingertips.

Rebekah turned to her, raising a single eyebrow.

“Well?” she said expectantly. “Are you just going to stand there, or do you need another dramatic rescue?”

Hayley exhaled sharply, shaking off her shock. She wiped her hands on her jeans, casting a glance at the still-twitching body on the ground.

“I had it under control,” she muttered.

Rebekah scoffed, already walking past her, grabbing the barely living vampire and hauling him over her shoulder effortlessly while dragging the other two corpses along behind her. “Oh, yes, of course. Your masterful plan of throwing tea at them was truly inspired.”

Hayley glared but said nothing, her pulse still racing.

Rebekah smirked, then tossed her a casual glance over her empty shoulder.

“Come along, then,” she urged. “Before any more of these idiots try to ruin my evening.”

Hayley took one last look at her surroundings and the spilled wolfsbane tea, then sighed. Yeah. She definitely owed Rebekah a drink after this.

With one last shake of her head, she followed.

Some time later after they returned to the mansion with the vampire bodies in tow, Klaus mounted the three corpses onto an unlit pyre in the front yard and exhaled in exasperation. 

“This is why I said never to leave the house,” the Hybrid began. “Werewolves are banned from the Quarter. I had a plan and your little nighttime stroll put it all in peril.”

Hayley rolled her eyes but remained silent.

Meanwhile, Rebekah noticed the third vampire that was still alive starting to groan loudly and moved forward to snap his neck.

“Leave him!” Klaus roared.

“But—” 

“But nothing,” Klaus seethed. “You have been reckless, little sister. Leaving a trail of bodies that leads right to my fucking door!” 

“If I hadn't overheard this lot bragging about werewolf heads, everyone here would be fucked. And don't give me that shite about having a plan. You’ve had all the time in the world to execute a plan and no one’s seen you do a damn thing!” Rebekah argued. “Elijah made a deal to protect your child, so that he could save you from your selfish, rotten self. But you obviously don't give a damn about the child or Elijah, because what have you done to honor it?”

“I have done everything,” Klaus growled, plunging the yard into bitter silence. “Let me spell it out for you, shall I?” He spread his arms out in an irritated, but grand gesture before explaining his master plan. “From the day I arrived, Marcel hasn't trusted me. From day one, he's had his vampires ingest toxic vervain, which, as you know, little sister protects them from my mind control. I needed a spy: someone on the inside with me who Marcel would never suspect. So, I created a day zero and got there first.”

Rebekah thought back to earlier that day, her eyes widening in realization. “The newborn that you and Marcel were hauling around earlier.”

“Precisely,” Klaus nodded. “Marcel had just lost six vampires, thanks to your little murder spree and he needed new recruits. So I made the new one mine before he’d ever had a drop of vervain. But we all know the real way to a man is through his heart.”

Rebekah tilted her head in confusion prompting Klaus to explain Marcel’s latest crush on the bartender at Rousseau’s and his plans for her.

“And this one. I'm gonna drain him of vervain,” Klaus declared, turning to look at the wheezing vampire on the wooden mount, before yanking him off and dragging him back up to the house by his collar. “Compel him to believe his mates found religion and moved to Utah, so that he can explain to Marcel why he lost three more vampires tonight.”

The door to the house flung open as Klaus hauled his victim through the front door and plopped him in the middle of the foyer, paying no heed to the two women shuffling into the house behind him.

“Now, does anyone have any more bloody questions?” he snapped.

Rebekah and Hayley looked to each other, before looking back at Klaus unable to form a retort.

“No? Good,” Klaus continued. “Because I have a question of my own. Hayley, what were you doing, in the fucking French Quarter, in the first place?”

Rebekah blanched remembering how she found Hayley in the first place and the foul stench of wolfsbane that permeated from the cup she had been holding in her hand. However, Hayley simply stared at Rebekah’s brother with defiance in her eyes.

“Answer me!” Klaus yelled.

“Leave her be,” Rebekah croaked.

Hayley scoffed and stepped up to the Hybrid, folding her arms. “You wanna know what I was doing?” she sneered. I was buying poison. So I could put your little baby out of its misery!”

The second the words left her mouth, Klaus was on her, his hand clasped around her throat as he lifted her into the air pressing her back against the wall.

“Nik!” Rebekah shouted, jumping into the fray to push her brother back. “Get your hands off her. She is pregnant for God’s sake!”

Hayley let out a ragged cough as she felt her airways re-open and gingerly rubbed her neck.

“All this bluster about not wanting the child, but the second she tells you she’s ready to get rid of it…” Rebekah pointed out, causing Klaus’ eyes to soften. “It's okay to care. It's okay to want something. That's all Elijah was trying to do, all he ever wanted for you. All we’ve ever wanted.”

Klaus sniffled and cleared his throat awkwardly as he sat down on one of the lower steps of the main stairwell, his eyes shifting between his sister and his former lover. 

Rebekah let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and went to sit beside him on the steps. 

For a long time, the house was silent, save for the labored breathing of the half-dead vampire laying on the floor and the steady heartbeats of Hayley and the baby.

And then…

“I gave Elijah to Marcel,” Klaus confessed. 

Rebekah turned to look at him, her eyes wide in horror. “What?”

“Marcel was nervous,” Klaus explained. “Bad enough one Original returned to town, but two? His crew was getting antsy. Marcel knew what to expect from me, but Elijah has always been an enigma to him. He wanted Elijah gone, so I gave him a peace offering.”

“You bartered our brother,” Rebekah corrected.

“I have a plan,” Klaus insisted. “Gain Marcel’s trust, dismantle his empire, honor Elijah’s wish that the baby be born. I am executing that plan the only way I know how. If you don't like it, there’s the door; see if I care.”

Then he got up and walked away, dragging Marcel’s lackey behind him.

Chapter Text

Rebekah sat on the back porch, her legs stretched out, a bottle of bourbon resting loosely in her grasp. The boards beneath her creaked slightly as she shifted, lost in thought. The past had a way of creeping up on her in moments like these—when the world was still, and there was no one around to distract her from the weight of centuries.

She heard the door behind her open, followed by soft footsteps. A moment later, Hayley dropped down onto the step beside her.

“I know you don’t know me very well...” Hayley started, hesitating for just a second. “But thanks. I appreciate what you did in there.”

Rebekah smirked, taking a lazy sip from the bottle.

“Us girls have got to look out for each other,” she replied, voice laced with dry amusement.

She exhaled, setting it down between them before glancing at Rebekah from the corner of her eye.

“What is it with you two?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more careful. “You say you hate him, but the way you deal with him, it’s so clear. Even when you hate him, you still love him.”

Rebekah let out a breath, tilting her head back to stare up at the sky. The stars above flickered like dying embers, and for a long moment, she didn’t answer.

“I guess when you spend a thousand years with someone, deciding to quit them is like losing a part of yourself,” she finally said, her voice softer now, edged with something that wasn’t quite regret, but close. “But sometimes the hate is just... so powerful.”

She let the words settle between them, the weight of them pressing against the thick Southern air.

“Emil wasn’t the only boyfriend of mine that Klaus killed.” Her lips curled bitterly, though there was no humor in it. “He did it again, and again, and every time I found someone to care about, he just kept doing it until, finally, I stopped falling in love.”

Hayley turned slightly to look at her, but Rebekah didn’t meet her gaze. She was still staring out at the darkened tree line, lost in ghosts only she could see.

“He said he was protecting me from my mistakes, that no one was ever good enough for his little sister.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Until one day, someone was.”

A beat of silence passed between them, heavy with things unsaid.

Hayley didn’t press her.

“Sounds exhausting,” she muttered.

Rebekah huffed out a quiet laugh.

“You have no idea.”

*                              *                            *

NEW ORLEANS, 1835

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, and the distant hum of the Mississippi River carried through the balmy night. The courtyard of the Mikaelson estate was bathed in moonlight, casting long shadows across the stone floor where Rebekah practiced her footwork, fencing sword in hand. The rhythmic clinks of her blade against an invisible opponent filled the quiet, sharp and deliberate.

A familiar presence stirred the air behind her.

“How was the river?” she asked without turning, her voice carefully composed.

Marcel stepped into the glow of the lanterns, his bare chest still glistening from his swim, water droplets clinging to the muscles he had built under the tutelage of none other than her own brother. His dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something dangerous.

“It was cool... sweet.” His voice was low, smooth as molasses.

Rebekah faltered, gripping the hilt of her sword tighter. He was different now—no longer the boy her family had raised, but a man who stood before her with undeniable confidence.

She swallowed and set her blade down. “I should go inside—”

Marcel was faster. Before she could take a step, he moved, cutting off her path and pressing her back against the cold stone wall. His hands, calloused from years of training, found her waist.

And then his lips were on hers.

The world tilted. Rebekah let herself fall into the kiss, let herself savor the heat of it, the forbidden thrill of knowing what her brother would do if he found them like this. Marcel kissed her with a passion she hadn’t known she longed for, stealing the breath from her lungs.

For one glorious moment, she let herself enjoy it.

Then reality crashed down.

She pushed him back, her breaths ragged, her hands trembling against his chest.

“My brother will kill you,” she warned, eyes wide.

Marcel, ever defiant, merely smirked. “Then I'll die smiling.”

Before she could protest, he kissed her again, deeper this time, his body flush against hers.

And then—

A blur of movement. A furious snarl.

Marcel was ripped away from her, thrown against the wall so hard the stones cracked. The air pulsed with an unholy rage, thick and suffocating.

Klaus.

His fury was palpable, fencing sword gripped tightly in his hand as he loomed over Marcel, his chest heaving.

“Did I not warn you?” Klaus roared, his voice echoing through the courtyard.

Rebekah rushed forward, desperation clawing at her throat.

“Klaus, I beg of you!” she pleaded, her hands reaching for him, her heart hammering against her ribs. “He is not like any other. You saw it in him from the very first day. You saved him, protected him... you raised him. You cannot kill him.”

For a moment, something flickered in Klaus' expression. A hesitation. A memory of a frightened boy he had taken under his wing, a boy he had molded into the man now standing before him.

His grip on the sword tightened.

Rebekah took her chance, stepping closer, her fingers brushing against his arm. “Please,” she whispered.

Klaus exhaled sharply, the fire in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. Then, slowly, his sword hand lowered.

Marcel let out a quiet breath, relief washing over his face.

The sword clattered to the ground.

Klaus turned, his gaze settling on Rebekah. “You are right,” he murmured. “I cannot.”

And then, with a swift, merciless strike, he plunged a dagger into her heart.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her body seizing in shock as white-hot pain bloomed through her chest. Her hands clutched at the dagger, her legs giving way beneath her.

Klaus caught her as she fell, cradling her as if she were nothing more than a delicate thing that had made a fatal mistake. His voice was eerily calm when he whispered, “But you, dear sister, need a lesson in what you can and cannot take from me.”

Marcel watched in horror, frozen as Rebekah's eyes fluttered, her strength draining with each passing second.

And then, she was still.

*                              *                            *

NEW ORLEANS, PRESENT-DAY— 2011

“If you know Marcel has Elijah, why don't you just get him back yourself?” Hayley queried.

Rebekah let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Because if I cross my brother, there's still a coffin downstairs with my name on it.”

Hayley didn’t respond right away. Instead, she watched Rebekah, as if weighing something in her mind. Then, with quiet determination, she reached down and pulled something from behind the porch bench—a bundle wrapped in old, worn cloth. Carefully, she unfolded it, revealing two gleaming silver daggers resting against the fabric.

Rebekah inhaled sharply, her entire body tensing.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, her fingers twitching at her sides.

Hayley turned the daggers over in her hands, studying them with the detached curiosity of someone handling relics of another life—another war.

“I found them under your coffin,” Hayley explained, lifting her gaze to meet Rebekah’s. “So, if a couple of antique steak knives were the only things stopping you from getting Elijah back, then here you go.”

She extended the daggers, her expression steady, unwavering.

For a moment, Rebekah didn’t move. The silver glinted under the lantern light, a stark reminder of just how fragile immortality could be. These daggers had stolen centuries from her. They had stolen moments, love, opportunities. Klaus’ favorite weapon, his failsafe against her defiance. And now, here they were—offered freely, placed in her hands like keys to her own fate.

Slowly, she reached out and took them, her fingers curling around the cool metal. The weight of them was familiar, yet different now.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and she looked up at Hayley with something like appreciation, maybe even respect.

Hayley smirked, nodding slightly in return.

For the first time in a long time, Rebekah felt something stir within her. A sense of power. A sense of choice.

And just like that, the moment passed. The night stretched on, the crickets hummed in the distance, and for the first time in a long while, Rebekah felt like she wasn’t quite so alone.

Chapter Text

The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the polished wood of the bar as Marcel poured a deep red wine into two glasses. The place was empty, the usual hum of chatter replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to stretch between him and Cami. He slid a glass across the table before settling into the seat across from her with a smirk.

“I sent everyone home for the night,” he said smoothly, lifting his own glass. “I am your humble host.”

Cami arched an eyebrow, amused despite herself. “Oh... okay. Extra points for flair.”

Marcel chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink. “And the night's just started. What made you decide to come?”

She exhaled, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “Everyone deserves a chance.”

The moment hung in the air, charged with something undefined, when suddenly the double doors of the restaurant burst open with a force that sent them swinging wildly against the walls. A gust of night air followed, swirling in as Rebekah strode inside, her expression sharp, furious.

“You lied to me,” she seethed, storming toward their table. “Where's my brother?”

Marcel barely glanced up, unfazed. Instead, he gestured lazily between the two women. “Hello to you, too. Cami, Rebekah—Rebekah, Cami.”

Cami blinked at Rebekah, who barely spared her a glance before narrowing her eyes at Marcel. “I see you still have a thing for blondes.”

“Hey—” Cami started, but before she could get another word in, Rebekah moved. In a blink, she was across the room, her hand closing around Marcel's throat as she slammed him against the wall with supernatural force.

“Tell me where Elijah is,” Rebekah hissed, eyes dark with rage.

“What the hell is going on?” Cami demanded, shooting to her feet.

“Tell me where Elijah is or I’ll kill you!” Rebekah shouted, her eyes turning bloodshot as black veins pulsed beneath her eyelids.

Marcel, even as he gasped slightly for air, simply stared at Rebekah. For a brief moment, a memory flashed through her mind—an image of Marcel's lips on hers, urgent, filled with longing. The intensity of the moment caused her grip to falter.

Marcel’s lips curled into a smirk. “No, you won’t.”

Rebekah exhaled sharply and, with clear reluctance, released him.

“Perhaps you're right,” she murmured.

Then, with lightning speed, she spun and grabbed Cami, slamming her against the opposite wall. Cami gasped as Rebekah’s fingers tightened around her throat.

“But I will kill her.”

“Let her go,” Marcel’s voice was calm but firm. “You won. I'll take you to see Elijah.”

Rebekah studied him, weighing the sincerity in his voice, then finally released Cami, who fell forward, coughing.

“What the hell are you people?” she rasped, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

Marcel moved toward her, gently taking her shoulders in his hands. His voice was soft, hypnotic. “Shh, it's okay,” His eyes darkened slightly as the compulsion settled in. “Go home, forget all this, and just know that I will make it up to you. I promise.”

Cami’s expression softened, her resistance fading as she nodded absently. Without another word, she turned and made her way toward the door.

Marcel glanced at Rebekah. “You wanna see Elijah? Fine. Follow me.”

Without hesitation, she did.

The wooden stairs creaked beneath their weight as Marcel led Rebekah through the dimly lit corridors of the old building. The scent of incense and candle wax filled the air as he opened a heavy door, revealing a quiet, dimly illuminated attic room.

As soon as Rebekah stepped forward, she felt it—an invisible force pressing against her like an unseen wall. She recoiled slightly, frustration flashing across her face.

“Invite me in,” she demanded.

Marcel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Gotta ask the lady of the house.” He turned his head slightly. “Davina, come on out, sweetheart.”

Soft footsteps echoed across the attic floor as a young girl emerged from the shadows. Davina’s dark eyes flicked to Rebekah with careful scrutiny, sizing up the centuries-old vampire in front of her.

“Invite her in,” Marcel prompted gently.

Davina’s gaze didn’t waver. “Come in.”

The invisible barrier fell away, and Rebekah wasted no time, striding into the room toward the coffin in the center. Without hesitation, she lifted the lid. There, lying pale and still, was Elijah.

Rebekah’s breath hitched as she reached for the dagger buried in his chest. But just as her fingers curled around the hilt—

“I wouldn't do that,” Davina warned.

An unseen force suddenly gripped Rebekah’s arm, and against her will, she shoved the dagger back into Elijah’s chest. Her eyes widened in shock.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, spinning toward the girl.

Davina merely tilted her head. “Davina,” she said simply before looking at Marcel. “She's an old one, isn't she?”

Marcel smirked. “Yeah. Rebekah is an Original, which means she can't be killed.”

Davina studied Rebekah for another moment before shrugging. “She doesn’t seem very nice.”

Marcel let out a short laugh. “She can be... but she hasn't been very nice to me tonight.”

Davina's expression hardened. “Then I'm afraid it's time for you to leave.”

Before Rebekah could react, a violent force slammed into her, sending her crashing into the far wall. The impact rattled her bones, but before she could recover, she was yanked back and hurled across the room again. She barely had time to brace herself before she was sent flying once more, this time through the door.

As soon as she hit the hallway floor, the door slammed shut behind her.

NEW ORLEANS, 1887

A sharp intake of breath. The world swam into focus as Rebekah’s eyes snapped open. Her body ached as she sat up, confusion clouding her thoughts. The room was dimly lit, the scent of old wood and candle wax filling the air.

Across from her, lounging in a chair, sat Klaus. He twirled a silver dagger idly between his fingers, the point balancing on the table. His blue eyes glittered with amusement.

“Well, it’s about time,” he drawled. “I was bored waiting... but I did so want to see your face. And it is, indeed, priceless.”

Rebekah’s pulse pounded as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “You bastard,” she spat. “What day is it?”

Klaus smirked, “Sunday.”

Rebekah frowned. “I have been daggered for a whole week?” Then, realization dawned. Her breath caught in her throat. “Marcel—what have you done to him?”

Klaus chuckled, standing slowly. “It’s 1887, Rebekah.”

Rebekah’s heart dropped.

“You've been daggered for 52 years.”

Her vision blurred for a moment. “What?” she whispered.

Klaus shrugged, inspecting his nails. “And don’t worry about Marcel. I presented him with a choice: he could undagger you and live out the rest of his human days with you, or—”

“No,” she whispered, dread creeping into her voice.

Klaus' smirk widened. “—Or, I could turn him instead, as he's always wanted, in exchange for giving you up.”

Rebekah’s stomach twisted violently. “No. He wouldn't do that to me.”

Klaus sighed dramatically. “Oh, but he did.”

The door creaked open, and Marcel stepped inside, a candle in hand. He met her eyes, his expression unreadable, devoid of warmth.

Rebekah felt the air leave her lungs.

She shut her eyes, as if that could make it all go away.

But it wouldn’t.

It never did.

Chapter Text

“Welcome back, Rebekah,” Marcel greeted smoothly. “You were out for quite a while.”

Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the heavy drapes. The bed beneath her was familiar—the same one she'd once claimed as her own, back in 1887. But the moment of recognition was cut short when she saw him. Marcel stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, a quiet smugness in his expression.

She pushed herself upright, shaking off the last remnants of disorientation. "Where am I? How'd I get here?"

Marcel stepped closer, hands casually slipping into his pockets. "You upset Davina," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "I'm glad you two finally got to meet. Now you know what you're dealing with."

Rebekah’s eyes darted around the room, her mind catching up with the reality of her surroundings. "Is this my old room?" she asked, the weight of the past pressing against her chest.

Marcel chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, it's mine now. Just like this town is mine, Davina’s mine, and Elijah—" He smirked. "Elijah is mine until I feel like giving him back. What was once yours, what was once your brother’s—it’s now mine."

The air between them thickened with unspoken history. Marcel turned on his heel, making his way toward the door. But before leaving, he cast one last look over his shoulder, his voice hardening.

"And don’t ever touch Cami again."

Meanwhile back at the mansion, the morning light seeped through the sheer curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. Klaus moved silently, his steps measured as he entered Hayley’s chamber. She lay in bed, her breathing steady, her body curled slightly under the sheets. He watched her for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. Then, with careful fingers, he reached into her bag and retrieved the small vial of wolfsbane.

Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled its bitter scent.

"I didn't use it."

Klaus glanced toward the bed. Hayley’s voice was hoarse from sleep, but her eyes were sharp as they met his.

"You're awake," he observed.

Hayley sighed, stretching slightly as she sat up. "Barely slept all night. This house is like a fucking swamp sauna."

Klaus turned away, staring out the window, his fingers still gripping the vial. "What stopped you? You could have been free of all of this... of me."

Hayley hesitated, running a hand through her tousled hair. "Yeah, well... when I was fighting off those vampires, I—I realized I wasn’t just protecting myself." Her voice softened, tinged with something deeper. "Maybe it has to do with the fact that my birth parents gave me up, and my adopted parents kicked me out. All I know is push came to shove, and... I realized I wouldn’t let anyone hurt it."

Something flickered in Klaus’s expression. "I'm beginning to think we're a lot alike, you and I," he murmured. "We're both castoffs who have learned to fight when we’re backed into a corner."

Hayley met his gaze. "Well, we’re backed into a corner now."

Klaus smirked. "Ah, that we are. It’s time to fight... little wolf."

He placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch firm but gentle, before stepping away.

"This whole thing with Marcel—the deal you have with the witches, trying to take him down, take what’s his..." Hayley hesitated. "Rebekah told me that you two once loved each other like family. What happened?"

Klaus’s expression darkened. He exhaled slowly before answering. "I made Marcel everything that he is. I treated him like a son. And when my father chased me and my family from New Orleans a hundred years ago, we believed Marcel was killed—we each mourned him, in our own way. Yet, when I returned, I found not only had he survived, he had thrived. Instead of seeking us out, instead of sticking together as one, he made a choice to take everything my family had built and make it his own. Now, he is living in our home, he is sleeping in our beds." Klaus’s voice dropped lower, filled with an unmistakable edge. "That ‘M’ he stamps everywhere... it’s not for ‘Marcel.’ It’s for ‘Mikaelson.’ I want it all back, and if I have to push him out to get it, then that’s exactly what I’ll do."

His voice softened slightly as he added, "I’ll have someone see to the air conditioning."

Without another word, Klaus turned and exited, descending the grand staircase—only to pause as Rebekah swept through the front door, her expression unreadable.

"You were right," she said without preamble. "The girl, Cami—she’s the key. Marcel likes her, and because of that, I got to see the secret weapon of his that you’ve been going on about."

Klaus’s eyes sharpened. "Well, don’t stand on ceremony. What is it?"

Rebekah exhaled. "It’s not a ‘what,’ it’s a ‘who.’ A girl, Davina. She can’t be more than sixteen, and I have never felt power like that."

Klaus’s interest piqued. "A witch."

"She’s not just any witch," Rebekah corrected. "She’s something I’ve never seen before, something beyond powerful, and now because of you, she has Elijah. Who knows what she could do to him."

"Where is she?"

Rebekah hesitated. Her brow furrowed.

"That clever bitch," she swore. "I don’t know."

Klaus narrowed his eyes. "What’s wrong?"

"She wiped my memory of the location." Rebekah’s voice was tight with frustration. "Marcel possesses a weapon bigger and more powerful than an Original, and you handed our brother to him! How many times will Elijah forgive you? How long until his hope for your redemption finally dies?"

Klaus’s temper flared. "I did what I had to do! Marcel took our home!"

Rebekah shook her head. "And our home is worthless without family. I am finding Elijah—whatever it takes. Are you going to help me?"

Klaus stared at her for a long moment before his expression hardened. "Whatever it takes."

The attic was dimly lit, the scent of aged parchment and candle wax thick in the air. Marcel stepped inside, his presence quiet but deliberate. At the easel, Davina continued her strokes, the charcoal in her hand gliding across the canvas in effortless precision. Only when he was near did she finally turn, her young face calm and unreadable.

"I’m sorry about that unpleasantness," Marcel said, his voice low, careful.

Davina’s gaze was unwavering. "She doesn’t scare me. None of them do."

Marcel smiled, though there was a flicker of concern beneath it. "I didn’t think they would, honey. But the thing is, it seems like they’re here to stay."

Davina turned back to her drawing. "They don’t belong here."

Marcel exhaled. "Might be kinda tough to convince them of that... which is why I need to ask you for a favor." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I’m gonna need you to figure out how we kill an Original."

Chapter Text

In the days that followed Hayley’s escapades in the French Quarter, she and the Mikaelson siblings fell into a relative state of peace within the mansion. However, the more time she spent around Klaus and Rebekah, the more she found herself missing Elijah and his more steadfast nature.

Something about the vampire just drew her in like a moth to a flame. Something about him made her want to know him.

Unfortunately, Klaus was too busy with his plans for global domination to tell her about his noble, older brother. She could ask Rebekah, but despite their brief heart-to-heart it seemed too soon to be asking about her brother and she did want to derail Rebekah’s search for the missing Mikaelson patriarch.

So being the nosy little werewolf she was, Hayley browsed around their mansion until she stumbled upon a room, which, she presumes, used to be Elijah’s study. There, buried beneath the floorboards were Elijah’s old journals spanning the centuries he had walked the earth alongside his siblings.

Well, that's a start. She mused.

The dim light of the bedroom cast long shadows across the wooden floor as Hayley sat cross-legged in the center of Elijah's quarters, the thick leather-bound journal resting open in her lap. The pages were worn and slightly yellowed, the ink faded in places but still legible. She traced her fingers over the elegant handwriting as she read, Elijah’s voice filling her mind as though he were speaking directly to her.

August 1359, the entry began.

I have noticed a difference in my siblings. Our bond strains beneath the pressure of our life as vampires. Each day removes them further from the humanity we once possessed. My sweet sister, Rebekah, has grown quite indifferent to brutality.

Hayley’s mind flashed to the previous night. She could still see Rebekah, a vision of lethal grace, tearing through the nightwalkers who had dared to attack her. The sheer power and efficiency with which she had dispatched them had left no doubt that violence was second nature to her.

Elijah’s words continued, somber and weighted with the burden of his self-imposed duty:

However, the true problem remains my brother, Niklaus.

Another memory came unbidden—Klaus in the front yard, the flickering glow of a match illuminating his smirking face as he dropped it onto the pile of lifeless bodies. The gasoline ignited instantly, flames licking hungrily at the corpses, consuming them in an unforgiving blaze.

He continues to hide his loneliness with cruelty. Still, I cling to the hope that I, as their eldest brother, can lead them down the correct path, a path charged with the power of a family united. For if I fail, our family’s legacy will end in darkness.

Hayley exhaled slowly, closing the journal with a quiet snap. The weight of Elijah’s words settled heavily on her shoulders as she rose to her feet. Determined, she tucked the journal under her arm and made her way downstairs, the echoes of her footsteps reverberating through the grand halls of the Mikaelson mansion.

In the foyer, Rebekah leaned lazily against the banister, arms crossed, while Klaus stood near the fireplace, smirking at her. The scent of smoke from his late-night pyrotechnics still lingered in the air.

“I cannot believe you disposed of those vampires without me,” Rebekah pouted, her expression almost petulant. “You know how I love to set things on fire.”

Klaus chuckled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Was I supposed to leave them in the front yard to rot? Besides, they were my responsibility. They attacked the helpless pregnant girl who's carrying my child.”

Rebekah scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, I am so moved by your newfound sense of fatherly duty towards the werewolf carrying your hybrid bun in her oven.”

Hayley stepped into the room then, clearing her throat. “The werewolf would like to know what the plan is.”

Klaus turned to her, his smirk deepening. “Well, that depends what plan you mean, love—my plan for global domination, or Rebekah’s plan to find love in a cruel, cruel world?”

Rebekah, ever unimpressed, grabbed a pencil from the desk and hurled it at Klaus. He caught it effortlessly between two fingers, his smirk never faltering.

Hayley sighed, exasperated. “The plan to rescue Elijah. You know, the good brother? The one who is now in the possession of your mortal enemy after you stabbed him in the back?”

“In the front, if we’re being specific,” Klaus corrected, clearly entertained by her indignation.

Hayley folded her arms. “You two said that you would get him back. So, is there a plan, or what?”

Klaus exhaled, finally indulging her with an answer. “Okay. Well, firstly, Marcel is not my mortal enemy—he’s my friend.Albeit one who is unaware that I’m trying to sabotage his hold over the supernatural community of the French Quarter, but a friend nonetheless. And secondly, I daggered Elijah in order to gain Marcel’s trust. If I had known he would place my brother in the hands of a particularly nasty teenage witch, I certainly would have weighed my options a bit differently.” He gestured dramatically towards Rebekah. “And thirdly—Sister, please.”

Rebekah lifted her chin. “And thirdly, the plan, as you have demanded, is for Niklaus to simply ask Marcel for Elijah back.”

Hayley’s brows lifted in disbelief. “That’s… that’s not the whole plan, is it?”

Rebekah scoffed. “Please! Klaus may be a miserable excuse for a sibling, but there is none more diabolical.”

Klaus grinned. “And that’s only the Plan A, love. There’s always a Plan B.”

Hayley narrowed her eyes. “And what’s Plan B?”

Klaus’s smile widened, his voice dropping to a velvety purr.

“War.”

The compound bustled with quiet activity as Marcel stood in front of a gilded mirror, arms spread slightly as the tailor worked on the finishing touches of his suit. A smirk played on his lips as he admired his reflection, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“Damn, I do look good in a suit,” he mused, adjusting the lapel with a flick of his fingers.

Nearby, Thierry chuckled, his attention half on Marcel and half on the television screen mounted on the wall. The news displayed images of two fresh-faced tourists—Tina McGreevy and Joshua Rosza—the latest casualties of Klaus’s insatiable hunger. Their smiling faces flickered across the screen with the caption: “MISSING TOURISTS LAST SEEN IN THE FRENCH QUARTER.”

Thierry, reclining in a leather chair, crossed his legs and said, “My guy at the docks is gonna come forward as an eyewitness, say he saw those two drunkenly fall into the Mississippi. They'll be dredging for weeks. No one will come looking around here.”

Marcel’s smirk widened. “That’s good, considering one’s dead in a dumpster behind the county morgue, and the other one’s a vampire now.” He adjusted his sleeve and flicked a glance at Thierry. “Anything else?”

The tailor, focused on hemming the cuffs of Marcel’s pants, let out a sudden gasp. “Ow!” She had pricked her finger on a pin, and a single drop of blood welled at the tip.

Marcel’s gaze sharpened, and his smile turned indulgent. “Allow me, darling.” He crouched slightly, taking her delicate hand in his own before bringing it to his lips. His mouth closed over her fingertip, his tongue flicking against the drop of blood in an intimate, almost reverent gesture. The tailor shivered but said nothing, her breath catching for a moment before she quickly turned back to her work.

Thierry shifted in his seat, visibly tense. “One thing—” he hesitated before continuing, “I sent four nightwalkers to check out a werewolf sighting in the Quarter. I haven't heard from them since.”

Marcel's expression darkened slightly. “That makes ten dead nightwalkers in the last week.” He folded his arms, the easy charm momentarily replaced by something sharper. “You think the werewolves are back in town trying to start some trouble?”

Thierry glanced around, lowering his voice. “Look, I know you and Klaus are friends, but the fact is, since the Originals showed up—”

Before he could finish, the heavy wooden doors swung open, and Klaus strolled in, his presence immediately commanding the room.

“Oh, come now, Thierry. You're not still upset about that little, toxic werewolf bite I gave you, are you?” he started, a slow, wolfish grin spread across his face as he zeroed in on Thierry. “I thought we were at bygones.”

Thierry clenched his jaw, barely masking his irritation. “I see you’ve given him free rein of your compound now, too,” he muttered to Marcel, eyes narrowing.

Klaus’s smirk widened, his voice silkily amused. “Yes. Well, seeing as my family and I lived here—built the place, in fact—”

Marcel stepped between them, raising a hand. “All right, come on. You both know the drill. Thierry’s my guy, inner circle. Klaus is my old-time friend and sire. He’s also a guest here. Peace, all right?” His gaze flickered between them, making sure his message was clear. “All right.” Then he turned to Klaus, his demeanor lightening. “What you need, my brother?”

Klaus sighed, feigning weariness. “I’m afraid my sister Rebekah is insisting I demand Elijah’s return. She’s quite worked up about it.”

Marcel chuckled. “I’ll say.”

Thierry scoffed. “We’re not gonna have three Originals walking around town, are we? Half our guys think the sister killed the nightwalkers.”

Klaus’s gaze snapped to Thierry, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Is that an accusation against an Original?”

Thierry hesitated, his bravado faltering under Klaus’s icy stare.

In a flash, Klaus moved toward him, his posture radiating barely restrained violence. Thierry tensed, ready for a confrontation, but before things could escalate, Marcel swiftly stepped in, placing a firm hand on Klaus’s chest.

“What did I say about peace?” Marcel’s tone was light but held an unmistakable edge of command. He turned to Klaus, gesturing toward the balcony. “Come on. Walk with me.”

Klaus let the tension hang for a moment longer before stepping back, flashing Thierry a smug smile. “Your inner circle man lacks a sense of humor,” he remarked as Marcel led him outside onto the balcony, the warm New Orleans night air wrapping around them.

Marcel leaned against the railing, looking out over the courtyard below. “He’s a little overprotective, but loyal to a fault. I saved his life back in the '40s, found him dying of a war wound outside a VA hospital,” the younger vampire said as he and Klaus walked down the stairwell. “He’d kill for me and die for me. Plus, that boy can play the trumpet like you would not believe. Maybe I'll see if he can play a little tonight at the party. You're coming, right?”

Klaus smirked. “How can I miss my chance to meet the city councilman as he accepts your gigantic charitable donation?”

Marcel chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, he’s a schmuck, but he lets us do our thing in exchange for certain community services, like keeping our fangs out of the locals.” His expression turned serious. “Listen, about your brother... I would love to help you out, but Thierry is right. My guys are on edge. They see the Original family moving in, vampires dyin’? It makes them nervous. If I hand Elijah back now, it might give the wrong impression about who's really in charge here. You know what I mean?”

Klaus’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, his expression a mask of cool indifference. “You understand—I had to ask.”

Rebekah strode through the lively streets of the French Quarter, her heels clicking against the cobblestone with purpose. The scent of fresh beignets mingled with the heady aroma of spilled bourbon, but she paid it no mind. Her patience had worn thin, and with every ring of her phone against her ear, she grew more irate. Finally, Klaus answered.

“Niklaus, for the love of Mary Magdalene, how long does it take to ask a simple question?” she snapped, maneuvering through the crowd with an elegant ease only centuries of experience could grant.

In the dimly lit cellar of the Mikaelson compound, Klaus smirked, his fingers idly drumming against the rough wooden table. The scent of drying blood lingered in the air, the iron tang filling his lungs. He could hear Rebekah’s exasperation even before she spoke.

“Much longer than you’d think,” Klaus replied smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of annoyance. “Considering the answer was, as expected, 'No.'” He paused, allowing the irritation to sink in before adding, “Marcel’s man, Thierry, is suspicious. He thinks you killed ten nightwalkers.”

Rebekah scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Well, that’s a lie! I only killed eight.” A slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips. “Should I make Thierry the ninth?”

Klaus sighed, shifting his weight as he leaned over the bound vampire before him, a young nightwalker named Max. “Marcel is playing friendly. We can’t kill the favorite son, or he’ll catch onto us.”

Rebekah huffed dramatically. “So, war it is then?”

A dark chuckle escaped Klaus’ lips. “Indeed,” he affirmed. “Do you know what to do with the witch?”

Rebekah smirked, her fingers grazing the delicate lace trim of her dress as she strolled past a street musician playing a lively jazz tune. “I believe I do.”

“Good,” Klaus said, the hint of a smirk in his voice. “You manage Sophie Deveraux. I'll take care of the next step.”

With that, he ended the call and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Joshua Rosza stood awkwardly in the corner, his expression a mixture of anxiety and confusion. He had been turned into a vampire only recently, and now he found himself ensnared in Klaus Mikaelson’s web. His eyes flickered nervously to Max, who was tied down, his shirt drenched in sweat and blood. The sharp scent of vervain burned in the air, making Josh's throat tighten instinctively.

Klaus turned to him, his expression impassive. “I ordered you to drain him of blood. What's taking so long?”

Josh swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he muttered, shifting on his feet. “I'm not, like, medieval-torture-expert-guy.”

Klaus exhaled in mock disappointment before his hand closed around the handle of a nearby pitchfork. Without hesitation, he drove it through Max’s abdomen, eliciting a strangled cry of pain from the bound vampire.

Josh flinched, his stomach twisting at the brutal display. “What did he do to you, anyway?” he asked, voice shaking slightly.

Klaus tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. “It’s not about what he did. It’s about what he’s going to do when we’re done here—whatever I want him to, just like you. For example—” He locked eyes with Josh, his irises darkening with compulsion. “Drive this through his torso.”

Josh’s hands trembled as Klaus handed him the pitchfork. His mind screamed at him to resist, to drop the weapon and run, but his body refused to obey. With horror widening his eyes, he stepped forward and, in one swift motion, plunged the pitchfork into Max’s side. A sickening crunch echoed through the cellar, followed by Max’s agonized groan.

Josh gasped, stepping back as though burned. “That is crazy,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “I didn’t want to do it, but I did it anyway.”

Klaus smiled, all wolfish charm. “It’s called mind compulsion. Vampires can compel humans. Originals, like my siblings and I, can also compel vampires. And no one—” he leaned in, voice a whisper of steel “—can compel Originals. You following?”

Josh nodded numbly, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Good,” Klaus nodded. “That is how a brand-new nightwalker such as yourself is here doing my bidding with no one the wiser.”

Josh’s brows furrowed in confusion. “But I never had my guts drained out of me,” he replied.

Klaus chuckled, wiping his hands on a cloth before tossing it aside, and saying, “Yes. That, young Joshua, is because I got to you before you had even a drop of herbal vervain in your system. You see, it prevents compulsion. Marcel has had his whole crew taking it since I returned to town, and that is why our friend here needs to be bled dry of it— so I can compel him to follow my every command. And with my brother currently in captivity awaiting rescue, we can't afford to be gentle about it, can we?”

Without waiting for an answer, Klaus yanked the pitchfork free from Max’s torso and, with a swift, merciless twist, drove it in again. Blood spattered across the floor, pooling beneath Max as his choked screams filled the cellar.

Chapter Text

“Oh, so glad you could make it,” Rebekah huffed as she paced outside a potions shop in the Jardin Gris, watching uncaringly as Sophie cautiously approach her with a fearful expression etched into her features. “Elijah only lies daggered in a box whilst you dillydally.”

“You’re lucky I came at all,” Sophie replied, looking around for any sign of Marcel’s minions. “Now, what do you want?”

“Hayley was attacked last night by Marcel’s crew because somebody told him there was a werewolf in the Quarter,” Rebekah explained, placing her hands on her hips. “She only made one stop. Whoever saw her here ratted her out. Watch and learn.”

Without another word, she opened the door, the bell above jingling softly, and marched in with Sophie tailing behind her. Inside, the shop was cluttered with charms, jars of dried herbs, and an overwhelming mix of incense and candle wax. The dim lighting gave the space a mystical, almost eerie atmosphere.

From the back room, a young woman emerged, carrying a small wooden box. Her features softened as she spotted Sophie. “Hey, Soph,” she greeted warmly.

Sophie forced a smile. “Hey, Katie,” she replied.

Katie's gaze drifted to Rebekah, who idly ran her fingers over a necklace displayed on a stand. She tilted her head slightly, inspecting the piece.

“That’s filled with marigold,” Katie offered helpfully. “Great for attracting the opposite sex. It would look awesome on you!”

Rebekah snorted, unimpressed. “I very seriously doubt that. Do you have any others? One with, say, I don’t know... wolfsbane, perhaps?”

Katie’s friendly demeanor faltered. She blinked, confused. “Wolfsbane? Why would you want that?”

Before she could react further, Rebekah was upon her, moving with supernatural speed. In a blur of motion, she had Katie lifted off the ground, fingers wrapped tightly around her throat. Katie let out a strangled gasp, her feet kicking helplessly in the air.

“Please do not play dumb with me,” Rebekah said coolly.

With a sudden, ruthless movement, she threw Katie down onto a nearby table. The wood groaned under the impact, jars and trinkets clattering to the floor.

“Rebekah!” Sophie cried, stepping forward in protest.

Katie coughed violently, her eyes wide with fear. “I just sold a werewolf some herbs. That’s all.”

Rebekah loomed over her, her expression unreadable. “Are you lying to me, Katie? I suggest you answer my question honestly.”

Katie’s breath hitched as she turned desperate eyes toward Sophie. “Sophie—”

Sophie sighed, uncomfortable. “Just answer the question, Katie. Please.”

Katie swallowed hard, her shoulders sagging in resignation. “Yes. I told someone... but you don’t understand. I—I love him.”

Rebekah’s lips curled in disdain. In one swift motion, she sent Katie sprawling onto the floor, then planted the sharp heel of her stiletto inches from her throat.

“And tell me, who is this vampire Romeo of yours?” she murmured, voice silkily dangerous. “Shall I count to three?”

Meanwhile, back at the mansion, Klaus was still lazing around the dungeon as he observed Josh carry out his task, a bored expression written on his face.

“Be quick about it,” Klaus instructed, his tone almost bored. “I have an army to build, and one compelled minion does not an army make.”

As Josh hesitated, Klaus’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the caller ID before answering with a smirk. “Well?”

Across the Quarter, Rebekah leaned against a wrought-iron railing, surveying the city below. “You were right about the traitor,” she informed him. “Luckily, she’s just a kid, doesn’t know anything about us or what we’re up to. But do you want to hear the part that’s going to please you the most?”

Klaus grinned. “Oh, do tell.”

Rebekah twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. “She’s in love with someone in Marcel’s inner circle. Guess who it is?”

Klaus’s grin widened knowingly. “Right-hand-man type? Favors silly caps?”

“Two points for you. Thierry is fraternizing with the enemy.”

Klaus let out a satisfied chuckle. "Well, that means he just unwittingly became the key to our entire plan."

Rebekah smirked. “I told you you’d be pleased.”

Klaus’s voice took on a note of dark amusement. “Oh, to be young and in love in a city where witches and vampires are at war. How very tragic,” he sighed.

Hayley paced outside the hallway anxiously, ears sharp as she pressed herself against the wooden paneling, eavesdropping on the conversation happening behind the study’s closed doors.

Inside, Sophie’s voice was tight with disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? No way.”

Rebekah sighed, exasperated. “It’s very simple—we need you to perform a teeny, tiny locator spell to help us find our brother.”

Sophie scoffed, saying, “Witches who practice magic in this town get caught. And then they get killed.”

Klaus leaned forward, his tone deceptively light. “Yes, about that. It seems you left out a crucial detail when we made our deal—Marcel’s secret weapon. The way he always knows when a witch is using magic...”

Rebekah tilted her head. “Girl about yea high? Cute as a button? Anger issues?”

Sophie stiffened, her stomach twisting in sudden realization. “Davina?” Her voice barely above a whisper. “Where have you seen her?”

Rebekah sighed. “I don’t know. The little brat erased my memory right after she threw me out a window with her bloody mind.”

Klaus’s patience thinned. “Let me cut to the chase,” he let out, rising to his full height. “Davina has Elijah. You witches want Davina back. We don’t know where she is. Ergo, we need magic.”

Sophie shook her head. “Davina would sense it.”

Rebekah shrugged. “Unless, of course, another witch—say, a traitor to the cause, like Katie—was to perform much more powerful magic at the same time. That would create a smokescreen, concealing your very small spell from Davina.”

Sophie’s voice wavered. “Katie doesn’t deserve to die.”

Klaus’s expression darkened. With a sudden, violent motion, he slammed his hands on the table, making Sophie jump.

“Sophie Deveraux,” he growled. “You’re in no position to be so principled. You can’t win a war without a few strategic losses, no matter how regrettable they may be. How many times have the vampires been one step ahead? Who knew your sister would be caught? Did she even attempt to flee?”

Sophie swallowed hard, her mind racing. “She was caught hiding in a cargo hold of a freighter before it set sail down the Mississippi.”

Klaus leaned in, his smile razor-sharp. “And who, pray tell, manages Marcel’s business at the docks?”

Sophie’s stomach dropped. “Katie’s boyfriend, Thierry.”

Chapter Text

It was later in the day, closer to the evening and Thierry was playing his trumpet soulfully in the courtyard of the Abbatoir as Klaus and Marcel and a handful of other vampires listened from various places in the courtyard or up on the gallery.

“You’re right,” Klaus conceded with a grin. “He’s good.”

Marcel nodded in appreciation. “Right? ‘Music Man,’ I call him,” he said. “Ladies love him, but he’s spoken for. He knocks around with this pretty, little witch. Says he loves her, but I don't know.”

Klaus turned to look at his fledgling, his face alight with false surprise. “Your brightest soldier is fraternizing with your enemy, and you don't care?” he balked, trying to keep the obvious disdain for Marcel’s laissez-faire ruling tactics out of his voice.

Regardless, Marcel seemed to pick up on the undercurrent of disgust. “Well, of course, I care, but Thierry’s a grown man. He makes his own choices, and I get some good intel,” he replied. “Besides, he's not gonna do anything to jeopardize what we're doing here. I mean, check this out-— a vampire hosting a ritzy charity event? We have a community here. No one's gonna mess that up.”

Klaus regarded him with a tentative look even as he slightly raised his hands in surrender. “Still… You don't want the witches to get too bold, given that a tip about a werewolf in town led to the disappearance of your Nightwalkers,” he offered. “I'm sure you've considered the possibility that it could have been a trap.”

Marcel tensed up at the possibility, but tried not to let it show on his face.

“Well, maybe I’ll just have to send a little message,” the younger vampire considered, before turning to call out to Thierry. “Thierry. Take a team of Nightwalkers to the Cauldron tonight, do a little rousting. Oh, and, Thierry, make it nasty.”

Thierry clenched his jaw tightly as he looked between Marcel, who was wearing a cruel smirk, and Klaus, who was grinning like that cat who got the cream. Still, he nodded his head in submission to the older vampire before going back to his previous task.

The sound of blues rock spread throughout Rousseau’s along with the scent of cigarette smoke, gumbo, and bourbon as Rebekah sat at the bar recounting an abbreviated version of the events that led her back to New Orleans.

“And so then, I moved back here to be closer to my brothers, because, let’s face it, family’s important, right, Camille?” the vampiress stated with an exaggerated huff.

“Cami. I have to change this name tag. Drunk guys keep hitting on me in French,” the pretty blonde bartender corrected, as she poured the Original another drink. “You sure you haven't been in here before? Your face looks familiar.”

Rebekah grinned and shrugged, raising her glass to her lips. “You’ve probably seen me around. Aren't you dating Marcel Gerard? He's a pal of mine. Sort of,” she remarked. “I heard he had a crush on the blonde bartender at Rousseau’s.”

Cami, bless her heart, blushed innocently at the mention of Marcel.

Oh, your poor thing. Rebekah mused inwardly.

“I wouldn't exactly call it dating. He’s wooing me. Sort of. I don't know,” Cami countered, picking up empty glasses left behind by patrons at the bar. “I mean, he’s very charming, which means I should run for the hills.”

“I'm kind of in an on-again/off-again thing myself at the moment,” Rebekah chimed.

“Those are the worst, aren't they?” Cami scoffed, eyes softening sympathetically. “The ones you can’t shake even though you know better? And you always know better?”

For a moment, Rebekah’s lips quirked upward in a genuine smile. “I like you, Cami,” she acknowledged. “Most girls have the unfortunate tendency of being whiny, little twits.”

“Thanks,” Cami responded, furrowing her brow. “I think.”

God, she really was adorable. 

Too bad she needed to be a pawn in a Mikaelson scheme. 

And to think, you and I might actually be good friends. The vampire thought.

Then she put on her killer charms and leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, and said, “Hey, so I'm supposed to go to this posh charity thing thrown by this philanthropist tonight. He's a bit of a Gatsby, throws a mean party. Any interest?”

Cami smiled non-committally and nodded.

Klaus sat at the large mahogany desk in the center of the Mikaelson mansion, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of a stack of papers. His sharp eyes scanned the documents with meticulous care, but the buzz of his phone interrupted his focus. He glanced at the screen, a smirk tugging at his lips as he saw his sister’s name. He answered it with the familiarity of someone who was accustomed to this late-night communication.

“Little sister,” Klaus exhaled as he answered the phone, even as he continued his current task.

“Well, brother, I believe I’ve made certain that Marcel will be properly distracted tonight,” Rebekah mused over the phone. 

“Dare I ask?” the hybrid replied.

“Let's just say his attention will not be on us,” the youngest Mikaelson answered vaguely. “I did my bit. What are you doing to ensure Elijah’s safe return?”

Klaus neatly stacked the pieces of old parchment on top of each other written in ink from centuries past before sliding the pages neatly into an envelope and sealing it. 

“Currently I am preparing insurance against the tender-hearted,” he supplied.

“Meaning?” Rebekah prompted.

Klaus rolled his eyes as he got up from the chair he was sitting in, grabbing the envelope as he went. 

“Meaning we need proper motivation for Katie to cast a powerful spell tonight,” Klaus elaborated. “I'm creating that motivation. Marcel has ordered a rousting of the witches.”

*                            *                             *

Meanwhile, at the Cauldron, the witches' sanctuary was being overrun by vampires. The sound of wooden furniture crashing and witches’ screams filled the air. Vampires jumped from the balconies, their faces twisted in hunger, while witches scrambled to find safety.

*                            *                             *

“And, I, in turn, have arranged for things to go tragically wrong,” Klaus smirked.

*                            *                             *

Earlier that day, Klaus stood in the dark cellar, the dim light casting shadows over his face. He addressed Max, the Nightwalker, who had just been drained of vervain. Klaus’s gaze was intense, locking with Max’s.

"You understand what you're to do?" Klaus’s voice was low and commanding.

Max nodded, his expression blank but resolute.

"Good," Klaus said, the satisfaction in his voice palpable as he turned, his plans falling into place.

*                            *                             *

Back at the Cauldron, the scene of destruction continued. Vampires tore through the space, creating a chaotic mess. Tables were overturned, and bottles of potions were shattered across the floor. Witches screamed, desperately trying to escape, but one figure moved quietly through the chaos — Thierry. His eyes scanned the room before he slipped through a back door into the Jardin Gris.

Katie, spotting him, hurried toward him, her face softening with relief. “Hey! What’s happening out there?”

Thierry’s expression hardened as he pulled her close, a sense of urgency in his movements. “Oh, it’s Klaus. He’s convinced Marcel that the witches are planning to make a move against him. Marcel wants us to send a message...”

He gave her an apologetic look, clearly torn. With a subtle gesture, he knocked over a shelf, the clatter of potions spilling onto the floor.

Katie winced but said nothing as her vampire lover continued. 

“And if he thought I was playing favorites because I’m in love with a witch…”

Katie smiled softly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Say that again.”

Thierry let out a long, deep sigh. “I love you, Katie. And all this is gonna be okay, I promise.”

The couple wrapped themselves around each other in a heated embrace, their lips clashing together, sending jolts of electric fire through each of their bodies. However, just as quickly as the kiss began, it was over, with Thierry begrudgingly pulling away from his woman and trudging back towards the back entrance of the voodoo shop.

Thierry moved out of the Jardin Gris, and as he did, he bumped into Max, the vampire Klaus had compelled earlier. Max was about to enter the shop, but Thierry was quick to intercept.

"I already got that one," Thierry muttered before walking away.

Unfortunately, his warning did little to deter Max from entering the shop.

*                            *                             *

“Marcel may not be concerned with Thierry's romantic entanglements…” Klaus continued, heading for the stairs. “But there are other crimes which he’ll be less inclined to so easily forgive.”

*                            *                             *

Thierry’s attention was drawn back to the courtyard when a sudden scream shattered the air. He whipped around to see Max dragging Katie out of the Jardin Gris. Katie’s eyes widened in shock as Max slammed her against the building, his fangs sinking into her neck. Thierry’s blood boiled with rage.

"Leave her alone! Get off!" Thierry’s voice was raw with fury as he charged at Max.

With a primal roar, Thierry threw Max across the courtyard. The vampire smashed against a table, but Thierry didn’t stop. He picked up a broken table leg and drove it into Max’s chest, staking him through the heart. The vampire’s body went limp, collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

Silence hung over the courtyard. The vampires who had been watching froze, their eyes wide with disbelief. Katie stared at Thierry, horror mixing with her concern for him. Thierry stood over Max’s dead body, his chest heaving as the weight of his actions set in.

*                            *                             *

“Killing a vampire, for example,” Klaus purred, as he reached the bottom of the steps. “That would be unforgivable. If Katie hopes to save her one true love from Marcel’s punishment… well, a rescue mission like that would require something positively magical. But then, what’s worth dying for, if not love?”

Chapter Text

The air was thick with the scent of liquor, perfume, and exotic delicacies as the Mikaelson siblings strutted into the Abbatoir, arm-in-arm, decked out in their elegant formal attire. Klaus wore a tailored suit, his tie knotted with precision, while Rebekah’s cocktail dress accentuated her every movement. A delicate hairpiece adorned with black feathers and beads nestled in her golden curls, making her look every bit the elegant predator she was.

The sound of sultry rock music reverberated off the walls and blue and violet strobe lights reflected off the ceiling as exotic dancers swung about the rafters of the vaulted ceiling of the compound on their silk ropes and confetti rained from above, glittering like falling embers. Acrobats twirled through the air, contorting their bodies with inhuman grace, while other dancers weaved through the crowd, their arms entwined with exotic serpents that gleamed under the flickering chandelier lights.

Patrons mingled together, sharing drinks and hors d’oeuvres on the second floor, while other partygoers huddled in the center of the dance floor, swaying their hips and grinding to the music. However, the Originals expressed no such revelry, and remained stoic as they maneuvered through the crowd with an air of confidence and importance.

“Well,” Klaus began as he and his sister took in the theatrics of the evening. “This certainly is a fitting backdrop for tonight’s events, I must admit.”

Rebekah, already scanning the crowd, barely acknowledged him before her attention snapped to a new arrival. Klaus followed her gaze, his amusement fading the moment he spotted Camille O’Connell.

Dressed in a vintage white beaded gown, she stood out like a beacon among the darker hues of the party. Large angel’s wings, soft and pristine, adorned her back, the contrast against the decadent chaos of the room making her appear almost celestial. Rebekah smirked, pleased with herself, while Klaus’s jaw tightened.

His voice was low, edged with suspicion. “What’s she doing here?”

Rebekah’s smile didn’t waver. “What better way to distract Marcel than to put his very human new girl in a room chock full of vampires?”

Klaus exhaled sharply through his nose, displeased with the risk but knowing his sister well enough to realize she had already set her plan into motion. Rebekah, unconcerned with his glower, gracefully excused herself from his side, crossing the courtyard toward Cami. Klaus followed a beat later, already weary of this particular game.

Rebekah’s voice was all honey and charm. “Hello, darling. You look precious.”

From above, Marcel Gerard leaned over the balcony, watching the scene unfold with a furrowed brow. His eyes darkened as they landed on Cami.

Cami herself barely noticed. She smoothed the fabric of her dress, glancing around at the opulent gathering. “This party is ridiculous,” she mused before gesturing toward herself with a self-conscious laugh.

She turned her gaze toward Klaus, her expression wry. He dipped his head in polite acknowledgment before she turned back to Rebekah.

“So,” Cami continued, “is he the infamous on-again, off-again?”

Klaus arched a brow, his lips quirking. “He’s the brother, actually.” Then, allowing his eyes to sweep over her, he added, “And my sister is right. You do look stunning.”

Cami tilted her head slightly, appraising him. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Klaus smirked, his voice dropping into that rich, velvety cadence of his. “Well, don’t be fooled, love. I’m the devil in disguise.”

Rebekah, already restless, rolled her eyes. “You two chit-chat. I need booze.” Without another word, she slipped away toward the bar, leaving Klaus and Cami alone.

Klaus extended his arm. “Shall we?”

Cami hesitated, then placed her hand on his forearm. “Okay.”

As Klaus led her deeper into the revelry, Rebekah reached the bar, her patience already thin. “Scotch, please,” she instructed the bartender.

Before her drink could be poured, Marcel appeared beside her, his expression unreadable.

“You trying to be cute, inviting her here?” he asked, voice low with something between irritation and amusement.

Rebekah took her glass, swirling the amber liquid. “I think she’s darling,” she said breezily, then turned to him, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I can tell you fancy her pure heart. Perhaps I’ll feed it to you?”

Marcel scoffed, shaking his head. “Jealousy looks good on you, Bekah.”

Rebekah merely smirked behind the rim of her glass, her eyes flicking to where Klaus and Cami had wandered.

Across the courtyard, Cami was watching Rebekah and Marcel at the bar, picking up on the tension between them. She turned to Klaus. “The guy of hers Rebekah was talking about… I’m sensing that would be Marcel.”

Klaus barely spared a glance at the pair before shrugging. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Ancient history.”

Cami exhaled, still observing them. “I’m beginning to think your sister is a bit of a bitch.”

Klaus let out a genuine laugh, rich and delighted. “It’s as though she invented the term!”

Cami’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, something curious flickering in her expression. Klaus felt the pull, the way her eyes traced over him like she was trying to see past the mask he wore.

“Listen,” he started. Just then, he caught himself, forcing his focus away as he spotted Marcel moving toward them. “Pardon me for a moment.”

With that, he stepped away, just as Marcel arrived.

“Cami,” Marcel greeted, his voice slipping back into that effortless charm.

Cami turned to him, smiling. “Hey! Killer party.”

Marcel chuckled. “Oh, it’s more of a work thing. I would’ve invited you—”

Cami cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Oh, no. We’ve been on one date. No explanation necessary.” She took in the scene, then smirked. “You do your thing. I’ll entertain myself.”

Marcel’s smile widened, his eyes raking over her. “What, leave you alone looking the way you do?” He shook his head, stepping closer. “Hell with that.”

And with that, the night unfolded, the masquerade swirling around them, a dance of hidden agendas, veiled threats, and dangerous liaisons.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low in the sky, its silver light shimmering across the still water of the Mikaelson estate’s pool. The night was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the warm breeze. Hayley paced along the pool’s edge, one hand absently resting on her stomach. The mansion was too empty, too quiet without Elijah’s reassuring presence. She hated the uncertainty that came with his absence, the gnawing doubt about what she was even doing here.

Then— snap.

The sound of a twig breaking somewhere in the distance made her freeze. Her heart jumped to her throat as she turned her head, eyes narrowing as they scanned the darkness beyond the courtyard. And then she saw it—a wolf, standing just beyond the pool’s glow, its piercing eyes locked onto her.

Hayley exhaled, not in fear, but in recognition. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen wolves lurking nearby since she’d arrived in New Orleans. They always seemed to be watching her, following her like some silent guardians.

A voice behind her shattered the moment.

“You’re not supposed to be out here.”

Hayley spun on her heel, her pulse quickening as she found herself face to face with a dark-haired woman. She was smirking, arms loosely folded across her chest as if she had been watching Hayley for a while.

“Who the hell are you?” Hayley demanded, her eyes darting back to the wolf, which had not moved.

“Relax,” the woman said with an easy smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Sabine. We met before. I’m a friend of Sophie’s.”

Hayley’s expression remained wary. “You’re one of the witches.”

Sabine tilted her head, amused. “Guilty as charged. Sophie just asked me to stop by, keep you company while everyone’s out.”

Hayley wasn’t buying the casual act. She glanced over her shoulder at the wolf again. It still hadn’t moved, still watching her with an eerie intensity.

Sabine followed her gaze, her lips curling into something knowing. “You know, it’s drawn to you.”

Hayley turned back to her sharply. “What?”

“The child you’re carrying,” Sabine said, taking a slow step closer, eyes flicking meaningfully toward Hayley’s stomach. “It’s part vampire, part werewolf. A first of its kind. You and Klaus made something special.”

Hayley snorted, rolling her eyes. “You sound like Elijah. He actually believes this baby is going to somehow bring us all together—make us one big, happy family.” Her voice hardened. “But he’s gone, and I don’t even know what it is.”

Sabine watched her carefully, her expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, she said, “I can find out.”

Hayley’s brow furrowed. “Find out what?”

“If it’s a boy or a girl,” Sabine answered smoothly.

Hayley hesitated. “I thought you guys couldn’t do any ‘witchy stuff’ around here.”

Sabine gave a small, secretive smile. “No magic—just an old trick my grandmother taught me. Come on—you have to be at least a little curious.”

Hayley bit her lip, her fingers unconsciously tightening over her stomach. As much as she hated to admit it, she was curious.

And, for the first time in a long while, she wanted an answer.

Meanwhile, the party was a blur of indigo light and shadows, a decadent display of masked revelers dancing beneath the open skyline in the courtyard. The Abattoir was alive with the pulse of music, the rustle of silk, and the quiet laughter of the city’s most dangerous creatures.

Cami twirled in Marcel’s arms as they glided across the floor, her white vintage dress catching the light like spun sugar. She felt his hands settle confidently at her waist, leading her through the throng of bodies. It was effortless—he was smooth, practiced.

“I thought you said you were in community work,” she teased, raising a skeptical brow.

Marcel smirked, his dark eyes gleaming. “Community fundraising,” he corrected. “Throw a party, folks open their wallets. It’s kind of my thing.” His grip tightened ever so slightly as he spun her. “Guess I’m what you’d call a necessary evil.”

Cami tilted her head. “And Rebekah? She’s one of your donors?”

His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “She’s an old flame.”

Cami studied him, her lips curving in amusement. “Can’t be that old. She looks younger than me.”

Marcel chuckled under his breath. “You’d be surprised. I was just a kid when I met her.”

His voice held a weight that made her pause. Before she could press further, he shook his head, exhaling softly.

“Enough about her,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto hers. “I just want to be right here with you.”

Across the courtyard, Klaus stood with Rebekah, watching the pair with an expression of thinly veiled disdain.

“You really are a hideously evil little thing, aren’t you?” Klaus muttered, tilting his glass toward his lips.

Rebekah scoffed. “Nonsense. They’re perfect for each other.” She gestured toward the dance floor with her drink. “You wanted Marcel distracted? Voilà.”

Before Klaus could respond, movement caught his eye. Across the room, Diego entered the courtyard, his expression tight as he zeroed in on Marcel. He hesitated for only a second before weaving his way toward him, pausing just long enough to whisper something urgent in his ear.

Rebekah glanced between them and smirked, though the expression didn't reach her eyes. “My cue to leave.” She handed her empty glass to a passing waiter and sauntered off.

Meanwhile, Marcel’s entire body had gone rigid. His jaw clenched as his eyes lifted, locking onto someone in the crowd.

Thierry.

The vampire stood nervously a few feet away, his posture tense, eyes darting between Diego and Marcel.

Marcel’s face darkened.

“What the hell did you do?” he hissed, closing the distance between them in an instant.

Before Thierry could stammer a response, Marcel’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat and dragging him toward the shadows.

Cami, still on the dance floor, frowned at the sudden burst of aggression. She took a hesitant step forward, watching as Diego stepped in to stop Marcel from making a scene.

“Whoa,” Diego said, lowering his voice. “Not here. No, not here.”

Marcel took a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he glared at Thierry. After a tense beat, he let go.

Across the room, Klaus watched the confrontation unfold, the corners of his lips twitching upward in satisfaction.

Cami, however, wasn’t smiling.

Her stomach churned as she watched Marcel storm off, his expression dark.

Something about this was wrong.

And she suddenly wasn’t sure how much of it she wanted to be part of.

The flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows against the cold stone walls of the mausoleum in Lafayette Cemetery, as Katie’s quiet sobs echoed in the tight space, her delicate shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle them.

Sophie stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest. She was watching Katie, her expression unreadable. She didn’t like this—not the situation, not the desperation in Katie’s eyes, not the way her own stomach twisted with guilt. But here they were.

Katie wiped at her tear-streaked face with trembling fingers. “I know you think he’s a monster,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, thick with grief.

Sophie exhaled sharply. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

Her tone was firm, but not cruel. She knew Katie didn’t want to hear empty reassurances.

Katie sniffled, eyes wide and pleading. “But he—”

“He killed another vampire, Katie,” Sophie interrupted, her voice low and urgent. “He broke Marcel’s biggest rule. You know what that means. He’ll never walk free again.” She paused, softening just slightly. “You’ll never see him again…”

At that, Katie cried louder, her breaths becoming short and labored.

Sophie shifted uncomfortably, sterling her nerves for what she was about to do next. “Unless we do something.”

Katie blinked, confusion flickering across her face. “We?”

Sophie nodded. “I want to save our people. You want to save Thierry.” She took a slow step forward, lowering her voice. “There’s only one way we can do both.”

Katie hesitated, searching Sophie’s face for doubt or deception. But all she found was conviction.

A moment later, she nodded.

They would do whatever it took.

*                              *                              *

The cemetery was eerily silent. A thick mist curled between the aged tombstones, twisting through the iron gates like a living thing. The air was heavy with the scent of old earth and the faintest trace of rain, a warning of the storm brewing—both in the sky and in the city itself.

Katie and Sophie sat on the damp ground, kneeling before an intricate spread of ritual items—candles, herbs, a small, worn bowl of charmed water. The tableau was carefully arranged, symbols drawn in the dirt around them.

Katie’s hands trembled as she picked up a small handful of sand. She turned to Sophie, eyes filled with nervous energy.

“You ready?” Sophie asked, her voice steady.

Katie swallowed hard and nodded. She raised her hand and let the sand slip through her fingers, sprinkling it over their ritual space. The grains caught in the candlelight, swirling like tiny specks of gold before settling into the sacred symbols carved into the earth.

Somewhere, deep within the city, something stirred.

The attic room was bathed in moonlight, the soft glow casting pale blue shadows across the cluttered space. The air was thick—too thick. Whispers slithered through the room like a creeping tide, their voices hissing and overlapping, their words unintelligible but insistent.

Davina lay tangled in her sheets, her face contorted in restless distress. Her fingers twitched, her brow furrowed as if in pain. The whispers grew louder.

Then—she gasped.

Her eyes flew open, dark and wide, her breath coming fast and sharp. She sat up abruptly, chest heaving, as the sensation of something wrong crawled through her veins like fire.

Her heart pounded.

She knew this feeling.

Magic.

Davina threw off her covers and hurried across the room to her easel. Her fingers found a piece of charcoal before she even had time to think, and she pressed it against the paper with frantic urgency.

Images came in flashes. The cemetery. The ritual. Katie, eyes wild and desperate. The magic curling around her like smoke.

Davina’s hand moved feverishly, her strokes rough and jagged as she tried to capture the vision.

Then—she stopped.

Her fingers loosened around the charcoal, letting it drop onto the wooden floor with a dull thud.

Her lips parted, barely more than a breath escaping.

“Marcel,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Something’s coming.”

Marcel had dragged Thierry into a quiet corner, his grip firm, his expression thunderous. The air between them was charged, thick with tension.

“I want to hear your side of it,” Marcel demanded, his voice low but seething.

Thierry swallowed hard, his nerves fraying under Marcel’s glare. “Hey, Marcel, come on—”

“Your version,” Marcel snapped. “Go.”

Thierry took a shaky breath. “We were tossing the Cauldron,” he started, voice quick, desperate. “This guy—some nightwalker—he attacked Katie for no reason.”

Marcel’s jaw clenched. “His name was Max,” he said evenly, his fury barely restrained. “I turned him. And as far as reasons go, he doesn’t need one. She was a witch. He was a vampire.” His eyes darkened. “Now? He’s dead.”

From the courtyard, Cami watched the heated exchange, her champagne flute forgotten in her hand. Even from a distance, she could feel the raw intensity radiating from Marcel.

Thierry stepped closer, his voice dropping into a frantic whisper. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he pleaded.

Marcel exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair before fixing Thierry with a hard stare. “You broke my most important rule.” His voice was quiet now, but somehow, it was even more dangerous. He shook his head, eyes filled with something that was equal parts rage and disappointment. “Damn it, T. How long we been friends? Seventy years?”

Thierry nodded, his expression desperate, hopeful.

“I turned you into something that would never die,” Marcel continued, stepping closer, his voice nearly a growl. “I gave you a gift.”

Thierry’s breath hitched. “And I have been loyal to you all this time,” he insisted. “I still am. I’m still your friend, Marcel. I swear, that hasn’t changed.”

Cami, still lingering nearby, bit her lip. She had known there was something dark lurking beneath Marcel’s charm, but seeing it unfold in front of her was something else entirely. As if sensing her unease, Klaus appeared at her side, his presence sudden, unsettling.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked smoothly, his accent rolling off his tongue like silk.

Cami didn’t take her eyes off Marcel. “He’s got a temper, doesn’t he?” she muttered. “I guess this is the moment I remember I know better.”

There was something almost sad in her voice, but she didn’t linger. With one last glance at Marcel, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.

Klaus watched her go with a somber look before turning his gaze back up to the balcony to look at his former pupil.

Without missing a beat, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. He handed it off to Josh, who had been hovering nearby.

Josh hesitated only a second before pocketing it and making his way upstairs, where Marcel stood brooding over Thierry. As soon as he reached him, he pulled out the paper and handed it over.

“We found this at his girl’s place,” Josh murmured.

Marcel unfolded the parchment, his brow furrowing as he took in the familiar symbols and delicate script of a spell he knew all too well. His fingers tightened around the edges, his jaw locking as he recognized exactly what it was.

“Still my friend, huh?” Marcel seethed. His grip on the paper turned to steel. “That’s funny,” he muttered, his voice sharp as a blade, “because it looks to me like that little witch of yours got her hands on a spell that I keep locked away.”

Thierry stiffened, his brown eyes widening in disbelief. “Marcel, I have never seen that before.”

“Shut up,” Marcel snapped, cutting him off. His eyes flicked down to Thierry’s hand, where the gleam of a daylight ring caught the candlelight.

The ring he had given him.

His teeth clenched. “You still have the daylight ring I gave you,” he said coolly. “So what would you need with the recipe for making new ones?” He let the question hang between them for a beat before narrowing his eyes. “Unless maybe you and Katie were gonna go off and start a little kingdom of your own?”

Thierry’s face twisted in shock, then frustration. “Marcel, no!” he protested.

Marcel barely heard him. His blood was boiling, his control slipping. The betrayal cut too deep.

“Here’s a lesson in friendship,” he said, stepping closer until he was nearly nose to nose with Thierry. His voice was a deadly whisper. “Friends don’t lie to me. They don’t break my rules. And they do not steal what is mine.”

He turned away sharply, dragging a hand down his face, as if trying to calm himself before he did something he’d regret. But when he turned back, his eyes were filled with nothing but cold finality.

He exhaled a humorless chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief before leveling Thierry with a gaze that sent ice down his spine.

“For the crime of murdering one of his own,” Marcel declared, voice echoing in the quiet tension of the room, “I sentence Thierry Vanchure to one hundred years in the Garden.”

On the dance floor below, Klaus smirked as he took in the scene unfolding above him, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“And it begins,” he murmured to himself, swirling his drink with idle amusement.

Chapter Text

Katie had already left the cemetery by the time Sophie had begun to set up what she needed for the location spell, her shoulders tense as she arranged her materials—a map, a pocket watch, and a bottle of black sand—on a makeshift altar.

She hesitated before beginning the incantation, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The spell was dangerous, but there was no other way. Her fingers trembled as she uncorked the sand and let it spill onto the map, whispering the ancient words that would lead her to Davina.

A noise behind her made her stiffen. The weight of another presence settled in the air.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Rebekah said, her voice low and urgent. The blonde vampire emerged from the shadows, her expression unreadable. “It’s the only way to find Elijah.”

Sophie swallowed hard, unable to meet Rebekah’s eyes. “I’m doing what I have to do,” she murmured, then returned her focus to the spell.

As she chanted, the black sand began to move unnaturally, swirling in patterns across the map as if drawn by an unseen force.

Rebekah remained still, watching. The sooner they found Davina, the sooner they could get Elijah back. But as the night air thickened with magic, an uneasy feeling crept over her. Something about this felt wrong.

The music from the masquerade ball was a muffled echo in the distance as Klaus stood by the window, watching the chaos unfold in the streets below. Marcel’s men dragged Thierry outside, shoving him into the middle of the street where the other vampires had gathered. Their eyes gleamed with curiosity and excitement, their hunger for blood and punishment barely restrained.

Beyond them, Katie appeared, moving like a specter in the night, her voice rising as she chanted in a fevered pitch. Her hands trembled with magic, the force of her spell rippling through the air.

“Donn moi se la vroh kondu feh aila ra donn toi moi. Donn moi. Salacku tusdeh do. Vala.”

“Don’t!” Thierry’s voice was raw with desperation. “Katie, no!”

Klaus smirked, watching the events unfold with the satisfaction of a puppeteer pulling invisible strings. “Like clockwork,” he murmured to himself.

The moment the final syllable left Katie’s lips, a streetlamp exploded. Glass rained down like tiny shards of starlight. The vampires groaned, clutching their heads as if something was burning them from the inside. Even Marcel staggered.

Miles away, in her hidden room, Davina gasped, her hand jerking violently over her sketchpad. A piece of charcoal snapped between her fingers, her frenzied strokes forming the image of Katie’s face in wild, erratic lines.

Sophie’s spell in the cemetery wavered as Rebekah leaned closer, her voice tight with urgency. “Hurry.”

“No!” Davina screamed, stretching out both her arms as the world distorted all around her from the magic surging through her body.

Back on the street, Marcel managed to rise to his feet, his face twisted in pain and fury. Katie’s breath hitched—she hadn’t expected him to stand so soon. But before she could react, Davina’s power surged through him like a marionette string pulling him upright.

Marcel grinned, baring his fangs. “You’re here to save your man? Well, come on then, little girl!

Katie’s eyes flared with determination. She lifted her hand, and with a sharp twist of her fingers, Marcel collapsed, his body contorted in agony.

The instant Marcel hit the ground, a shockwave of pain knocked Davina back into the wall of the attack at St. Anne’s Church, causing the pulse of magic emanating from the young girl to die out.

On the street, Marcel coughed, his fingers clawing at the ground as he struggled against the unseen force. Katie raised her hand once more, a wooden stake hovering above Marcel’s chest.

“Die, you son of a bitch.”

“Katie, NO!” Thierry’s voice cracked with anguish.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Klaus was there. A blur of motion, a flash of fangs—Katie barely had time to gasp before his hands closed around her throat. With a swift, merciless snap, her body crumpled.

In the cemetery, Sophie shuddered, her spell unraveling.

“Something’s wrong. Katie’s magic just... stopped,” she whispered. “I can keep going.”

Rebekah’s eyes widened in fear. “No you can't,” she argued. “Davina will sense you.”

Sophie shook her head stubbornly and went back to stretching her arms out. “No. No, I can find Davina,” the witch countered. “I just need another moment.”

However, before she could continue he spell, Rebekah swiped the map off the table and disrupted the altar, earning a shocked glare from the Deveraux witch. 

“You may be willing to die to get your witch back, but Hayley and the baby will die with you,” Rebekah shouted. “Elijah will never forgive us, and rescuing him will be for nothing.”

Sophie lowered her head and swore under her breath.

“It’s over,” she said, her voice hollow. “We failed.”

Sometime later, Thierry stood, wrists bound in heavy iron chains, his face bruised and hollow with grief. The underground chamber was damp, the flickering light from torches casting grotesque shadows on the walls. Marcel faced him, arms crossed, his expression devoid of mercy.

“Just tell me this,” Marcel said, his voice dangerously soft. “Was she worth it?”

Thierry’s jaw clenched. His throat was raw from shouting, his heart heavier than it had ever been. He didn’t need to think about his answer.

“I loved her.”

Marcel inhaled sharply through his nose, the tension in his posture barely contained. Without another word, he plunged an iron stake into Thierry’s gut. Thierry grunted, his knees buckling, pain lancing through his body.

A man stepped forward, waiting. Marcel exhaled slowly, then turned to him, handing over a wooden mallet.

“Seal him up,” he ordered. “Let him rot.”

The man nodded and began laying bricks over wet cement. Thierry barely had the strength to lift his head, but when he did, his eyes widened. The tunnel stretched deep into the darkness, each alcove filled with vampires entombed behind walls of stone.

A prison.

A grave.

And soon, he would be just another name lost in the cold embrace of the Garden.

The courtyard was silent, the remnants of the gala now just scattered confetti and the lingering scent of wine. Marcel stood on the balcony, staring out at the empty space below.

Klaus joined him, offering a glass of bourbon. The two men clinked their glasses together, though Marcel downed his drink in a single gulp.

“How much did Cami see?” he asked, his voice rough.

Klaus tilted his head, considering. “She just saw an argument, mate. Nothing you can’t fix,” he said, his gaze sharpened. “You really like her, don’t you?”

Marcel hesitated before exhaling sharply. “I like that she’s not part of any of this. Sometimes, it’s good to see the world the way humans do.”

Klaus hummed in agreement, swirling his drink. “I am sorry about Thierry, you know? I can tell he was a good friend.”

Marcel’s jaw tightened. “I made him what he was,” he growled. “Obviously, my trust was misplaced.”

“Doesn’t make it easier,” Klaus murmured.

Marcel exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “You saved me tonight. I guess I owe you one.” He set his empty glass down and met Klaus’ eyes. “You asked for your brother back. Seems like the least I can do.

Klaus smirked. “Indeed.”

Chapter Text

The dimly lit bar hummed with the quiet murmur of patrons, the clink of glasses punctuating the low jazz playing from an old radio in the corner. Cami sat at the bar, still wrapped in the remnants of the night's glamour—the glittering gown, the faint smudge of lipstick against the rim of her pint glass. The weight of the evening pressed against her shoulders, making the whiskey burn a little sharper as she took another sip.

The door creaked open. She didn't need to look to know who it was.

Klaus slid onto the stool beside her, all effortless grace and carefully measured amusement.

“Cami—”

“Don't even try it,” she cut him off, setting her glass down with more force than intended. “I get the bro code. You're here to smooth things over for your friend. It's very nice of you, but—”

“But you've been hurt before,” Klaus interjected smoothly, his voice laced with something just shy of empathy. “And you aren't taking any more chances.”

Cami exhaled a quiet laugh, more bitter than amused. “Something like that.” She turned toward him, her sharp blue eyes scrutinizing his face as if she could find an answer there. “The guy I saw tonight? Not the guy I thought he was. And if he can turn on a dime like that—”

Klaus tilted his head, watching her with the quiet intensity that always seemed to make people unravel. “Sounds like more than just a broken heart. Someone broke your trust,” he realized. “The brave bartender.”

Cami stiffened at his words, but he didn't press. The moment stretched between them, something unspoken curling in the air. She swallowed, hesitating, looking as if she might lean in, but Klaus blinked and the spell broke.

He straightened, his expression shifting into something more detached, practiced. "I'm sorry... but I need you to give Marcel another chance."

Cami flinched, looking both embarrassed and disappointed.

"Wow,” she said, clearing her throat. “I totally misread that."

Klaus offered a wry smirk. "No. You read it quite well, but we all have our roles to play." His voice softened as he leaned in, his gaze locking with hers.

Before she could react, his pupils dilated, and his voice carried the weight of compulsion.

"You went to Marcel's. You danced. You feel badly that he had a row with his friend, but otherwise, all you remember is that it was perfect."

Cami’s eyelids fluttered, her breath hitching as the words settled into her mind. The tension drained from her face, replaced with a dazed serenity.

"Yeah," she murmured. "It was perfect."

Klaus studied her for a moment longer before standing, leaving her alone with her drink and a rewritten memory.

Rebekah sat at the grand piano, her fingers idly drifting over the keys, playing a scattering of notes without much thought. The melody was restless, agitated, a reflection of her own thoughts. She barely looked up when Klaus entered, but her posture stiffened.

"Well, tonight was an epic failure," she muttered, her voice edged with frustration.

Klaus set his mask down on the mantle in the parlor and poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the firelight as he swirled it in his glass. "On the contrary, sister. Tonight was a masterpiece."

Rebekah’s head snapped up. "Are you mad? Katie died before Sophie could complete the spell."

Klaus took a slow sip, his gaze steady. "Oh, I'm well aware. I killed Katie."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

"You what?"

"There's no way our little suicide witch wasn’t going to try and take Marcel with her," Klaus explained, his tone infuriatingly calm. "I saved his life, and in doing so, I now have him exactly where I want him."

Rebekah stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Sophie trusted you. I trusted you! Against all my better instincts."

Klaus sighed, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "Wake up, Rebekah. The witches are on no one's side but their own. This girl, Davina? That’s all they want, and when they have her, what do you think happens then? A truce? Of course not. They will use Davina’s power against all of us."

"Even if you're right, the plan was to find Elijah, and you've failed us," she snapped.

Klaus' expression darkened. "You always did lack faith." He leaned against the piano, smirking. "By protecting Marcel, I’ve cemented his trust—so much so that he's agreed to return Elijah to us. And when the time is right, when he has told me everything I need to know about Davina, I will have her for myself."

Rebekah exhaled sharply, shaking her head in disgust.

"I have all the faith in the world that you’ll get what you want, Nik. You always do, no matter what it costs the rest of us." She grabbed her bourbon and downed it in one gulp. "You disgust me."

She set her glass down on the piano with finality and strode out of the room, leaving Klaus alone with his victory.

The dim candlelight cast flickering shadows over the stone walls as Davina knelt beside Elijah’s open casket. The scent of aged wood and incense filled the air, but her mind was elsewhere—still reeling from the chaos of the night.

The sound of the door creaking open made her look up, relief washing over her face as Marcel stepped inside. Without hesitation, she ran to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“You're okay!” she breathed. “I was so worried.”

Marcel hugged her back, his grip firm, reassuring. “Thank you. Whatever you did, I felt it. You helped me.”

Davina pulled back, searching his face. “It was the old ones, wasn’t it?”

Marcel hesitated before nodding. “Actually... Klaus is the one that saved me tonight. I'm gonna make things right, starting off by giving him his brother back.”

Davina froze. Her relief turned to alarm, her eyes going wide.

“No!”

Marcel frowned. “What?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No! You said the old ones were dangerous. I won’t give him back until I know how to kill them.”

She glanced back at Elijah’s still form, a storm of thoughts brewing behind her eyes.

Sometime after his fight with Rebekah, Klaus meandered up the stairs and found Hayley sitting at his desk in his office typing away on her laptop with a stack of books lying on top of the mahogany desk. He lingered in the corridor for a moment, eyeing her softly, before clearing his throat and making his presence known. 

“Klaus,” she said, looking up. “You’re back.”

The hybrid’s lips quirked upward as he nodded. “I am. And I bring good news,” he began. “I thought you might like to know, Elijah will be returning to us.”

Hayley’s fingers paused mid-typing, and her eyes flicked to the screen, letting out a noise of amusement as she stared at the Original. “Well… congratulations,” she replied. “Guess it does pay off to be diabolical, huh?”

Klaus' lips twitched into a fleeting smile, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. His footsteps were soft as he crossed the room, taking a seat across from her. He leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest, studying her.

“You hardly know him,” he said, his tone almost challenging, “and yet you miss him. What is it about my brother that always inspires such instant admiration?”

Hayley froze for a brief moment, her fingers hovering above the keyboard as she considered the question. It was the sort of inquiry that made her feel exposed, like he was pulling something from her that she wasn’t ready to give. She didn’t want to delve into it, didn’t want to admit the vulnerability she felt. But she couldn't bring herself to lie.

“He was kind to me,” she answered quietly, her voice betraying a hint of something more—a softness she couldn’t quite conceal.

Klaus sat back in his chair, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He seemed to absorb the weight of her words, as if searching for some hidden meaning in the simple truth she’d offered. He didn’t respond right away, and the silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, but there was something in the way he watched her—something softer, more vulnerable, that she wasn’t used to seeing in him.

As if hearing the thoughts behind her eyes, the faintest of smiles curved his lips. Before she could say anything more, he pushed himself up from the chair.

“Well, whatever the reason,” Klaus said, his voice returning to that familiar, authoritative tone, “I’m glad you’re not as disappointed as Rebekah.”

He started to walk toward the door, but then paused. His back was to her, but Hayley felt his presence all the same, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

“Hey,” she said before she could stop herself, her voice surprisingly gentle. He didn't turn, but she could sense his pause, the subtle shift in his posture that signified he was listening. “I learned something today.”

There was a brief silence. Then Klaus’ shoulders stiffened slightly, and she caught the way his jaw clenched in that way he had when he was caught off guard. When he turned to face her, there was a flicker in his eyes—something fleeting, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless.

“What?”

She smiled. “We’re having twins,” she revealed. “A boy and a girl.”

A small smile tugged at his lips, an expression that felt different from the usual smirk of arrogance. This one was softer, more human, if only for a second.

He stood there for a moment longer, his eyes lingering on hers, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them, before he turned and left the study. The door clicked softly shut behind him, but for a brief moment, Hayley was left with the strange feeling that there was more to his words than just a passing remark. The undercurrent of something—something she couldn't quite define—lingered in the air.

As Klaus' footsteps faded down the hall, she returned to her laptop, though the screen before her had become less important. Her mind was elsewhere, following the thread of something she couldn’t name. The quiet, lingering thought stayed with her long after he was gone.

And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she wondered whether Klaus had learned something today, too.

Her mind was briefly drawn back to one of Elijah’s many journals that she had read earlier that day, as Elijah's voice echoed in her mind like a distant whisper:

“ There are moments when I doubt my family is capable of redemption… Yet each time I am tempted to surrender, I see it, the glimmer of goodness that allows me to believe.”

And she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, just maybe, there was a glimmer of that redemption here, in this strange, complicated family. Something, or someone, that might just change everything.

This was a disaster.

This whole thing, since the day she showed up had been one big, bloody disaster.

No, thanks to my wretched brother. Rebekah sniped internally, as she continued storming down the streets of the French Quarter in silent rage.

Once again, he makes her look like a fool even when she is trying to help him.

That fucking bastard!

Just then, her phone rang in her clutch purse, interrupting her anger.

She rummaged around for it, swearing under her breath when she didn't find it quick enough, but, thankfully, she managed to answer it before it went to voicemail.

“What?” she snapped.

“Well, hello, to you, too, Princess,” came the rugged voice of Bobby Singer.

Rebekah brightened somewhat, her posture shifting with her tone. “Bobby! Thank God, someone who is actually fucking sane!” she exclaimed in relief.

The deep rumble of his laughter brought a dim smile to the vampire’s face as she continued walking.

“Yeah, yeah, buttercup, I miss you, too.” Bobby remarked over the phone. “So, what did Klaus do?”

She paused.

Then said—

“How do you know Klaus has done something?”

“Because that bastard is always doing somethin’ he ain’t s’posed to be doin’,” Bobby retorted. “And because Elijah said he’d keep in touch with me about the baby situation as long as I kept him in the loop about what’s going on over here. And he hasn't called back in a week.”

Rebekah closed her eyes somberly and let out an exasperated exhale, before saying, “Niklaus daggered him and gave him to Marcel to cement his place in Marcel’s inner circle.”

The was a long, uncomfortable silence on the other end before Bobby spoke again. And when he did, his steely tone, made Rebekah shiver (which is saying something).

“Where is he?” Bobby ground out.

“Bobby,” Rebekah started warningly.

“Bekah, I’m 90% sure I’m dealing with a rogue angel, on top of the current King of Hell tryin’ to crack open the original monster afterlife and unleash hell on earth,” Bobby cut in sharply. “I ain’t got time for games, especially not Mikaelson games. Tell me where. He. Is!”

“I don't know,” Rebekah confessed, until something sparked in her mind. “But I think I have a way to find out.”

The air was thick with incense, the fragrant smoke curling in the cool night air. Katie’s body lay atop a stone tomb, her form wrapped in a white gown, a delicate shroud draped over her face. Around her, the witches of New Orleans stood in solemn silence.

Sophie moved forward, sage in hand, waving the smoldering bundle over Katie’s body as she murmured quiet blessings. The weight of the night settled on her shoulders—the loss, the failure, the realization that they were no closer to finding Davina than before.

Behind her, Agnes shifted, her disapproval practically radiating from her stiff posture.

"I told you no good would come from this unholy alliance of yours," Agnes muttered.

Sophie clenched her jaw. "At least I’m doing something. What about you?"

She turned sharply on her heel and stalked off into the night, leaving Agnes and the others behind.

Agnes turned to Sabine, her expression grim. "Tell them what you saw."

Sabine hesitated before speaking.

"It’s the girl. The wolf."

Agnes' expression darkened. The balance was shifting. And none of them were prepared for what was coming.

*                              *                              *

Earlier that night…

The heavy, oppressive air of the Mikaelson mansion settled over the kitchen, filling the space with a quiet tension. Hayley was lying flat on her back across the smooth marble surface of the counter, her long hair fanning out like a dark halo. Her hand rested gently on her slightly rounded belly, the soft pulse of life beneath her palm a constant reminder of everything she stood to lose or gain. Sabine, stood above her, a quiet but confident presence. In her hands, she held an intricately carved crystal suspended by a delicate chain, its cool surface gleaming in the dim light of the kitchen.

The witch’s eyes were narrowed slightly in concentration, and she moved the crystal gently over Hayley’s stomach, allowing it to hover just inches above the skin.

Hayley glanced up at her, unsure of what to expect but desperately hoping for some semblance of an answer.

"I think it’s a girl," Sabine said softly, her voice steady but tinged with wonder. She smiled as she watched the crystal swing lazily in one direction, its movement slow and deliberate. A knowing look passed across her face. "Yes, I can sense it."

Hayley’s breath hitched, her pulse quickening at the news. She smiled faintly, her hands unconsciously smoothing over her belly. A girl. It was a thought she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on—though, deep down, she’d hoped. She dared to close her eyes for a moment, imagining a future where she could protect this child, raise her with love, and give her the life she never had.

But then, Sabine’s expression shifted.

The crystal, once swinging gently in one direction, now moved suddenly, swinging the other way with a sharpness that made Hayley sit up a little, her heart skipping a beat.

“No,” Sabine murmured, her brow furrowing as she adjusted the crystal, trying to steady it, but the erratic movements didn’t stop. “Wait. A boy.”

Hayley’s breath caught in her throat. “Wait, what? Please tell me I’m not having a mini-Klaus.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, a half-hearted attempt at humor in the face of the growing unease that was beginning to settle between them.

Sabine didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the crystal, which was now swinging wildly, back and forth like it had a mind of its own. A sense of urgency flooded the room, the silence pressing in on them as Hayley shifted uneasily, unsure of how to interpret the sudden change.

“You’re having twins,” Sabine announced.

Then all at once, she took in a raspy breath of air as her eyes rolled back into their sockets while she threw her head back. The crystal, almost as though it were alive, began to glow—a bright, blinding light that radiated from within, its warmth cutting through the air. Hayley gasped, her heart racing, instinctively pulling herself up on her elbows, but Sabine’s grip on the chain faltered.

In one fluid motion, the witch’s hand released the crystal, and it tumbled to the floor, clattering with a sharp noise.

Hayley’s heart skipped, her mind racing as Sabine’s lips parted and a low, guttural chant began to pour from her mouth.

"Hoc est infantima malom. Nos omnia perditu el eam."

The words were ancient, foreign—something primal that Hayley had never heard before. They echoed around the room, reverberating off the walls, filling the space with a sense of danger, of something far darker than either of them had anticipated. The air itself felt charged, crackling with an energy that made the hairs on Hayley’s arms stand on end. She tried to move, tried to speak, but she found herself frozen, her gaze fixed on the witch who was now in the grip of some kind of trance.

The words Sabine spoke weren’t just a chant; they were a warning.

"Sabine!" Hayley called out, panic creeping into her voice. But Sabine didn’t respond. Her body was rigid, her voice a low, constant murmur of the strange incantation as if she were communing with something far beyond this world.

Now…

Hayley sat hunched over her laptop in the study, her fingers flying over the keys, eyes scanning the screen for any hint of what Sabine had said. The words—"Hoc est infantima malom. Nos omnia perditu el eam"—repeated in her mind like a mantra. She’d typed them into the translator, hoping for some clarity, but each language she tried produced no results.

The silence around her grew heavier, more suffocating, the words from Sabine’s vision hanging in the air, unanswered. Hayley’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, frustrated. What did it mean? Why couldn’t she find anything about it?

The sudden silence of the room seemed to press in on her, the dark corners of the mansion feeling colder than they had before.

Something about the chant made her stomach twist, a deep, gnawing fear settling in her gut. She didn’t know what Sabine had seen, but she knew it couldn’t be good.

Chapter Text

The sky is painted in the deep hues of twilight, the last golden light fading behind the silhouettes of bare trees. Castiel sat alone on a bench in the middle of the park, his trench coat shifting slightly in the breeze. The world is quiet here, only the distant hum of traffic and the rustling of leaves breaking the stillness.

“You know, I’ve… I've been here for a very long time,” Castiel murmurs, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. His gaze is distant, as if he is seeing beyond the park, beyond this moment—past the veil of time itself.

A SHORELINE, EONS AGO

Waves lap against the sand, the air thick with the briny scent of an ancient ocean. A tiny grey fish struggles against the tide, its body heaving as it pulls itself onto the damp shore.

“I remember standing at a shoreline, watching a little grey fish heave itself up onto the beach,” Castiel recalls. His voice is laced with something almost like wonder.

Beside him, unseen to mortal eyes, a presence—his older brother. The voice is both commanding and amused, echoing in Castiel’s memory.

“Don’t step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish.”

The fish trembles, then stills. A single moment in time, yet a catalyst for everything that followed.

THE TOWER OF BABEL, 200 THOUSAND B.C.

The sun beats down on a crude structure, a tower of mud and dried dung, rising higher than anything mankind has dared to build before. The people below look up in awe, their voices blending into a cacophony of prayers, declarations, and commands.

“I remember the Tower of Babel… All thirty-seven feet of it,” Castiel says with a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Which, I suppose, was impressive at the time.”

The ground trembles. A great cracking sound splits the air as the tower begins to sway. The people cry out, some in terror, some in fury. Dust fills the sky as the structure collapses.

“When it fell, they howled of divine wrath. But come on—dried dung can only be stacked so high.”

BLOODY HISTORY, 300 THOUSAND B.C. — 100 THOUSAND B.C.

“I remember Cain and Abel.”

Cain and Abel, stood in a field. One brother lifted a stone, his face contorted with pain and fury. A single act of violence that would ripple through time.

“David and Goliath.”

Castiel hummed in amusement as he remembered the young boy, small but unyielding, who faced the towering warrior. A slingshot, a stone, and then—victory.

“Sodom and Gomorrah.”

He recalled seeing the city’s destruction— flames consuming the cities, the screams of the doomed rising into the heavens.

Each memory flickered through his mind, passing by like old film reels, each moment a piece of the grand story. But none compare to what came next.

“And, of course, I remember the most remarkable event…” Castiel continued.

THE APOCALYPSE: THE FINAL BATTLE OF MICHAEL AND LUCIFER— DECEMBER 21, 2009 A.D.

“Remarkable because it never came to pass.”

Castiel recalled the power struggle between Heaven and Hell. The fire and rain. Countless battles against angels and demons alike. The desperate, reckless fight of two brothers standing against fate itself. An old drunk, his eyes weary but determined. And him: a fallen angel, bleeding, defying heaven.

“It was averted by two boys, an old drunk… and a fallen angel. The grand story,” the angel declared. “And we ripped up the ending, and the rules… and destiny… leaving nothing but freedom and choice.”

For the first time in eternity, there was no script to follow, no fate carved into stone.

Which should have been a victory.

PRESENT-DAY, APRIL 18, 2011

The wind picked up, rustling the trees. Castiel looked down at his hands, fingers curling slightly.

"Which is all well and good, except…" He hesitated. The uncertainty he felt was foreign, unwelcome. "Well, what if I’ve made the wrong choice?"

The question lingered in the air, the weight of his doubt crushing down upon him.

"How am I supposed to know?" he paused, taking a breath. “I'm getting ahead of myself.”

His blue eyes lifted to the heavens.

“Let me tell you my story,” Castiel confided. “Let me tell you everything.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Dean’s Grimm senses went into overdrive the second he stepped through the door of Bobby’s house as the stench of blood and sulfur wafted through the air. Inside of the study, tied to a chair in a devil’s trap, was a demon-possessed hunter named Redd.

The creature leered at hunters who surrounded him, primarily Gwen and Bobby, as they interrogated him. Meanwhile, Sam stood off to the side observing the interrogation with lazy interest, perking up only once he saw his brother come up beside him in the entryway of the study.

Dean nodded once for Sam to follow him and the younger Winchester complied. The brothers walked into the kitchen, and Dean explained to Sam what happened to him on the road, while Gwen and Bobby continued their interrogation without much success. 

“So, what’d you tell him?” Sam asked, once Dean got to the part where Cass asked Dean where he was going.

“Nothing. Just relax,” Dean replied folding his arms over his chest as he frowned. 

Suddenly, a loud scream rang out, alerting the Grimm to the sulfuric scent of demon blood being spilled. Black veins coiled around his eyelids in response to the demon’s cries, though his eyes remained green— if not a little bloodshot.

A few moments later, he willed his transition to fade as Bobby and Gwen approached.

“What's the hubbub?” Bobby asked.

Dean let out a deep sigh. “I saw Cass. He popped in on me about two hours back,” he informed them. 

Gwen’s eyes widened while Bobby went stiff. “What’d you tell him?” they said in unison.

“Nothing,” Dean responded defensively. “Told him we were on a damn monster hunt. He doesn't know we’re getting close to Crowley.”

The others relaxed, if only slightly. 

“Good. Let's try and keep it that way until we find out more,” Gwen stated.

Dean’s eyes narrowed into slits as they flitted between his family members while clenching his jaw.

“Look, you don't know Cass as well as I do, so I’ll give you a pass on the coldness you're showing him,” Dean started, before turning to glare at the other two. “But you… you know Cass. Now, he is our friend. And we are lying to him through our teeth.”

“Dean—” Sam piped up.

“Who gives a fuck that he burned the wrong bones? Crowley tricked him,” Dean asserted, his blood boiling at the thought, at even the notion, of his brother and his father believing Castiel to be capable of something so treacherous.

“He’s an angel,” Bobby emphasized.

“He is the Balki Bartokomous of Heaven!” Dean hissed, his Grimm-stincts flaring. “He can make a mistake.”

Dean didn't miss the way Bobby tensed up in self-defense, nor did he miss how Sam took a step forward as though to jump in between him and their mentor. They were still scared of him. 

He couldn't help but see the hilarity in that.

First, they were scared of me in Oregon because I lashed out and now they think Cass is evil because he accidentally burned the wrong bones? Dean sneered inwardly. What’s next? They stake Elijah because they catch him drinking blood out of a milk carton? 

“Nobody is saying anything yet,” Bobby cut in evenly.

Bullshit! Dean harrumphed.

“You think that Cass is in with Crowley?” Dean said aloud, letting the rhetorical question hang in the air as he looked out at the turbulent reactions on everyone’s faces. “Crowley?”

“Dean, calm down,” Gwen cajoled. “We’re just saying we don't know.”

Dean remained unconvinced and turned his head away from the trio, his chest rising and falling tightly against his folded arms.

“Now, look, I hate myself for even thinking it… but I don't know,” Bobby exhaled, his expression weary from recent events. 

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up as a tingling sensation pooled in his gut. Something was wrong, but he couldn't figure out what.

He didn't have the chance to find out either as Sam immediately continued the conversation, where Bobby left off. 

“Dean, he's our friend, too, okay?” Sam said. “And I’d die for him, I would… but, look, I’m praying we’re wrong here.”

“But if we ain’t… if there's even a snowball of a snowball’s chance here, then that means we’re dealing with a Superman gone dark side,” Bobby continued. “Ergo, we gotta be cautious, we've gotta be smart, and maybe stock up on some kryptonite.”

In an attempt to ease the tension, the Grimm quirked his lips upward and said, “I thought I was Superman.”

“You were,” Gwen retorted. “Now you're more like Superboy.”

“From the 90s comics or that new TV show Young Justice that just came out?” Dean queried, genuinely curious.

“Dean,” Sam huffed. “Not the time.”

“We can focus on that later,” Bobby chimed in, rolling his eyes. “Right now we gotta find Crowley and stop that damn fool from opening up Purgatory.”

Without another word, Bobby led the group back into the living room to interrogate the demon.

So they already suspected. Castiel thought as he watched them from the shadows, his presence masked by his angelic abilities.

“And the worst was Dean trying so hard to be loyal. With every instinct telling him otherwise.”

“I DON’T KNOW WHERE CROWLEY IS!” the demon howled in pain, as Bobby wrenched the demon blade out of his leg.

“You sure about that?” Bobby questioned. “Because we can twist again all the way into next summer.”

The demon continued to beg and screech until he finally gave up the information they needed, telling the hunters that he didn't deal with Crowley directly and that he deals with a dispatcher demon named Ellsworth.

With that, Castiel left nearly undetected to go and deal with Ellsworth personally. 

Nearly undetected.

However, even after he was gone, the tension in Dean’s gut still churned and he couldn't help but turn to look in the direction of the empty where Cass had previously been standing as though some part of him could feel the angel’s touch lingering in the air.

Chapter Text

PRESENT-DAY, 2011— THREE DAYS EARLIER…

“If there were such a thing as a demon counterpart to Bobby Singer, Ellsworth would be it.”

The house was a cluttered, dimly lit bunker of organized chaos. Stacks of papers, scattered maps, and half-drunk bottles of whiskey crowded every available surface. The air buzzed with the constant ringing of phones—some human, some demonic. A large wooden desk sat at the center of the room, an old rotary phone perched beside a sleek, modern headset, and a dull bronze bowl filled with bubbling blood sat on the other side of the demon as he mapped out new coordinates on a sheet of paper.

Ellsworth, a demon in a well-worn vessel, sat at that desk, juggling a half-dozen conversations at once. His vessel—a grizzled man in his fifties, broad-shouldered and rough around the edges—had the weary patience of someone who had been running the show far too long.

"No, listen to me. No. I don’t care. I want you to get down to New Mexico and bag me that Wendigo!" He barked into the bowl of blood, waving his hand dismissively at two demons standing by the door. “Hell. Hang on.”

Another phone buzzed to life, and he switched gears seamlessly, pressing the receiver to his ear. His tone shifted into something more polished, more human.

"FBI. Thomas speaking. Absolutely, I sent them. Thank you for calling to check. You too. Have a nice day, now. Bye-bye."

He hung up and turned toward the demons, who were about to step outside.

"Hey, hey, hey! No! Not in here, you friggin’ Yeti. Out back!" He gestured sharply toward the rear exit.

“These demons would lead the Winchesters to Crowley. And Crowley would tear their hearts out.”

The demons grumbled but obeyed, heading toward the door. They never made it.

A sudden shift in the air—pressure, heat, the tang of ozone.

A flutter of wings.

And then, light.

Blinding, searing, holy light.

Two demons. Gone. Instantly smote. Their vessels crumpled to the ground like discarded marionettes, smoke curling from their empty mouths.

Ellsworth’s eyes went wide as he shot to his feet. “Oh, hell.”

He barely had a second to react before Castiel advanced on him. His vessel shuddered, convulsed, as the demon inside fought to escape, but Castiel shoved him back down.

Ellsworth’s mouth opened in a silent scream as his body seized, light pouring from his eyes and mouth.

Then—darkness.

The room fell silent, the only sound the distant hum of the still-active phone lines.

Castiel stood motionless amidst the carnage, his expression unreadable. His hands—steady, controlled, but stained with purpose.

His voice, when it came, was a whisper.

"I had no choice."

He swallowed, his throat tightening.

“I did it to protect the boys. Or to protect myself. I—I don’t know anymore.”

PRESENT-DAY, 2011— ONE DAY EARLIER…

Dean kicked open the front door with his gun drawn, the aged wood creaking under his grip. The house was eerily silent, devoid of the usual signs of demonic activity. No sulfur, no hastily abandoned vessels, no lingering sense of malevolence in the air. Just...emptiness.

Bobby and Marie stepped in beside him, their eyes sweeping across the dimly lit space. Bobby furrowed his brow, the old hunter’s lips pressed into a thin line, as his grip tightened on the shotgun slung over his shoulder.

Something felt off.

Sam and Gwen met them inside, emerging from the hallway at the back of the house. Sam noticed the confused looks on his companions faces right away, making his tall frame go rigid, his expression wary as he glanced around.

“Hey,” Sam said, keeping his voice low. “Clear from the back.”

Dean frowned, lowering his gun slightly. "Demons get tipped and bugged out?"

“Had to, right?” Gwen supplied. 

Sam shrugged, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe they run from us now. I mean, that would be a nice thought, right?"

Bobby let out a gruff huff, unconvinced. "Yeah. If that’s what happened."

A beat of silence stretched between them, none of them fully buying the idea that demons had simply cut and run. Dean exhaled sharply and turned, scanning the room. No bodies. No scorch marks. No signs of a struggle. If there had been demons here, they'd been wiped out completely—cleaner than any exorcism, more final than any blade.

Something gnawed at him as the Grimm churned beneath his skin.

“You know who did this!” the voice screamed.

Sam gave a small nod. "Yeah." But even he didn’t sound sure.

“Hiding. Lying. Sweeping away evidence.”

He watched from somewhere just out of sight, unseen by the hunters he still considered his friends. His burden was heavy, and yet he carried it alone.

Once, he would have found such deception unthinkable.

“My purpose had been clear, his motives pure. But now?”

He had told himself it was to protect them. That he was doing what had to be done. But was he?

“After supposedly "saving" Sam, I returned to Heaven, thinking I had won.”

He had been wrong.

ELYSIAN FIELDS, HEAVEN, JANUARY, 2010 A.D.

“Of course there isn't one heaven. Each soul generates its own paradise.”

The sky was a perfect shade of blue, not too bright, not too dull—just right, like the kind of day that never had to end. The air smelled of fresh rain, though no clouds marred the horizon. The grass was damp beneath Castiel’s feet, and the distant hum of life—birds, the whisper of wind through trees—seemed to stretch on forever.

This was a place of peace.

“I favor the eternal Tuesday afternoon of an autistic man who drowned in a bathtub in 1953.”

The paradise of this man—a soul who had known little comfort in life but had found solace here, in the eternal embrace of an afternoon that never faded— lifted a burden on the angels shoulders that he often didn't realize he carried. Castiel came here often, preferring its quiet constancy over the vast, fragmented heavens of others.

And yet, peace was not what he found now.

“You're alive.”

The voice behind him was laced with shock. Castiel turned to find Rachel, her wings folded neatly behind her, her expression one of awe and disbelief. Behind her were several other angels gazing upon him in wonder.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

Rachel stepped closer, searching his face. “Castiel, we saw Lucifer destroy you.”

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Well, I came back.”

Rachel’s breath hitched, her mind already racing toward the only explanation that made sense. “But Lucifer? Michael?”

Castiel’s jaw tensed. “They're gone.”

Her lips parted, her eyes shining with something close to reverence. “It was God, wasn’t it?”

Castiel felt a pang in his chest, but his answer was immediate. “No.”

Rachel hesitated. “Then who?”

He looked away, his eyes drifting to the endless sky. “It was the Winchesters.”

Rachel frowned. “The Winchesters?”

“They brought down the Apocalypse.”

Rachel exhaled sharply, staring at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. “But you beat the archangels, Castiel. God brought you back. He chose you, Cass... To lead us.”

Castiel shook his head. “No. No one leads us anymore. We're all free to make our own choices, to choose our own fates.”

Rachel’s brow furrowed, her certainty faltering. “Then... what does God want?”

His answer came without hesitation. “God wants you to have freedom.”

Rachel swallowed, a shadow of uncertainty passing over her face. “But what does he want us to do with it?”

For the first time, Castiel hesitated.

He believed in freedom. He had fought for it. But explaining it to his brethren was another instance altogether.

“If I had known then what I knew now… If I had understood what freedom truly meant… I might have said, ‘It’s simple. Freedom is a length of rope. God wants you to hang yourself with it.’”

*                              *                              *

Those first weeks Castiel spent back in heaven were surprisingly difficult. Explaining freedom to angels was a bit like teaching poetry to fish.

“And then there was Raphael…”

The room was lavish, an opulent office bathed in golden light, its walls lined with mahogany shelves and portraits of power. A great wooden desk sat at the center, pristine despite the sins of the man who had once ruled from it. A bottle of whiskey gleamed in the light, untouched, next to a stack of financial reports—numbers, wealth, and influence hoarded like scripture. The air smelled of expensive cigars and brandy, though neither was in sight. A grand fireplace flickered, casting long shadows against the polished mahogany furniture.

Castiel stood near the entrance, his trench coat slightly out of place in the setting, his hands at his sides. Across from him, the Archangel Raphael, dressed to the nines, sat with one leg crossed over the other near the fireplace, his presence a thundercloud in an otherwise pristine sky. His vessel, a dark-skinned man with sharp, imperious features, was poised with effortless authority.

“You came,” the Archangel said, as he set glass of brandy down on the small side table next to the chair he was lounging in. He turned slightly, his eyes sharp and unreadable. “I appreciate the courage that takes.”

Castiel didn’t react to the veiled threat. He instead glanced around the room, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Whose Heaven is this?” he asked.

Raphael gave a small, almost indulgent smile. “Ken Lay’s,” he said. “I'm borrowing it.”

Castiel's expression darkened. “I still question his admittance here.”

Raphael exhaled, as though explaining something tedious. “He’s devout. That trumps everything.”

Castiel forced the thought aside. There were more pressing matters. He leveled his gaze at his brother.

“What do you want?”

Raphael studied him for a moment, then turned fully, his hands clasped behind his back. “Tomorrow,” he began, “I’ve called for a full assembly of the Holy Host.” His eyes gleamed. “You’ll kneel before me and pledge allegiance to the flag, all right?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly. “And what flag is that?”

A slow, dangerous smile crept across Raphael’s face. “Me, Castiel.” He took a step closer. “Allegiance to me.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

“Are you joking?” Castiel asked, almost genuinely curious.

Raphael’s expression didn’t shift. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Castiel sighed. “You never look like you’re joking.”

Raphael gave a small nod, as if acknowledging the truth of that. "You rebelled," he said. “Against God, Heaven, and me. Now you will atone.” He spread his hands, as though the matter was already settled. “We’ll start by freeing Lucifer and Michael from their cage. And then,” he said smoothly, “we’ll get our show back on the road.”

The words sent a cold spike through Castiel’s chest.

“Raphael… No.” His voice was firm, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “The Apocalypse doesn’t have to be fought.”

Raphael’s gaze sharpened, a storm brewing beneath the surface. “Of course it does. It’s God’s will.”

Castiel took a step forward, his own power flaring despite the suffocating weight of Raphael’s presence. “How can you say that?!”

Raphael tilted his head. And then, for the first time, there was something truthful in his expression—something honest.

“Because it’s what I want.”

The words struck Castiel like a blade.

Raphael had always spoken of divine will, of order, of necessity. But now, there was no pretense. No justification beyond desire.

Raphael wasn’t seeking to restore order. He was seeking power. Control.

Castiel took a slow breath. “Well, the other angels won’t let you.”

Raphael’s expression didn’t waver. If anything, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. 

“Are you sure?” he drawled, his voice was almost gentle were it not for the condescending smirk dancing along his lips. “You know better than anyone, Castiel. They're soldiers. They weren’t built for freedom. They were built to follow.”

The truth of it stung. Castiel had spent weeks trying to teach them—to help them understand that they could choose their own fates. But had any of them truly believed him?

He pushed the doubt away. “Then I won’t let you.”

Raphael sighed. “Really? You?”

Before Castiel could react, the world exploded.

A surge of celestial energy slammed into him with the force of a hurricane. His grace shattered, his body flung backward as though struck by lightning. The lavish office blurred into a smear of golden light as he was torn from Heaven’s embrace, his consciousness fracturing, spiraling, falling—

Impact.

Castiel crashed onto wet grass, the scent of fresh rain filling his senses. He gasped, blinking rapidly, his vision swimming as he struggled to right himself.

His body ached. His grace flickered, weakened, wounded.

But he was alive.

He let out a breath, forcing himself upright, his fingers digging into the damp earth beneath him.

“I'm not ashamed to say that my big brother knocked me into next week.”

A shadow fell over him. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Raphael stood there, composed, untouched, as though nothing had happened at all.

His voice was calm, absolute. “Tomorrow, you kneel, Castiel... or you and anyone with you dies.”

Then, he was gone, leaving Castiel alone in the drowning light of a heaven that was no longer his refuge.

Chapter Text

PRESENT-DAY, 2011— ONE DAY EARLIER…

Dean and the others continued wandering around the house looking for anything that might lead them to Crowley— hell, any sign that the demons had been there at all— and found absolutely…

“Nothing,” Gwen lamented. “How the hell can there be absolutely nothing? Did Redd lie to us?”

“Maybe,” Marie offered. “Though from what I heard last night, there wasn't exactly any chance of that happenin’.”

“Well, regardless, something ain’t right,” Sam huffed, looking around. “Place is clean.”

Bobby scowled. “Yeah, but it's… It's like Mr. Clean clean, you know?” he chimed in. “Kinda meticulous for your average demon.”

“We call Cass,” Dean snipped, earning several looks from the rest of his team. 

“What?” Sam balked.

Dean squared his shoulders and looked up at his younger brother. “Well, this is usually the part where we would usually call Cass for help, isn't it?” he sassed. “Or am I the only one who remembers that?”

Marie, Bobby, Gwen, and Sam exchanged looks—the kind of look that said they’d already had this conversation before.

Bobby sighed. “We talked about this.”

Sam folded his arms. “Yeah, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “No, you talked. I listened,” Dean replied sharply. His voice was firm, but beneath it was something else—something aching. He took a step closer. “This is Cass, guys. I mean, when there was no one… and we were stuck—and I mean really stuck—he broke ranks. He has gone to the mat, cut and bleeding for us, so many fucking times.”

He swallowed hard, looking between them. “This is Cass. Don’t we owe him the benefit of the doubt, at least?”

The room fell silent for a moment.

Sam locked eyes with his brother, trying and failing to see the logic in his brother’s argument. Instead what he saw were the facts. And the fact was… Cass had been loyal to them through everything, and, in return, he had earned their trust.

And, whether either of them knew it or not, Castiel had stolen Dean’s heart.

Which meant the last thing Sam wanted was for it to get broken.

God, Cass. I hope I’m wrong about you. Sam prayed.

Sam hesitated before drawing in a slow breath. “Castiel… This is really important, okay? Um…We really need to talk to you.”

No response.

Dean exhaled and added softly, “Castiel… come on in.”

Nothing happened.

No rush of wings. No flicker of movement. Just silence.

“I didn't go to them, because I knew they would have questions I couldn't answer. Because I was afraid.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged. “Cass is busy,” he huffed, trying to shake it off.

Sam nodded, his voice quiet. “That’s all right. We are too. Come on.”

Bobby sighed and turned toward the door. “Super.”

“Back to square one,” Gwen let out.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Great. Well, what do we do now?”

Marie leaned heavily against her cane as she turned to face the younger Grimm. “Well, we caught one hunter demon before. We can do it again.”

Before Dean could respond, the attack came fast.

“The King of Hell had sent his very best.”

A blur of motion—a violent force slamming into him, sending him crashing into the wall.

“I was caught as much by surprise as the rest of them.”

Sam and Gwen barely had time to react before another shadowy figure lunged at them, claws flashing. Bobby grunted as he was wrenched backward, fingers struggling for his gun. Marie unsheathed her knife hidden within her cane, the silver steel humming softly as the runes etched into the blade flickered with blue light as she swiped at one of the demons’ heads.

Dean quickly recovered from being tackled and sprung to his feet with inhuman speed, unsheathing Lassie from the scabbard strapped to his thigh as he scanned his surrounding with his ebony eyes.

“Demons!” The Grimm growled.

Wasting no time, Dean immediately launched himself into battle, hacking, slicing, and punching the demon who had forced him to the ground. 

To say the demon was unprepared would be an understatement. He tried to defend himself the best he could, but he just wasn’t prepared for the unparalleled strength of the man before him. 

“You’re a Grimm?” the demon gasped in disbelief. 

“Yeah,” Dean ground out, raising his blade to strike. “And you're dead.”

Then he plunged the dagger into the demon’s chest watching as his vessel lit up with red energy before flickering out like a dying flame. 

“And it left me with yet another choice…”

Unfortunately, Dean didn't have time to celebrate his victory as he was soon being slammed against the ceiling by another demon before being dropped back down to the floor. Hard.

“I could reveal myself and smite the demons. Of course, Crowley wouldn't like it…”

In the chaos, the knife clattered out of his hand and slid across the hardwood floor just out of reach. When he tried to stand, another demon pinned him down, pressing one arm against his neck while raising the other, claws extended, poised to strike.

“Crowley says ‘hi’,” the demon grinned.

“But on the other hand… they were my friends.”

Before the demon could strike the final blow, a firm hand covered his face.

Then—

A burst of celestial light.

Screams. Bodies turning to ash in an instant.

“For a brief moment, I was me again.”

Dean gasped as the weight on him disappeared, the pressure lifting as the demon was obliterated. He scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed.

Across the room, Marie helped up Sam while Gwen and Bobby stumbled to their feet, all four of them staring in stunned silence as the air still crackled with residual energy.

And there, standing in the center of the wreckage—his expression unreadable, his coat barely ruffled—was Castiel.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Dean’s breath was still coming fast, his body tense with leftover adrenaline. But then, a slow, relieved grin spread across his face.

“It’s good to see you, Cass.”

Castiel regarded him carefully. “Are you all right?”

Sam let out a breath, nodding. “Yeah. Perfect timing, Cass.”

Castiel’s gaze swept over them, as if checking for wounds. “I’m glad I found you. I come with news.”

Dean straightened. “Yeah? What?”

Castiel’s expression was grave. “I firmly believe Crowley is alive.”

Dean let out a sharp scoff. “Yeah. You think, Kojak?” He turned to Bobby with an exaggerated look. “Well, guys, what do we think about Cass saving our asses… again?”

Bobby sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think we owe you an apology.”

Castiel blinked. “Why?”

Sam’s voice was quieter this time. “We’ve been hunting Crowley this whole time… and keeping it from you.”

Gwen exhaled. “We thought… You were working with him.”

A slow, sharp silence filled the room.

Castiel’s head tilted slightly. “You thought what?”

Dean let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I know. It’s crazy, right?”

“Hey, take it easy,” Marie chided gently. “It was an honest mistake.”

Bobby shifted on his feet, looking guilty. “It’s just… you torched the wrong bones, Cass. But it doesn’t matter. We were wrong.”

Castiel’s expression was impossible to read.

Then, softly, he said, “You know… You could’ve just asked me.”

Dean’s throat tightened. His voice was lower now, honest. “And we should have. We never should’ve doubted you. It’s just… I just hope you can forgive us.”

Castiel held his gaze.

“Wonders never cease. They trusted me again. But it was just another lie.”

Then, finally, with a small smile, he said, “It’s forgotten.”

Dean let out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, Cass.”

For the first time, something faintly resembling humor flickered across Castiel’s face. “It is a little absurd, though.”

Bobby raised a brow. “I know, I know.”

Castiel nodded slightly. “Superman going to the dark side.”

And just that quickly all of the self-assurance Dean had about Castiel’s intentions came crashing down.

How did he know what Bobby said?

How could he have known unless…

“Unless he had been there!” The voice in his head snarled. 

The Grimm didn't even notice the subtle looks Marie and Bobby were sending his way, as the angel continued on.

“I'm still just Castiel.”

Dean huffed out a small laugh, though the amusement never quite reached his eyes. “I guess we can put away the Kryptonite, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course, I didn't realize it at the time, but it was all over.”

Cass turned to look back at the others, still smiling. He didn't see the way Dean’s expression shifted, nor the way his eyes briefly turned black.

“Right then…”

“GUILTY!” the Grimm howled.

“Just like that.”

Chapter Text

Castiel stormed into Crowley’s lab, his eyes burning with Grace as his coat billowed behind him.

“You sent demons after them!” he bellowed.

Crowley looked up from his work unfazed and smirked. 

“You killed my hunters,” he replied smoothly. “Why can't I kill yours?”

“They are my friends,” Castiel gritted out.

At that, the demon rolled his eyes, setting down his utensils and removing his apron, before he walked around the metal slab and approached the angel head-on. 

“Oh, please,” Crowley scoffed. “You don't have friends. Not anymore. I mean, my God. You’re losing it.”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah. The very picture of mental health, “ Crowley griped. “Come on, you think I don't know what this is all about?”

“Enlighten me,” Castiel sneered, already knowing the answer.

“The big lie,” the demon king declared. “The Winchesters still buy it. Dean in particular—”

Castiel bristled at the way Crowley spoke the hunter’s name— as though he was taunting the angel. Like he knew something Cass didn't. 

And Cass didn't like it.

“Dean still believes you're the same Castiel who—what was it again— oh, yes, gripped him tight and raised him from perdition,” Crowley chuckled. “It's quite tragic, really. Then again, most forbidden love stories usually are.”

A pregnant pause filled the room.

Castiel clenched and unclenched his fists, soaking in Crowley’s words.

The demon was right, of course, about his feelings for Dean. He had been in love with the human ever since he first saw him in hell. And he had been content to dwell in those feelings in quiet isolation and never let them reach the light of day.

But never once had he considered that Dean felt a similar way about him. 

Never once did he hope for the hunter to return his affections. 

Never once did he believe the hunter could return them.

Perhaps the world wasn't so dark and cruel after all.

If he could get through this without everything falling to ruin… maybe there was hope for them at the end of this.

Hope for him.

“Nevertheless, maggots still think you are the good Cass, the righteous Cass. And as long as he still believes it, you get to believe it,” Crowley continued, snapping Cass out of his reverie. “Well, I’ve got news for you, angel. A whore is a whore is a whore.”

Castiel snarled and slammed Crowley into a wall, the sheer magnitude of the motion causing cracks to spread out from where the demon’s back made impact.

“God, Cass, at least take me to dinner first,” Crowley grunted.

The angel narrowed his eyes, pressing his partner in crime further into the crater, making Crowley wince as a shard of the shattered tile dug into his back.

“I'm only gonna say this once. If you touch a hair on their heads, I will tear it all down. Our arrangement, everything,” Castiel threatened, his eyes glowing blue. “I'm still an angel… and I will bury you.”

Then in a dramatic flourish of power, Castiel unfurled his wings and disappeared.

“I asked myself, ‘What was I doing with this vermin?’”

“This is not how synergy works!” Crowley yelled into the aether, brushing the rubble off his blazer.

“As if I didn't already know the answer. Raphael was stronger than me. I wouldn't survive a straight fight.”

OUTSIDE LISA BRAEDEN’S HOUSE, LATE JANUARY 2010 A.D.

“So, I went to an old friend for help.”

The late winter wind rustled the frostbitten golden and amber leaves scattered across the yard. Dean stood in the middle of the backyard, a rake in his hands, as the leaves shifted and swirled around his boots. It wasn’t much, but it was a chore that had been waiting too long to be done. The yard was still, quiet, save for the soft rustling of nature.

Dean paused, resting the rake on his shoulder as he glanced around, clearly not feeling the usual sense of satisfaction that came with finishing a job like this. It was more than just yard work—it was a temporary reprieve. An escape. He wasn’t running, exactly, but he was certainly trying to forget.

Castiel appeared at the edge of the yard, his trench coat fluttering in the wind as he slowly approached.

“But watching him, I stopped. Everything he had sacrificed and I was about to ask him for more.”

Just then, Castiel was alerted to another presence behind him, making him whirl around defensively.

“Ah, Castiel. The angel of Thursday,” Crowley said, with a wicked grin as he sauntered towards the son of God. “Just not your day, is it?”

Castiel let the angel blade hidden within his sleeve extend into his hands, he put himself between the hellspawn and his human companion. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Crowley raised his hands up in mock surrender, his devilish smile still painting his features. “Easy, tiger. I’m not here for a fight,” he replied, lowering his arms back down to his sides. “I want to help you help me help ourselves.”

“Speak plainly, demon,” Castiel gritted out through his teeth.

“I want to discuss a simple business transaction. That's all,” Crowley answered.

Castiel scoffed haughtily. “You want to make a deal? With me?” I questioned sardonically. “I'm an angel, you ass. I don't have a soul to sell.”

Crowley shrugged off the angel’s harsh demeanor with ease. “But that's it, isn't it? It's all of it,” he emphasized. “It's the souls. It all comes down to the souls in the end, doesn't it?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Cass queried. 

“I'm talking about Raphael’s head on a spike,” Crowley clarified. “I'm talking about happy endings for all of us, with all possible entendres intended. Come on, just a chat.”

The Seraphim bristled at the demon’s enticements. “I have no interest in talking to you.”

“Why not? I'm very interesting. Come on, hear me out. Five minutes, no obligations. I promise,” Crowley implored. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I was no fool. I knew what Crowley was and what he did. But I was smarter than him, stronger.”

Cass looked back at Dean one more time, as though staring at him, could somehow will Castiel to change course. To stop him from falling into the obvious trap.

It didn't. It only strengthened his resolve against involving Dean in his mess. 

Against his better judgment, he turned his back on Dean and followed the demon to Hell.

“I see now that I was prideful, and, in all likelihood, I was a fool.”

GATES OF HADES— REALM OF OPPORTUNISTS, LATE JANUARY 2010 A.D.

Castiel was hit by the stench of decay and smoke, the instant he stepped into the… main hallway? He puzzled in confusion and looked out the nearby window to see a blood-red sky and a river of magma flowing outside of… wherever they were (although, the angel was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion as to where).

It wasn’t what he expected. He turned away from the window and looked ahead of him. There, standing in what seemed like an endless line, a conveyor belt of souls, each more desolate than the last. Every single soul in line looked weary, some resigned to their fate, others confused, but all of them marked by the same dull despair.

The newest arrival, confused and uncertain, stepped up to the take-a-number machine and received a slip of paper with the number “6,611,527,124.” The sheer magnitude of it took Castiel’s breath away.

“Where are we?” Castiel asked.

Crowley tilted his in amusement. “You don't recognize it, do you?” he chuckled, waving his hand in a sweeping grand gesture. “Welcome to Hades, new and improved. I did it, myself.”

Castiel shook his head, disbelieving. “This is hell?”

“Yeah. See, problem with the old place was most of the inmates were masochists already,” Crowley replied, nodding in affirmation. “A lot of “thank you, sir. Can I have another hot spike up the jacksie?” But just look at them.”

Just then, a voice over the P.A. system said, “Next.” Then the entire line moved forward in one synchronized step.

”No one likes waiting in line,” Crowley beamed, clearly proud of his work.

Castiel stepped forward, narrowing his eyes as he observed the scene. Souls shuffled about aimlessly, their faces a mirror of frustration and weariness.

“What happens when they reach the front Ninth Circle?” Castiel inquired.

“Nothing,” Crowley responded, earning a wide-eyed look from Castiel. “They go right back to the end of the line.”

As if to affirm his statement, a woman suddenly barged past them and let out a cry of frustration and anger. “Again?”

Well… It was efficient, in a horrifying way.

Castiel turned his gaze to Crowley, cold annoyance in his eyes. “You have four minutes left.” Then he started walking down the line.

“What are you planning to do about Raphael?” Crowley asked, walking alongside the angel. 

“What can I do besides submit or die?” Castiel grimaced.

The King of Hell balked indignantly, looking at the angel as though he had sprouted devil horns and fangs. 

“Submit or die? What are you, French?” he jeered. “How about resist?”

“I'm not strong enough, and you know it,” Castiel retorted.

“Not on your own, you're not,” Crowley conceded. “But you're not on your own, are you? There's a lot of angels swooning over you. God’s favorite. Buddy boy, you've got what they call sex appeal.”

Castiel cringed at the demon’s blatant lust, but kept moving. “Thank you. Get to the point.”

“Angels need leaders, so be one,” Crowley stated simply. “Gather your army and kick the candy out of each and every angel that shows up to suck Raphael’s cock.”

Castiel paused mid-step and whirled around in fury. “Are you proposing that I start a civil war in heaven?”

Crowley clapped his hands together. “Ding, ding, ding! Tell him what he’s won, Vanna.”

Castiel glared daggers at the demon. “You’re asking me to be the next Lucifer,” Cass sneered.

Crowley scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Lucifer was a petulant child with daddy issues,” he waved off. “Cass, you love God. God loves you. He brought you back. Did it occur to you that maybe he did this so you could be the new sheriff upstairs?”

The angel swallowed hard, his eyes shifting uncertainly as he measured the demon’s words.

“This is ridiculous,” he huffed under his breath. “The power it would take... To mount a war like that is—”

Crowley nodded, already knowing what he was going to say. “More than either of us have ever seen. But what if I told you I knew how to go nuclear?”

Cass tilted his head, his expression equal parts suspicious and curious. “What do you mean?”

“Purgatory,” Crowley informed him, his voice thick with anticipation. “Just think about it. An untapped oil well of every fanged, clawed soul. What’s that over the years? 30 million? 40 million? Just sitting there, plump and rich for the taking.”

The angel folded his arms over his chest, clearly unconvinced. “How would you even find it when no one has ever found it before?”

Crowley raised a finger to the sky, as if a brilliant idea just occurred to him. “We’ll need expert help.”

“From whom?”

“From experts of course,” Crowley smirked. “I know of two eerily suited 'Teen Beat' models with time on their hands.”

Castiel went rigid. “No. Not Dean. He’s retired. He stays that way.”

Crowley let out an exasperated sigh before shrugging his shoulders. “Fine. Then I know of a certain big, bald patriarch I can take off the bench,” Crowley suggested as he led Castiel down a separate corridor further into the bowls of Hell. “The point is... They can get us to the monsters, and the monsters can get us to Purgatory. I know it.”

“And what’s your price in all of this?” Castiel interrogated.

“Just half.”

“Half?” the Seraph scoffed, letting out a sardonic chuckle. 

“Oi! My position down here isn't that stable, ducky,” Crowley protested. “Those souls would help, just like they’d help you. Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me in charge down here? The devil you know.”

A poignant silence engulfed the room, with only the sound of the P.A. speaker and the unified footsteps of the souls moving down the line being the only audible ambiance. 

He had to admit… the demon made a solid argument. There was just one little detail missing.

“This is pointless,” Cass argued. “Your plan would take months and I need help now.”

The King of Hell clasped his hands together and smiled impishly, as though he had been waiting for Castiel to say that the entire time. 

“Granted,” Crowley agreed. “And just to show you how serious I am about this scheme… how about I float you a little loan? Say 50 large. Fifty-thousand souls from the Pit.”

The angel’s eyes widened at the demon’s offer. 

Got him! The demon chuckled inwardly.

“You can take them up to Heaven and make quite a showing,” Crowley bargained. “Or you could watch Raphael restart the Apocalypse all over again. And everything you worked for, everything Sam and Dean have worked for… gone. You can save us, Castiel.”

Cass stood there, conflicted. The weight of Crowley’s words pressed on him, but there was still something inside him that resisted. That wanted to turn away from the demon’s seduction. 

He should have listened to that part of him.

“God chose you to save us,” Crowley emphasized. “And I think… deep down… you know that.”

“I wish I could say I was clean of pride at that moment…”

ELYSIAN FIELDS, HEAVEN, LATE JANUARY, 2010 A.D.

“…Or the next.”

Castiel stormed into the ethereal, pristine hall of Ken Lay’s Heaven. His blue eyes narrowed, steely with determination. Raphael stood at the center of the room, surrounded by a team of angels, their collective power radiating in the air like static electricity.

Tension hung in the air, suffocating all those who resided in the room. Well, all except for two. Raphael remained steadfast in his own arrogance and strength. But Castiel was no longer the unsure, conflicted angel who once walked into this space. He was resolute. And as his eyes met Raphael's, Castiel raised his hand, extending a surge of divine power.

In an instant, Raphael was gone, banished from the room with a single, sweeping motion. The silence that followed is deafening, as the other angels stumbled back. Some looked on in amazement while others trembled in fear. And some had expressions of vengeance twisting into their features.

Nevertheless, Castiel held his head up high as his voice rang out among the Heavenly Host. “There will be no Apocalypse. And let it be known—you're either with Raphael, or you're with me.”

His words hung in the air— a declaration of power, of a shift that echoed throughout Heaven.

The angels hesitated—then one by one, they began to bow.

Castiel’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He could feel it—the power of the souls inside him, seething and coiling beneath his skin.

He had taken Crowley’s offer. He had drawn the souls from the pit and infused them into his very being. The power was staggering—addictive.

He could remake Heaven.

He could control everything.

Castiel stood at the center of it all—the victorious general at the dawn of a new order.

“And so went the long road of good intentions…”

PRESENT-DAY, 2011— ONE DAY EARLIER…

“…the road that brought me here.”

The moon hung high in the glittering midnight sky, as a cool breeze shook the branches on the trees outside of Ellsworth’s house. Inside, Sam was pacing the length of the living room, a thick binder tucked beneath his arm. Sitting on top of Ellsworth’s desk was Gwen, who was lazily kicking her feet against the desk. And across from her, Marie, Bobby, and Dean were sitting in the worn leather chairs sharing a bottle of whiskey.

As Sam walked by the trio, his hazel gaze locked onto his brother who took a deep breath and nodded slowly at him.

Taking that as his cue, Sam cleared his throat and said, “Castiel, uh, could you come down here for a second? We, uh… we need some help.”

A moment later, the flutter of wings reverberated through the room as Castiel appeared out of nowhere.

“Hello,” he greeted.

The hunters went rigid, but maintained their composure.

“Oh, Johnny-on-the-spot,” Bobby chuckled, easing the tension.

Castiel looked around at the familiar surroundings of Ellsworth’s house and frowned, tilting his head slightly. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah, well, we had to bury the bodies,” Gwen chimed, hopping down from the table and walking over to Dean who handed her a full glass. “Plus, there was whiskey. Couldn't let that go to waste.”

“Yeah. Oh, and thanks for coming,” Dean added with a slight smile.

Cass returned the expression and nodded. “How can I help?”

“Okay, look. We, um— we have a new plan,” Sam started, pulling out the binder and flipping through the pages. “We think we finally figured out a way to track down Crowley.”

At this, Castiel felt a spike of fear and he quickly made his way towards Sam and came to a stop at the center of the room. 

Meanwhile, Bobby stood up and walked around the side of his chair to stand closer to Cass.

“What is it?” Castiel inquired.

“You,” Bobby answered, before striking a match and dropping it to ground.

Within seconds, a ring of Holy Fire erupted around the Seraph, surrounding him completely, much to his shock.

The jig was up.

Chapter Text

Castiel whirled around in panic as the flames surrounded him, his eyes darting in between Dean and the other hunters.

“What are you doing?” the angel interrogated.

Dean calmly stood up from his seat and walked towards the ring of fire. “We gotta talk,” he said.

“About what?” Cass snapped. “Let me go!”

“About Superman,” Dean called out, causing Cass to blanch. “And kryptonite.”

Bobby frowned sternly. “How’d you know what I said?”

“How long have you been watching us?” Gwen pressed.

“Oh, come on! You think I’ve been spying on you?” Cass lied. “Balthazar quoted The Godfather the entire week before we made our final strike against Raphael. And after, he kept complaining to me about the movie Titanic. Do you honestly think he wouldn't try to force me consume every ounce of media regarding a fabled alien superhero from another planet? It was just on my mind at the time.”

The hunters paused and looked at each other, their confidence in their suspicion wavering.

Had they made yet another mistake?

Dean was about to open his mouth and apologize again, when Marie cut in, still unconvinced.

“Okay, fine,” Marie conceded. “But then how do you explain this demon shithole? How is it so next-to-godliness clean in here?”

Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Marie wasn't finished.

“And how exactly did Crowley trick you with the bones?” she continued, her eyes turning black.

The Seraph winced.

That was a bit harder to explain. 

“Listen, just let me out and I can explain—”

“You gotta look at me, man. You gotta level with me and tell me what’s going on,” Dean cut off, his green eyes welling up with tears. “Look me in the eye and tell me you're not working with Crowley.”

Castiel’s eyes met his. For a brief second, his gaze softened—then he looked away.

Dean’s face darkened. His head briefly away. “You son of a bitch.”

Castiel’s gaze flicked toward him. “Let me explain.”

Dean’s head snapped up instantly, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “You're in it with him? You and Crowley have been going after Purgatory together? You have, huh? This whole time?”

Castiel’s eyes darkened. His hands curled into fists. “I did it to protect you.”

Sam’s face hardened. “Protect us how? By opening a hole into monsterland?”

Bobby scoffed. “He’s right, Cass. One drop got through, and it was Eve. And you want to break down the entire dam?”

This was useless.

They weren't listening. They weren't understanding. 

He needed to get out of here. He needed to see this through. He needed those souls.

“Listen to me, please,” Castiel begged, ignoring the burning itch creeping along his neck. “I can fix this. I can fix all of this. You just have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Sam scoffed, taking a step forward as he glared at the angel. “How the hell are we supposed to trust you now?” 

Castiel’s gaze softened. “I’m still me.” His eyes slid toward Sam, steady and pleading. “I’m still your friend. Sam…I’m the one who raised you from Perdition.”

Despite the fire roaring at the center of the room, the temperature plummeted as the hunters eyed the angel with renewed shock.

Sam’s eyes went cold. His lips curled in disdain. “Yeah?” He stepped forward again until he was close enough to feel the heat of the fire on his face. “Well, no offense…but you did a pretty piss-poor job of it.” His eyes sharpened. “Wait…did you bring me back soulless on purpose?”

Castiel’s mouth parted in shock. “How could you think that?”

Sam’s eyes darkened. “Well, I’m thinking a lot of things right now, Cass.”

“Listen. Raphael would have destroyed us all. He would have turned this world into a graveyard,” Castiel resumed. “I had no choice.”

Dean let out a derisive laugh, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “No, Cass, you had a choice!” he yelled. “You chose wrong.”

“And FYI, Raphael has been dead for months now,” Bobby remarked in a clipped tone. “Unless you're still hunting down the remainder of his followers.”

Castiel shook his head stubbornly. “You don't understand. It's complicated.”

“No, actually, it’s not,” Dean shot back. “And you know that. Why else would you keep this whole thing a secret, huh? Unless you knew it was wrong?”

The air between them seemed to hum with anger.

“When crap like this comes around, we deal with it— like we always have!” Dean’s voice rose. “What we don’t do is go out and make another damn deal with the Devil!”

Castiel’s face twisted with frustration. “It sounds so simple when you say it like that.” His voice softened. “Where were you when I needed to hear it?”

Dean blinked, momentarily stunned. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was there...” He swallowed hard. “Where were you?”

No answer. At least… no reasonable answer.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The tension was suffocating.

Dean’s voice softened. “You should’ve come to us for help, Cass.”

Castiel’s face hardened, walls rebuilding in his eyes. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

Suddenly, a deep rumble shook the house. The air outside shifted, darkening as a thick wall of black and purple smoke surged toward them— a writhing cloud of demons.

“Guys, we got company,” Gwen announced as she looked out of the window.

Castiel’s eyes widened in panic. “It's too late now,” he whispered. “I can't turn back. I can't.”

Dean shook his head frantically, wanting to reach out to his… hell, he didn't even know what Cass was to him anymore.

“It's not too late!” Dean shot back. “Damn it, Cass! We can fix this!”

“Dean, it's not broken!” Castiel bellowed.

Outside, the horde of demons closed in on the house, triggering Dean and Marie’s inner Grimms.

“Look, guys, I’m all for fighting demons, but I don't think we can beat this,” Marie called out. “Not right now.”

Despite the Grimm screaming at him to jump over the ring of fire and kill the angel, and be done with it, Dean reined himself in.

“Cass… please, don't do this.”

“Run. You have to run, now,” the angel insisted. “Run!”

Dean stood frozen for a heartbeat, eyes locked on Castiel’s desperate face— the face of a friend who had become a stranger; the face of a man who had come to mean more to him than—

“Dean, move!” Bobby barked, snapping Dean out of his thoughts.

Dean turned and bolted, Marie, Sam, Gwen, and Bobby following as the first tendrils of smoke began seeping beneath the window at the back of the room. The Grimm’s eyes met Castiel’s one last time.

His gaze was fierce. Determined.

The last thing Dean saw before the door slammed shut was Castiel’s trench coat billowing behind him as the darkness rushed toward him.

Chapter Text

Once the Winchesters and their allies had escaped, the house rapidly filled up with demon smoke, surrounding Castil like a cyclone. Just then, the smoke vanished, flying up the chimney and back outside to circle the perimeter. And a few moments later, Crowley stepped in wearing a smug expression on his face.

“My, my,” he chuckled, looking around the room before his eerie blue eyes settled on the ring of Holy Fire surrounding the angel. “Playing with fire again?” 

With a snap of his fingers, he put out he flames and the room went dark again.

The second the flames were out, Castiel lunged at Crowley. 

“If you touch the Winchesters, I swear—”

“Relax, cupcake, I heard you the first time,” Crowley replied sardonically. “I promise, nary a hair on their artfully tousled heads. Besides, I think they’ve proven my point for me. It's always your friends, isn't it, in the end?”

Castiel clenched his jaw as the demon kept on ranting.

“We try to be better. We try to improve ourselves,” Crowley professed glibly. “It's always our friends who gotta claw into our insides and hold us back. But you know what I see here? The new God and the new Devil working together.”

“ENOUGH!” Cass growled, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness, as he stalked towards Crowley. “You stop talking, and get out of my sight.”

Crowley’s smirk faded as he let out a betrayed huff. “Well… glad I came,” he retorted. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Then he walked back towards the door, stopping short to turn back and look at the angel one last time. 

“You know he difference between you and me?” he asked rhetorically. “I know what I am. What are you, Castiel? And what exactly are you willing to do?”

And then he was gone.

Later that night, Castiel appeared in the living room of Bobby’s house, which was warded with Enochian sigils, though not very well.

He eyes scanned Dean, who was passed out on the couch, with longing and sadness.

This all could have gone so much different, he thought. This all could have been avoided.

Suddenly, Dean groaned sleepily, as his eyes fluttered open. The moment his vision cleared, Dean jumped up in alarm and reached for… well, anything.

“Please, don't,” Castiel whispered softly. “I didn't come here to fight.”

“I'm surprised you can come here at all,” Dean snorted, gesturing to the warding on the window.

Castiel pulled his lips into a thin smile. “Bobby got some of the warding wrong.”

Noted! The Grimm sneered.

“Well, it's too bad we gotta angel-proof in the first place, huh?” Dean snarked, as he stood up, using every fiber of his being to hold back the Grimm. “Why are you here?”

Cass let out a deep breath as he took a tentative step forward. “I want you to understand.”

“Oh, believe me, I get it. Cass, I, of all people, get it!” Dean replied. “Raphael grabbed you by the short-and-curlies, you needed to go nuclear. But now, it's over!”

The new leader of Heaven flinched when heard the way Dean’s voice cracked as tears sprung in his eyes.

“You beat the motherfucker; he’s dead, you're not. And what followers he did have I’m pretty sure came over to your team once that asshole kicked the bucket, and if not, then you killed them, too,” Dean continued, his voice warbling softly. “So tell me, Cass, why? Why are you really still shacked up with Crowley? What does he have on you?”

“I…” Castiel paused. “I'm doing it for you, Dean. I'm doing it so that the next time some ancient force of nature rises from the depths of the cosmos, you won’t have to fight them tooth and nail and lose everything!”

The room went dead silent, as Castiel gathered the courage to say what he had been wanting to say since he first saved Dean.

“I'm doing this because I love you,” his confessed.

Fire burned inside Dean’s lungs as an invisible rope slithered around his neck, restricting his breathing.

“Cass,” he choked out, the sound of his own heartbeat drowning out the sound of Castiel’s footsteps as the angel closed the distance between them.

“I'm doing this because of you,” Castiel explained, clasping Dean’s shoulders in a firm embrace, as though holding him tighter would somehow infuse his true intentions into Dean’s essence.

“Because of me?” Dean snorted, pulling away from Cass. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“You're the one who taught me that freedom and free will—”

“No, no, no!” Dean’s hand shot up, cutting him off. “You're a fucking child, you know that?” His voice wavered between frustration and something far closer to pain. “Just because you can do what you want doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want!”

Castiel’s expression hardened. “I know what I'm doing, Dean.”

“No!” Dean snapped, taking a step forward. “I’m not gonna stand here and argue logic with you, okay? I’m not trying to reason this out. I’m just... I'm asking you not to.” His voice softened, almost pleading. “Just... don’t. Just ‘cause.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Dean sighed heavily and ran a hand down his face. “Look... next to Sam, you and Bobby are the closest things I’ve got to family. And that —” He paused, searching for the words. “That means you… you’re like a br— you're family to me. So if I’m asking you not to do something...” His eyes locked onto Castiel’s, desperate for him to understand. “You gotta trust me, man.”

“Or what?” Castiel asked quietly.

Dean swallowed hard, the weight of what he was about to say sitting like a stone in his chest. “Or I’ll have to do what I have to do to stop you,” he declared, the words feeling like ashes in his mouth.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Castiel shook his head slightly, his gaze distant — almost pitying. “You can’t, Dean,” he said, voice heavy with regret. “You’re just a man. I’m an angel.”

Dean’s lips curled into a grim smile, but there was no humor behind it. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I’ve taken down some pretty big fish.”

For a moment, Castiel just stared at him — a flicker of something mournful in his eyes.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” he said at last.

Dean’s smile faded. His voice dropped to a whisper, “Yeah... well... I’m sorry, too, then.”

Neither of them moved, the silence stretching between them like a widening chasm. Unwilling to sit in the silence of their separation any longer, Castiel left.

Dean closed his eyes, holding back the wave of tears that threatened to overwhelm him, as the weight of all the spoken and unspoken words hung in the air, and Dean knew— deep down— that things had already gone too far.

PRESENT-DAY, APRIL 18, 2011

The park was deserted, save for the faint sound of rustling leaves and the distant hum of traffic beyond the tree line. A gray, cloud-heavy sky stretched overhead, casting the landscape in muted shades of dull green and brown. Castiel stood beneath the skeletal branches of a dying oak tree, his trench coat hanging loosely around his frame, barely stirring in the chill breeze that cut through the air.

His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his coat, his head tilted downward as his gaze swept over the patchy grass at his feet. Dead leaves crunched softly beneath his shoes as he shifted his weight. His shoulders were drawn tight, an unnatural tension running through his vessel — the kind of tension that only ever surfaced when the weight of Heaven and Earth both pressed down on him at once.

He took a slow breath, closing his eyes briefly before raising his face toward the overcast sky. His eyes were dark, shadowed by the burdens he carried, and his expression was carved from something brittle — something dangerously close to breaking.

“So,” he began softly, his voice swallowed up by the hollow emptiness of the park. “That's everything.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he swallowed hard before continuing.

“I believe it’s what you would call a... tragedy from the human perspective,” his mouth twisting slightly, the ghost of a bitter smile passing across his face before fading. “But maybe the human perspective is... limited.”

His gaze fell again, focused distantly on the withered grass beneath his feet.

“I don’t know,” Cass continued. His voice was quieter now, more fragile. “That’s why I’m asking you... Father.”

His hands curled into fists in his coat pockets.

“One last time,” he pleaded, his head tipped back toward the sky, eyes burning with a plea that cut through the gray haze above. “Am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path?”

The silence pressed back at him, as oppressive and cold as the heavy sky.

Castiel’s chest rose and fell with the effort of keeping his composure. His eyes glistened under the dim light filtering through the clouds.

“You have to tell me,” he said, more forcefully now, his breath hitching. “You have to give me... a sign.”

His voice cracked on the last word. His arms trembled beneath the weight of the empty air.

He stood there, motionless, waiting. Waiting for something — anything — to break the silence. A flicker of light, the warmth of a hand on his shoulder, the soft whisper of a voice that he had not heard in far too long.

Nothing came.

Castiel’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face shifting beneath his skin. His eyes filled with cold fire, something dangerous and close to desperation. He took a staggering breath, shaking his head.

“Give me a sign!” he shouted. His voice cracked the stillness of the park, sending a flock of crows scattering from the branches above in a burst of black wings. Their harsh cries faded into the distance, leaving only the wind and Castiel’s ragged breathing behind.

His shoulders sagged, his head bowing under the crushing weight of silence. His eyes drifted shut, and for a moment, he stood there trembling, his face etched with quiet devastation.

“Because if you don’t...” His breath hitched, his voice dropping into a raw whisper. “If you don’t...”

His eyes opened, glassy and hard.

“I'm gonna ju— I'm gonna do whatever I...” He swallowed thickly. “Whatever I must.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. A flicker of steel entered his gaze — cold, determined, resigned.

Slowly, Castiel straightened, his expression hardening as he stepped back from the tree. His hands slipped from his coat pockets, his fingers curling slightly at his sides.

The sky remained gray and still. The world around him remained quiet.

Castiel gave the clouds one last, lingering look. Then he turned and walked away, his coat flaring slightly in the wind as he disappeared into the fog of the park.

Chapter Text

PRESENT-DAY, APRIL 19, 2011

NEW ORLEANS

Soft candlelight flickered against the stained-glass windows of St. Anne's Catholic Church, casting shifting patterns of color across the dark wooden pews. Marcel’s footsteps echoed down the aisle as he moved through the quiet sanctuary. His face was shadowed, lined with the tension of too many burdens carried too long. He climbed the narrow staircase to the attic, each step creaking under his weight.

The door was ajar. Inside, Davina knelt beside Elijah’s coffin, her delicate hands trembling as they hovered over the dark wood. The room was quiet except for the faint, rhythmic sound of her breathing. Slowly, she reached out and curled her fingers around the dagger embedded in Elijah's chest. Her grip tightened, her breath hitching as if even touching it would shatter something fragile within her. With a sharp pull, she withdrew the dagger. The sound of metal sliding free was a quiet, deadly whisper. Davina stared down at the dagger, her expression dark with uncertainty and resolve.

At the Mikaelson mansion, Klaus stood alone in his study, the amber glow of the fire licking at the edges of the grand room. A large painting hung on the wall before him — a dramatic, storm-filled seascape — but his gaze was distant, his thoughts miles and centuries away. His voice, low and measured, filled the air like a dark incantation.

"Over the course of my life, I've encountered no shortage of those who would presume to speak of good and evil."

Klaus’s hand curled around the edge of his tumbler, amber liquid swirling as he tilted it. His eyes narrowed, reflecting the firelight like those of a predator.

"Such terms mean nothing. People do what is in their best interest, regardless of who gets hurt. Is it evil to take what one wants? To satisfy hunger, even if doing so will cause another suffering? What some would call evil, I believe to be an appropriate response to a harsh and unfair world."