Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So you’re saying you know a witch?”

“Well…I ain’t exactly callin’ her no ‘witch’.”

“Dammit, Bobby—” huffed Dean. “We spend hell in prison and this is what we get in return?”

“Look, boys…” Bobby pinched his forehead and let out a long sigh. “She got some good knowledge that I think you two could use. Just come over and meet her—if you don’t like her, nothin’ more to it.”

“She’s staying with you?” asked Sam.

“She needa place to stay.”

“Oh, what the hell, we’ll come meet her.” Dean slammed his hand over the steering wheel. “We’re on our way.”

Dean hung up the phone and crammed it into his pocket as he continued to drive. Sam turned his head to look at his brother after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

“You think she’s legitimate?”

“I don’t know, Sammy. We’ll just have to see.”

“I mean, for all we know, she could be fraudulent,” remarked Sam. “Maybe she’s a con. She might not be able to actually help us.”

“We’re cons, too, you know.”

“That’s…” Sam sighed. “That’s not the point, Dean. Look, it’s just…”

“‘Just’ what, Sam?”

Sam paused. Dean stared at him while Sam glanced out the window, almost somberly.

“You know what,” Sam said, looking down at his laptop. “We’ll meet her when we meet her. Just like you said.”

“Damn right we will.”

And so the pair fell back into silence, the quiet hum of the engine and the car radio playing, albeit a little loudly. Sam couldn’t discern which station it was on; Dean was always changing it, fiddling with the music it played, always so particular about the genre and the artist. Sam glanced over to Dean again.

“Can you turn it down a little? I can’t concentrate with your music.”

“You know the rules, Sammy.”

Sam sighed. He did know the rules.

“I know, I know, the driver—”

“—picks the music, and the passenger shuts his pie hole.”

***

Within hours, Dean pulled up into the rustic yard of Bobby’s home, surrounded by the remains of worn-down cars and non-recyclable scrap. The sky was beginning to dim, and so Dean and Sam exited the car and trudged up to the front door. Dean knocked loudly, with Sam standing behind.

Sam spoke up after a moment. “Do you think—”

“What, that she’s here?” Dean sighed before knocking again. “I’d hope so. You think Bobby’s bluffin’?”

Before Sam could reply, the front door swung open and there stood Bobby, cap and all. His brows furrowed, clearly irate from the sound of Dean’s incessant knocking.

“Dammit, you two, ain’t you patient?”

“Not really,” Sam sheepishly admitted.

“Shut up, Sammy,” said Dean, turning his head and glaring at Sam. The latter immediately clammed up.

Bobby sighed before opening the door a little more. “Come in,” he said.

So the brothers entered Bobby’s house once more; it was almost second-nature to them by now, having come over so many times for assistance on a case. They knew every hallway, every creak in the floor, every wall and every stain, because to them, Bobby’s house wasn’t simply a house; it was also a home to them.

“So…” Sam paused as the three walked through the house and into the study. “Who is she?”

“Real nice girl,” replied Bobby. “Her name’s Carrie. I hunted with her parents for a while, but they’re…”

“Dead?”

“Let’s say…estranged.”

“Okay, that’s cool and all,” interrupted Dean, “but what about her?”

“If you let me get to it, ya idjit.” Bobby pinched his brow again. “Like I said, real sweet girl. She don’t talk no much, but she seem to know what she’s doin’ enough.”

Dean seemed visibly agitated at Bobby’s nondescript remarks about the supposed witch, all the while Sam stood off to the side, somewhat curious as his gaze lingered over the stacks of books of lore behind Bobby’s desk. He was always intrigued by it—maybe this girl was, too. If she was sweet and shy, chances were she was going to get along with him the most. Or at least more so than with Dean.

Bobby yelled, “Carrie!”

After a few seconds of waiting, the Winchesters noticed a figure step into the room—noticeably quiet and undeniably shy, just as Bobby described, though perhaps more so than he said she was. Pale and small, the girl stepped into the room, fiddling with the cuffs of her sleeves on her jacket while looking up at the brothers. She glanced to Bobby, whom she now stood by.

“Sam, Dean,” said Bobby, “this is Carrie. Carrie, Sam and Dean.”

Carrie looked back at Sam and Dean as Bobby introduced the three of them to each other. The brothers watched with intrigue as Carrie stood still, remaining quiet while holding herself—she seemed cold, despite her thick jacket and long scarf. Sam’s eyes were locked on Carrie’s, magnetic and blue, while Dean seemed to be looking her up and down.

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Sam, his voice soft. He held out his hand for Carrie to shake, but pulled away when she didn’t seem to respond. “We’ve, uh, we’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Damn, Bobby,” remarked Dean. “You never told us she was a babe, too.”

“Dude…”

Sam turned his head to look at the elder brother with disdain in his eyes. Bobby and Carrie shared a similar look—though Bobby’s was more fatherly, his gaze reeking of disappointment, while Carrie’s still held a particular innocence to them. Either way, all eyes turned to Dean, confused and a hint of revulsion.

Dean furrowed his brow, as if there were nothing wrong with his words. “What?”

***

Days passed, and the brothers grew more irritable with the case they’d been working on. They had been attempting to track down a vengeful spirit, terrorizing the small population of Keystone—a small town near Sioux Falls. Dean had become increasingly frustrated, resorting to glass bottles and young women to ease his tensions, all the while Sam remained glued to the books in Bobby’s office. He shared the space with Carrie—or really the other way around, as Carrie had been residing in the room for weeks before the brothers met her.

Dean had driven off after another night without luck tracking the spirit; Sam took a walk around the barren town; Bobby kept a phone to his ear at all times, helping other likeminded hunters; and Carrie remained in the office, surrounded with her minimal things.

Carrie’s head darted to the walkway of the room, seeing Sam suddenly return. He noticed her as well, giving her a sheepish smile and a small wave. “Hey,” he said. “You mind if I come in?”

Carrie shook her head, sitting on the twin bed in the room. There were a few open books surrounding her, as well as some unlit candles and herbs, along with the other miscellaneous things Sam supposed most witches used.

“You seem to know a lot about your craft,” Sam remarked, taking a seat on the ground. His back rested against the edge of her bed. He didn’t want to get too close—he had to be careful. He couldn’t scare her off, especially if she proved to be an essential figure in the hunt, or any future ones for that matter.

“That’s really admirable. I don’t know a lot of witches, actually.”

Carrie didn’t seem to respond to that either. The silence persisted, as well as a slight tension in the air. Sam finally tilted his head up to look at the girl, still sitting on the bed.

“Look,” Sam softly spoke. “I don’t mind that you’re quiet—I actually find it a little endearing. But I don’t want you to stay silent because, I don’t know, you’re afraid of me or something. You’ve got no reason to be; I’m a nice guy, and so is my brother. We’re good people, so…you can keep to yourself all you want, but I guess I just want to know…are you scared of me?”

Carrie was visibly surprised by Sam’s sudden speech, though she wasn’t startled by it. She simply sat idly, listening to Sam speak from the heart, a hint of passion in his gaze as he spoke so softly to her.

“I just don’t like to speak unless I have something to say,” said Carrie.

A pause.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

On one hand, Carrie appeared calm and relaxed when she finally spoke her mind—her voice smooth as silk and sweet like honey. On the other hand, Sam was visibly surprised to hear Carrie’s voice for the first time. She appeared shy and all from the beginning, but a part of him still wasn’t expecting a voice to match that aura she oozed of.

Sam then smiled; a part of him never wanted her to stop speaking. She had a nice voice—one he could listen to for hours and never bore from.

“That’s good,” he replied. “That’s…really good.”

Another pause.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I just, I don’t know, I wanna get to know you a little more.”

Carrie nodded. “I’m okay with that,” she replied.

And just like that, the pair began talking—actually talking, not just Sam asking questions and Carrie nodding or shaking her head—and it was lovely, in Sam’s mind. He was getting to know this wonderful girl, who only seemed to get better with every word she spoke. The air of intrigue behind her never faded with every response she gave; it only made her more elusive. And Sam loved it more than anything.

“Is there more to your silence than just…choosing to be?”

“I prefer to keep to myself a lot of the time. It’s like I said—if I have something to say, then I’ll speak my truth. If not, then, well…you get the idea.”

“Were you always…a witch?”

“I mean, my parents passed that onto me. They thought it’d be good for me to know, you know, to ‘protect myself’ according to them.”

“Say, where’re your folks from?”

“Nebraska.“

“Cool, cool. How’re they?”

“They’re…gone. You know, checked out. Kicked the bucket. Bit the dust, all that.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“No, it’s okay. No need to be sorry.”

The pair sat quietly for a moment, neither looking at the other, mostly out of a mix of embarrassment and shame. Carrie glanced at Sam, who in turn looked back at her.

“If it’s any consolation,” Sam began, “I know—”

“How I feel? Yeah, I…I know that, too. Bobby told me about your parents.” She paused. “I’m sorry about them.”

“It’s okay.”

The pair returned to silence before Carrie softly asked, “What case are you and your brother working on?”

“Evil spirit in Keystone,” replied Sam.

“I’ve been there once or twice.”

“Yeah? This one’s been terrorizing a couple of families over there—it seems really hung up about ‘unveiling dark pasts’ and ‘untold secrets’, something like that.”

“Sounds gnarly,” remarked Carrie. “And how is that going?”

Sam weakly laughed and responded, “Not great, honestly. Dean and I have been struggling to get much of a lead on its whereabouts.”

“I thought Keystone was a small town, though.”

“Oh, it is,” said Sam, moving his hands around with every word he spoke, “but this spirit seems to be on the move. I’ve read about similar cases in neighboring towns, and I guess I’m just feeling kind of hopeless about all of this.”

Carrie watched as Sam peered out the window, watching rain slowly start to fall, hitting the window quietly.

Suddenly, she spoke.

“I might know a spell to help you guys track it.”

“Really?” Sam tilted his head back up to look at Carrie, who began to flip through various pages of what appeared to be spell books. It took a minute, but she eventually found something similar to the predicament the Winchesters were facing.

Carrie nodded before moving to the floor. She asked, “Do you have a map?”

“I think so—I mean, I always grab one when Dean and I are on the road anyway.”

“Good.”

Sam rummaged through his back pocket, which somehow held a folded map; he quickly unfolded it, and though it was horrifically creased, Carrie seemed satisfied. She rolled back the carpet some, laid the map down, and lit a few candles. She then wielded a blade with one hand as she looked over to her open book every so often.

“What’s the blade for?” Sam asked.

“Part of the ritual,” replied Carrie.

“And the candles?”

“…Just for ambiance.”

And just like that, Sam shut himself up and watched curiously as Carrie began to read from the book, mumbling quietly in what sounded like Latin while holding her hand above the map. He couldn’t quite distinguish what she was saying, but he wasn’t about to ask—he didn’t want his inquisitive nature to interrupt such a ritual.

Staring in awe, Sam continued to watch as Carrie carefully continued the ritual, speaking so softly as her gaze remained on the pages of her book and the map on the floor. The candles lit the room ever so faintly, but even in such a slight light, Carrie looked almost ethereal. Maybe it was just the moment, or maybe it was the aura she wielded. She was mysterious, and while Sam wanted to learn so much more about her, he also liked that air of ambiguity constantly surrounding her.

“…libera nos a peccato et porta hunc indutum sanguine, ubi est spiritus iste…”

Carrie opened her palm and brought the blade toward it, sliding it along her skin. She winced slightly as the dagger sliced through her skin, blood pooling from the wound. She squeezed her hand shut again and waited for the blood to fall.

One drop fell very meticulously, then another, and one more before Carrie pulled her hand away. All three drops seemed to land in the same place, none diverging even a centimeter away from each other, and they all fell around the center of a town the brothers hadn’t investigated.

“So…” Sam paused. “It…worked?”

Carrie nodded as she shut the book and set down the blade. “It should’ve,” she replied. “The spirit’s around there. You two should get a move-on there quickly. If it moves as fast as you say it does, then it might not remain here for long.”

“Yeah, you’re right…” Sam briskly stood up before walking out of the room, but not before turning his head to look back at Carrie.

She looked back at him curiously as she blew out the candles in the room. Her hand was still bleeding.

“You should bandage that soon,” Sam said, his voice soft.

“I know.”

“And…thanks, by the way. You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“No problem.”

Sam turned again and left the room. A slight smile plastered on Carrie’s face, she moved her books to the corner of the room and set down the bloodied blade.

She didn’t look for gauze until she heard the front door shut.

***

Days would pass before the brothers returned to Sioux Falls again, but when they did, Sam was the first to greet Carrie and Bobby again.

“Look who’s back,” remarked Bobby, standing at the porch. Carrie stood a few feet away from him.

“Hey, guys,” said Sam, stepping out of the impala and walking towards the pair.

“Hunt go well?”

“Yeah, uh, it did.”

Bobby gave the younger boy a pat on the shoulder, letting out a content sigh, to which Sam smiled. He moved his hand away from the latter’s shoulder, giving Sam a moment to visit with Carrie, who looked at him with a similarly faint smile.

“Thanks for doing that ritual,” murmured Sam. “It…really helped us a lot. I don’t know what we would’ve done without your help.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” replied Carrie, looking off to the side rather sheepishly.

“No, it wasn’t ‘nothing’, I really mean it.” Sam paused before wrapping an arm around her, giving her a light squeeze. “You were a huge help. Thank you.”

Carrie was surprised to be pulled into a gentle hold out of nowhere, but she dare not complain; Sam was being so tender anyway, though he always appeared to be that way. It was a part of his nature, to be gentle and kind with everyone and everything, Carrie assumed. So she just let it happen, allowing him to hold her like this.

She didn’t realize she was leaning into his touch until Dean pointed it out, approaching the group.

“Alright, lovebirds, cut it out,” he remarked, causing Sam and Carrie to part. Dean gave Sam a playful nudge with his elbow, to which Sam glared. Dean looked over to Carrie, and he was about to speak until Carrie quietly stopped him.

“You don’t need to thank me for helping you,” she softly said. “Your brother already did that.”

Dean snorted. “Beat me to it, huh, Sammy?”

Sam just shook his head and looked back at Carrie. “Again, though, really, we appreciate your help.”

“Well, like I said, it’s no problem.”

“If you ever need anything, like a favor or something, we’d be more than happy to oblige.”

“Woah,” interrupted Dean. “Now we’re givin’ out favors like prostitutes?”

“Can you shut it for a minute?”

“Hey, I ain’t complaining.”

Sam simply shook his head, looking elsewhere. Bobby and Carrie shared an equally distasteful glance, but they’re quickly shook it off; this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, anyway.

“If you ever need anything like that again, you can always call me,” said Carrie.

“It’ll probably be a little bit before we do that,” replied Sam. He gestured his hand to Carrie’s bandaged palm. “You know, to give that some time to heal before anything else.”

Carrie smiled and looked away a little bashfully. “Well, aren’t you considerate?”

Sam simply shrugged, though Dean seemed to play into the teasing banter. He nudged his brother’s side, giving him a knowing look, before looking over to Bobby and asking, “You don’t care if we stay here for a little, do you? Until we can pick up another case.”

Bobby sighed and crossed his arms. “Might as well,” he responded. “Ya cheapskates.”

Carrie shared a final glance with the brothers, though her eyes lingered on Sam for just a moment longer.

Nobody seemed to catch it.

Chapter Text

Carrie seldom drank; the idea of drinking beer simply didn’t appeal to her. She wasn’t the kind of woman to lean toward any sort of drink, for that matter. Partially, it was because of her youth—after all, she was merely two years younger than Sam—but also because of a personal, unspecified aversion to it.

That didn’t seem to stop Dean from unnecessarily pushing her into the act, which she would, in turn, reject.

“Come on, it’s on me, sweetheart,” Dean would say.

“No, thanks. I’m alright.”

“You don’t seem to be. You’re a little on edge, you know. It’ll ease the tension.”

“Really, I’m fine. I’ll just have water.”

The waiter standing at their booth seemed to be constantly scribbling in a little notepad, writing ‘beer’ then crossing it out and writing ‘water’ before crossing that out as well.

“Seriously, baby, you could use it.”

“Quit calling me ‘baby’. That’s…” Carrie sighed and glanced up at the waiter. “Water. That’s final.”

The waiter nodded before rushing off.

“You’re feisty, you know that?” Dean remarked. “Look at you, you practically scared him off.”

“So what?” Carrie shifted in her seat. “When you’re talking like that to me, you get me worked up, and I can’t exactly take it out on you.”

“And why isn’t that?”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “You know why,” she said.

Dean did know why. It would only further encourage him to tease her, to call her more ridiculous, romantic names, as if he had her around his finger. He didn’t, and he most likely never would, but so what? It was fun to him, which Carrie recognized effortlessly. He wasn’t discreet about it.

“Can we just talk about something else?” asked Carrie.

“You know what, sure. Why not?” Dean smirked slightly before saying, “I see you and Sammy are getting along real well.”

“So what about it? He talks to me like I’m an actual person.”

“And I don’t?”

“I don’t think calling me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘baby’ counts as treating me humanely.”

Dean smiled. “To you, maybe. But you two really seemed to hit it off.”

Carrie shrugged and looked off to the side, outside the window of the diner. “I guess you could say that.”

The waiter returned, quietly setting down a glass of water and an unopened bottle of beer. “What can I get you guys?”

“Bacon cheeseburger with a side of fries for me,” replied Dean. “And for the lady, I assume the same?”

Carrie scoffed and shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ll just have…eggs.”

“Sorry, but we stopped serving breakfast an hour ago.”

“Oh, that’s…” Carrie refrained from speaking more. “That’s fine. Caesar salad, I guess.”

The waiter nodded, mumbled something about the food being ready, and rushed away again. Carrie found it a little strange, but took minimal notice of the strange behavior. What she did notice, though, was Dean’s strange looking directly at her.

“Stop staring,” said Carrie.

“Just admiring the view.”

There was a bit of a pause between the pair—not quite silent, given the other small crowds around them—lasting perhaps no longer than twenty seconds. Carrie fiddled with the cuffs of her sleeves while Dean occasionally glanced to the counter, eyeing what seemed to be a pie on display. Typical.

“So…Sam’s told me a little about you.”

Carrie tilted her head. “What’s he said?”

“Well, the witchcraft stuff, obviously,” Dean began, “but also the fact you’re a bit abrasive. Took you forever to talk to him, so I’ve heard. He didn’t say much about your parents, but it seems you and I got some common ground.”

“Well, there’s no way our circumstances are identical.”

“Of course not, but it got me wondering a little.” Dean rested his chin on his hand. “So your parents hunted, too?”

“Well, no, they were witches like me. They helped other hunters sometimes, but they never directly did anything in that…field of business. Where did you get that from—that they were hunters?”

“Well…never mind. Doesn’t matter. So that’s where you got the whole witch schtick from? Them?”

“Yeah. I mean, they sort of raised me that way, if you could say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Dean curiously.

Carrie’s eyes widened slightly, almost surprised. “Did Sam not tell you?”

“What’d he not say?”

“My parents…well, they died when I was six. Didn’t leave much time to raise me. But they left enough behind.”

Dean leaned forward somewhat, almost baffled by the revelation, though he hid his shock to an extent.

“You don’t say?” said Dean. “And…after that?”

“After that, I packed my bags and went into foster care. Jumped around a dozen houses for…what, ten, eleven years?” Carrie paused, almost as if she were recounting her own memory. “You know, that was how I met Bobby, actually. I was put into his home when I was about…thirteen, I think?”

“Really? You don’t say.” Dean paused before staring at Carrie curiously. “You wanna tell me more about that?”

***

The year was 1998, and in Nebraska was a little girl, short and shy, standing at five-foot-two with silky black hair and skin as white as snow. To an extent, she could be seen as the real-life Snow White, ripe with youth and beauty, though she behaved in a way differing from the status quo.

“Now look, Carrie, I know you’re used to moving from house to house a lot, but we got an interesting circumstance for you this time around.”

Carrie stood still, right beside the backseat door of a black Honda Accord, one bulky luggage case in her hands and a backpack swung over her shoulder. In front of her stood an older woman—likely in her later thirties, early forties—dressed formally with a lanyard around her neck. Clearly, she was her social worker, whom Carrie had grown extremely familiar with.

“What’s so different this time?” asked Carrie.

“Well, this time, you’re going across state lines into South Dakota. It’s something we don’t normally do—in fact, we rarely ever do this—but your best bet for another home seems to be there. Come on, let’s get in the car, and you can ask as much as you want.”

Of course, the pair entered the Accord, with Carrie hauling her bags into the back before adjusting in the passenger seat. Her caseworker, similarly, entered the driver’s side before looking over to her.

“Don’t you want to say goodbye to your other family?”

“Not really.”

“Alright. I won’t force you.”

Carrie was used to saying goodbye. She’d done it her whole life, and she quickly learned avoiding saying them entirely spared herself any emotional distress. She stared out the window as the worker pulled into the gravel street and drove away.

“His name is Robert Singer,” said the worker. “He lives in Sioux Falls, and he’s got a nice home. He could really be a good father figure to you.”

Carrie remained silent, staring out the window.

“You two could get along. He keeps to himself like you do, though he’s not as shy. He likes to read a lot, too.”

Still, nothing.

“He can be a little overbearing, though I think most paternal figures are like that toward young girls, sort of in a protective way—”

Carrie sighed, finally turning to look at her caseworker again. “Miss Palmer, I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about it now, and I don’t want to talk about it later. I just…want some quiet, please.”

The roles reversed now, and instead, the caseworker remained silent until they arrived in Sioux Falls just four hours later. Traveling from the town of Valentine, Nebraska, was no simple task, though the pair eventually arrived to the worn down house of the supposed Robert Singer who would be taking care of Carrie until further notice.

Exiting the vehicle, Carrie retrieved her luggage before following her caseworker to the front door of the house. There would be a firm knock on the door and an awkward couple of seconds of silence before the door would fling open and an older man would swing it open. Disheveled and clearly disturbed to some extent, he was the last person Carrie imagined would be taking care of her, but she kept her mouth shut.

“Mister Singer, right?” asked the caseworker.

“Who’s askin’?”

Carrie took notice of his thick accent. She’d heard it before, but the intonation of his voice was certainly unique. It wasn’t completely Midwestern, as it had a twinge of Southern influence, but the language was akin to a Tennessee native. It confused the young Carrie to an extent, but she dare not question it.

“Lori Palmer,” replied the caseworker. “Licensed social worker of Nebraska. We spoke over the phone.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember you.” He glanced down to Carrie. “And who’s she?”

“This is Carrie, one of the young teens in our system. We’ve matched her up to you, and we think you will be a good caretaker for her.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He kneeled down to look closer at Carrie before saying, “You, uh…just…call me Bobby. Come on in, I’ll show you yer’ room.”

And just like that, Carrie’s caseworker left the premises, driving off once again, leaving Carrie and Bobby alone. Quietly, Carrie followed Bobby into the house and upstairs; she walked down a hallway before reaching the door to a spare bedroom. It was loosely decorated, mostly barren, but not devoid of anything. There lay a twin-sized bed and a desk as well as a dresser, and while there sat very little beyond that, Carrie wondered if that was a purposeful choice. Maybe it was so she could have some freedom over decorating her new habitat, or maybe it was a sign that she wasn’t welcome.

“Here’s your room,” said Bobby. “I’ll leave ‘ya to it. Dinner’ll be ready in an hour.”

And just like that, Carrie was left alone again.

Slowly, though Carrie and Bobby would fall into the simple rhythm of a routine, with Carrie attending school, returning home, and talking with Bobby for a little until returning to her room to work and peer through her books. Books left to her by her parents, mostly consisting of witchcraft and spells that she kept secret from the world. It was her way of connecting with those she lost, and she viewed the books as something deeply intimate. Nobody else could have it. Nobody else could even see it.

But secrets can’t be kept forever, because one afternoon, when Carrie returned home from school as usual, she found Bobby in her room looking through her books. She was shocked, first and foremost. What was he doing looking through her things? How invasive of him. What sort of reason could he have for that behavior? But that wasn’t Carrie’s biggest question, because now that he knew at least the surface about her family, what would he think of her now?

Her backpack slowly fell off her shoulder and onto the floor as she stood in the doorway, the thump against the hardwood floor notifying Bobby of her presence. He looked over to Carrie, a little surprised himself that she was back. But he didn’t show the same concern she did.

“What are you doing in my room?” Carrie asked.

Bobby simply looked back down at the book in his hands, glancing through one last page before gently closing it and setting it on her bed. He stood up and approached Carrie before kneeling down to her level, like he was talking to a small child.

Bobby sighed. “I guess I ain’t got no reason to protect you now.”

Confused, Carrie replied, “What do you mean?”

Taking a second to collect his thoughts, he finally managed to muster the question, “What do you know about the supernatural world?”

Carrie, in turn, took time to think. She was never exposed to the paranormal much beyond her parents and their occupations as witches as well as some psychics her family was acquainted with. She’s heard tales of sirens and werewolves, psychotic vampires and vengeful spirits, but nothing else beyond stories. That’s all she thought they were until she discovered the true nature of it all within the notebooks left by her parents.

“Not a lot,” she sheepishly replied.

“I oughta tell you more about it all,” remarked Bobby. “You old enough to know now.”

Bobby stood up straight and walked downstairs, through the halls into his study, ushering for Carrie to follow behind him. She did so, almost hurriedly, like she was afraid she’d be missing out on something revolutionary if she simply remained in her room.

Upon entering the study, Bobby walked to the back of the room and brushed through dozens of books and journals, looking for something in particular. He took one out, skimmed through the pages, put it back, and repeated this process until he seemed to have found what he was looking for—a rather thick book, at least four hundred pages, all with intricate notes and details about every supernatural creature known to man.

“It ain’t the most coherent,” said Bobby, “but it’s a start. You know about…ghosts?”

“Well, yeah,” replied Carrie. “They’re…malevolent people born of tragedy and death.”

“Not quite. They ain’t always evil, and they ain’t always ‘born of tragedy’, but you on the right track.”

So, for several weeks, every day after school Carrie would sit in Bobby’s study and read up on any supernatural creatures she could. She would indulge in hundreds of pages worth of folklore just to educate and submerge herself in this other world of unknown entities, much to the approval of Bobby. If she were younger or more innocent, he would be hesitant to display such information to her, but given her history, there was no problem with it.

Carrie would sometimes give hints to Bobby as well whenever he was working on a hunt; she would sit with him in the kitchen late into the night, books and research surrounding them as they looked into a newspaper article loosely hinting at a stranger-than-life entity. With her recent knowledge of the unnatural, as well as her books of witchcraft left by her parents, she proved to be a helpful figure to Bobby. Occasionally, she would take calls about other cases, forging loose connections with other hunters like Bobby.

Beyond those circumstances, though, she kept to her schoolwork. And just a year later, Carrie would be moved to a different home again. But this time, she kept in touch with Bobby, to his suggestion.

“You got my number if you know anything else,” he said. He kept his words ominous specifically in front of her caseworker.

Carrie simply nodded, her luggage in her hands once again, before walking back to the car.

***

“Oh, good, food’s here,” remarked Dean. He winked to the waiter upon receiving his burger. “Thanks, sweetheart. Anyway, you were saying?”

Carrie stared down at her salad for a moment before looking back up at Dean. Her appetite had mostly dissipated, but she knew she would have to force herself to eat. “Yeah, um,” she stammered. “There’s…not really anything else to that. I kept jumping from house to house until I got out of the system at seventeen. Emancipation, you know.”

“Damn right I do.” Dean bit into the burger, clearly satisfied by its taste. He took a few seconds to loudly chew before remarking, “So that’s how you know Bobby? I’ll be damned.”

“What, did you imagine something more grandiose?”

“Not necessarily, I guess. Just didn’t imagine him as a foster dad.”

Carrie shrugged, stirring the lettuce in her bowl around.

“You not gonna eat that? Cause I know Sammy probably will.”

“I suppose not.”

Dean pursed his lips, almost in a pondering manner, like he was deeply considering what to say next. He couldn’t let the girl across from him go hungry, but she didn’t seem too keen on being taken care of by a guy like him—let alone any man. While he loved to push her buttons, he recognized it could get to a point before she’d actually do something about his behavior.

“You’ve been eyeing that pie for a while,” Carrie remarked, breaking Dean out of his thoughts. He realized his gaze had slowly shifted from Carrie’s face to the pie on the counter again, though she didn’t seem to care. Dean had his priorities, Carrie supposed.

“What can I say? It’s my weakness.”

***

“Hey, you guys are finally back.”

Dean and Carrie entered Bobby’s home once again, finding Sam in the study, skimming through pages of research. He smiled when he saw the pair, and it seemed that Carrie shared a similar—albeit fainter—one back.

“Any luck?” asked Dean.

“Not really. But I think I’m getting somewhere with some of these pages of research Bobby has.” Sam glanced at the takeout bag in Dean’s hand. “What’s in there?”

“Pie for me,” replied Dean. “But don’t think I forgot about you.”

Dean began to walk away, but not after slapping Sam’s shoulder, clearly in a familial way. Sam shut his eyes for a moment upon feeling Dean’s palm, but opened them again when he kept walking out of the room.

“He wasn’t too big of a jerk while you guys were out, was he?”

Carrie weakly chuckled. “He was okay,” she replied.

“Good, good.” Sam paused, looking akin to a nervous schoolboy. His voice wavered, but never turned rough or gravely. “You’re a nice girl. I don’t…I don’t want you to feel like we don’t respect you. Because I personally respect you a lot. So if anything happens…just let me know, okay?”

Carrie nodded softly.

“Yeah, okay.”

Chapter Text

Carrie was always curious, but not in the usual manner that was commonly observed among people; her wonder was quiet and docile, held tightly to her chest, almost in fear. She never asked questions, and when she did, they were always well-articulated. She hated the idea of being misinterpreted, and yet, she still often approached that issue.

Her curiosity extended to all sorts of matters, but most often directed itself toward her family. She knew only her mother and her father, but they were now deceased. They left behind the legacy of being witches, with what seemed to be hundreds of notebooks detailing their professions, if it could be called such a thing. Carrie studied every book as if they were the gospel, training herself to be about as intuitive a witch as she could be. To her, it was a way to connect to her roots. She practically had every page memorized, but she still read them.

Not all of the books in her possession pertained to witchcraft, though; she kept one photo album, rich with pictures of not only herself in her infancy, but as well as her family—together and not. She looked back on each picture fondly, flipping from back to front just to recount when they were from. Every picture had a date written in permanent marker, writing slightly smudged but still neat. Carrie liked organizing the pictures in chronological order because, to some extent, it made her feel as though she was living through the lives of her mother and father too.

“Oh, mama,” she would think. “If only you were still here.”

The photos of her mother were Carrie’s favorite. She was beautiful, in her opinion—plentiful, voluminous blonde hair, sweet orange-tinted lips, and just a hint of blue eyeshadow often adorned on her lids—and while Carrie recognized she bore little resemblance to her, she wondered just how similar she and her mother truly were now that she’d grown.

Her father, on the other hand, was equally admirable. He bore a resemblance to Keith Richards, with his oval-shaped head, remarkably dark hair, and a pair of sunglasses always shielding his eyes, and it was clear from a photo that he was Carrie’s father. Even when it came down to her skin, the likeness was almost uncanny.

Sweeping through each page felt like peering into another part of their lives, ones that Carrie barely got to live while they were still with her. It was a little sad, but she tried not to dwell on it all too much. She didn’t want to emotionally devastate herself by doing something like that.

Carrie kept this practice very close to her chest. It was something private to her, something intimate, something only she could have. Nobody else could take this from her; that experience itself was no one else’s but hers.

And just like that, she looked back at the collection of wedding photos again.

***

In the midst of Gibraltar and Spain’s border opening as well as Australia’s redaction regarding its involvement with United States missile affairs came a small baby girl residing in an even smaller city within the confines of the Nebraskan border.

“She’s beautiful,” remarked her mother.

“A doll,” her father replied.

Just days before Valentines—a coincidence aligning with her city of origin—Carrie Bishop descended from Kenneth and Cynthia Bishop, wedded just months before her arrival. It was a quiet ceremony, hosting only the couple and some odd relatives, though they mostly dismissed in favor of each other. After all, the ceremony was revolving around them and them exclusively.

“She’s precious,” Cynthia whispered, cradling the baby close to her chest.

“She’s everything,” replied Kenneth. “We will give her the world and more. She will want for nothing and be the happiest girl in the world.”

Cynthia smiled and glanced to her husband. “I hope so,” she murmured. “I want to protect her…from the life we live.”

“What do you mean, love?”

“I mean…it’s not necessarily easy, what we do. We’re demeaned and persecuted constantly. It’s a miracle we weren’t alive three hundred years ago, you know. We would be dead by then.”

“But times have changed. People aren’t like that anymore. And besides”—Kenneth waved his hands around, as if to emphasize what he was saying—“raising her to be a witch might not be so bad. We could teach her about all the good she could do for the world.”

Cynthia sighed, continuing to rock Carrie in her arms. “But still,” she began. “The nature of what we do, it’s…unconventional. Raising her like this, it’ll isolate her from her peers. It could damage her psychologically.”

“That might be true, but we can expose her to it in moderation where—”

“Kenneth, please, let’s just…” she paused. “Let’s just drop the subject. She’s only a few days old. We can decide on this later.”

Kenneth glanced to the ground before looking back at his wife, as well as the baby girl she held tenderly. Every time he looked at the pair, it was like he was taken back to reality, where he recognized the absolute truth behind Cynthia’s words. She was right; their daughter was young, and they had time to decide what they did and didn’t want to expose her to. For now, all they could do was nurture her, which was more than enough.

“I’ll feed her and put her down for the night,” murmured Kenneth, gently picking up the infant. “Get some rest. I’ll be back.”

Cynthia smiled as her husband took Carrie from her arms, cradling her tenderly before carrying her out of the room. She looked to her bedside table before opening a drawer, taking out a leather-bound notebook and opening it. She didn’t begin the hobby of documenting her days until she and Kenneth married, but only frequently wrote when she became pregnant with her daughter. She took a pen out of the drawer, and so she began to write.

2.14.1985

It’s been two days since the birth of my little Angel, my lovely, my Carrie, and I cannot seem to understand the acute disdain mothers have for their children. Perhaps I am caught up in the ecstasy behind this tiny infant of mine, or perhaps my pregnancy was generally smoother than most, but what I believe for certain is that my daughter will grow to achieve wonderful things.

She’s a tiny baby—probably no more than six pounds—and she is the most beautiful little thing in the world. She may be young, but I can tell she is going to grow up to be a pretty girl. I can already see a lot of her father in her, but so far, not much of myself. Kenneth says she has my nose, but I believe lots of babies have dainty little ones like hers.

Speaking of, Kenneth has been nothing but attentive to me during these times. I’m a strong woman, but it’s like he takes pride in taking care of me, which I absolutely adore. He’s always ushering me back into bed, insisting I rest while he cares for me and little Carrie in my arms…part of me wonders if he’ll urge me to bind my waist and invite my mother as a second caretaker. It’s a little laughable, but quite endearing nonetheless.

Kenneth and I spoke earlier, and while I am not sure why, he seems rather fond of the idea of raising Carrie with our ideals. I, though, feel somewhat averse to it. Raising our daughter to be a witch like ourselves seems questionable at best and inhumane at worst. After all, we’re exposing her to the darker side of the world with the supernatural. Kenneth said we could raise her to be honorable and utilize our craft for good, but I still don’t know. I want our daughter to be able to live normally, but…I suppose it is still too early to discuss such matters.

Kenneth is currently feeding Carrie and is about to put her down for bed. Perhaps we can discuss this matter again in the morning.

As soon as Cynthia completed the entry, Kenneth returned to the bedroom. She smiled upon his entrance to the bedroom, setting down her journal and shutting off the light on her side. Kenneth crawled into bed with her, nestling under the covers comfortably.

Seconds of silence passed before either one spoke up. Kenneth turned his head to look at his wife, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders with grace and elegance never before seen.

“You’re not mad about my question earlier, are you?”

Cynthia shook her head. “I can’t stay mad at you. But I really think this is something we should revisit when she’s a little older.”

“I suppose you’re right,” murmured Kenneth. “Goodnight, dear.”

She didn’t reply.

***

Carrie’s memory was as ordinary as anyone else’s; she retained what was important and discarded what she deemed not to be. But, most peculiarly, rarely did she remember her childhood. Of course, there were days she would reminisce of dearly, though those were few and far between.

Times of her parents that she remembered were, as mentioned, very rare. That didn’t mean she forgot about them completely; she still could describe well the way her mother looked at her, or the way her father would speak of her to acquaintances. If anything, that was what she remembered best. But everything else, to her, was gone with the wind.

Just like something else—or rather someone.