Chapter Text
“Hey,” a man’s voice sounds on the other end of the line. It’s not John’s, I recognize. This person sounds younger.
“Hey, it’s Sue. I was looking for John. John Winchester?” I ask hesitantly.
There’s a moment of silence before the man on the phone says, “That’s my dad. I’m Dean Winchester. He’s unavailable at the moment.”
“Oh,” I say. “He said to call if I ever needed him. Is he okay?”
I hear Dean exhale slowly on the other end of the line. “He’s been missing for a while,” he says, his tone betraying that he’s unsure whether or not to trust the stranger on the phone. “Why were you looking for him?”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He saved my life years ago. My name is Sue, I’m a hunter. There’s something big going down in this town in Ohio tonight, and my regular hunting buddy is tied up somewhere else. I could use some help.”
“Big how?” he asks, clearly interested.
“Big as in, this town has a curse on it and once every hundred years there’s a zombie party at midnight.”
I hear Dean’s muffled voice then, discussing what I just said with someone else who’s with him. I wait a little impatiently before his voice returns to the line.
“You still there? My brother and I can be there in five hours.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, great. Thanks, Dean. I’m staying at the Starlight Motel in Ashford, Ohio. I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”
I hear a click and the line disconnects. I put my phone on the nightstand and stretch, leaning back against the headboard of my motel bed. I close the lore book on my lap and put it next to my phone. I think about what Dean shared about John being missing and feel a knot in my stomach. I sincerely hope he’s okay. I don’t know John well and I’ve only spoken to him a few times in the last eleven years, but I owe him everything.
I decide to get a few hours of shut-eye before the boys get here and turn off the light on my bedside table, laying my head down on my pillow. The buzzing of my phone wakes me up hours later, the first rays of sunlight shining through the gap between the window curtains. I check the time—05:35. The boys must have driven all through the night. I pick up the phone and hear Dean’s voice. “Sue? We’re close. We’ll be there within fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
I use the time I have to take a short shower and put on some old jeans, a tank top, and my black leather jacket. I towel-dry my wavy, auburn hair and make my way to the lobby to wait.
Not long after, a black Impala drives up the gravel road leading to the motel. I recognize the car as John’s; it impressed me a lot as a kid. Two men step out of it: one very tall with brown, mid-length hair, and a shorter but still tall, bulky, very handsome guy with short-cropped dark blond hair and a beige leather jacket. They spot me and I wave in recognition. They walk toward me casually.
“You Sue?” the shorter one asks. I recognize his voice immediately as Dean’s.
I can feel him checking me out, even if he tries to hide it. His energy is intense and speaks of someone who has lost a lot in his life but has learned to mask it with arrogance and playfulness. My eyes flick to his brother, who carries a similar energy but also something very different, more innocent, with a thick layer of grief over it. He’s lost someone important to him recently.
“Yeah,” I say, holding my hand out to shake his, and then his brother’s, who introduces himself as Sam.
“So, what’s the story, Sue?” Dean asks, his voice smooth. My lips quirk. I can tell he thinks he’s very charming.
“My room is down there. I have my research there and I can fill you guys in.” I say.
“Well, slow down, tiger. We’ve only just met and you’re already inviting us to your room?” Dean jokes, his words followed by a quiet heh.
I roll my eyes and say nothing, turning around and leading the boys to my room. “Stop staring at my ass, please,” I say without turning around, and I feel Dean’s surprise at being caught without me even looking at him. Through my ability, I can almost feel him throw a surprised look at his brother.
I let the boys in and show them my research. “A hunter friend of mine gave me the tip. She knew I was nearby, so I decided to check it out. Turns out there’s a pattern here; this has been going on for hundreds of years. Who knows when or how it started, but it ends up with people dying. By now, to the people here, it’s nothing but ghost stories told by their grandparents, but it seems like the real deal - zombies rising up from the local cemetery and attacking people in their homes. If my calculations are correct, and if it happens again, it’s going to be tonight.”
“This is impressive, Sue,” Sam says, and I feel he’s sincere.
“Yeah,” Dean says, leaning back in his chair and scanning me. He’s impressed but also skeptical, I sense. “So how long have you been doing this, Sue?”
My eyes meet his in challenge. “Since I was a kid. Why?”
“Since you were a kid? So what, like three years ago?” he counters with a half-grin.
I let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ve been a part of this world for eleven years, Dean. Don’t start. I’ve met plenty of cocky male hunters who thought I was just a pretty-faced girl who didn’t know what she was doing. I know what I’m doing, don’t worry.”
He looks at me for a moment longer, considering my words, and then shrugs. “Okay, whatever. Just don’t get in our way.” He leans down to open the minibar under the table and takes a small bottle of whiskey from it, unscrewing the cap with a click.
“Sure,” I say casually. “As long as you don’t get in mine". I reach over and take the bottle from his hand to take a sip, then hand it back to him.
His energy changes in response to my challenge, from dismissive to more appreciative. I can tell he’s reconsidering whatever preconceptions he had about me. I smile as I turn my back to him, focusing my attention on Sam, who’s still digging into my research, and feel instantly annoyed as I sense Dean’s eyes slide to my backside again. My head snaps around.
“I said, stop staring at my ass.”
Dean’s eyes widen a little and he throws his hands up defensively, palms forward. Sam lifts his head to look at the interaction, equally amused and curious.
“How did you…?” Dean stammers a little clumsily, his eyes flicking from mine to Sam’s.
“I’m an empath,” I say dryly.
“Really?” Sam asks with genuine interest. “Like in a psychic way?”
“Not really.” I shrug. “Psychics are usually a lot more powerful than I am. I’m just… supernaturally sensitive to energies. I can feel emotions and presences. That’s it.”
“So you can pick up on what other people are feeling?” Dean asks, leaning forward.
“Yeah. And I can sense when monsters are nearby. Real handy on a hunt.”
“Wow,” Sam says. “I can imagine.”
“Can you sense demons?” Dean asks, and I feel there’s more behind the question than he’s letting on.
“Yes, though I’ve only encountered two of them so far. Not that I mind. They freak me out, the way they possess a helpless person. To feel the host being trapped in there…” I shiver, remembering my last encounter with a demon. Russ and I managed to trap and exorcise it, but the entire ordeal wreaked havoc on my emotional state for about a week.
I see the boys exchange a glance. “Why are you asking that?” I ask.
“Our dad… He’s chasing the demon that killed our mom. We’re trying to find him,” Sam says.
“Oh.” The weight of his words settles in my stomach. “Did she die recently?”
“No,” Sam says, lowering his eyes. “When I was a baby. Dean was four.”
I’m confused for a moment. “Oh. John... he never told me that," I say quietly. "Then what… Who did you lose? I’m sorry if you don’t want to share anything, but I feel…” My sentence trails off.
Sam raises his eyes again, confusion turning to sadness as he remembers what I told him about me being an empath. “My girlfriend. Jessica. The demon killed her too.”
His pain hits me like a punch to the gut. I sit down on the edge of the bed next to him and place my hand over his on his lap. “I’m so sorry, Sam.” His eyes meet mine. I feel a mix of grief, shame, and gratitude as he exhales.
“Thanks.”
“Which is another reason why we need to find and kill the yellow-eyed son of a bitch,” Dean says from his chair, taking a sip of whiskey.
I look at him. Behind his bravado is just a son missing his parents and a childhood full of horrors. My annoyance fades, replaced by quiet sympathy, and I can feel his discomfort at the way I’m assessing him.
“So what’s your story? How’d you get into the life?” Dean asks, deflecting the attention away from the boys' backstory to mine. As good as I am at reading other people’s emotions, I’m just as good at keeping mine locked away.
“A wraith murdered my parents. John saved my life. I was raised by a psychic and have been hunting on my own since I was old enough to shoot a rifle.”
“Damn,” Dean says. “That’s tough. I’m sorry.”
“Being sorry doesn’t change anything.” I get to my feet and stretch. “Getting out there and preventing it from happening to other families will.”
I feel Dean’s eyes scan my body appreciatively before he catches himself and looks away, focusing on a random corner. “Yeah. Fair enough.”
I gather my gear as the boys check into the motel, and we meet again in the lobby. We walk through the town I scouted yesterday, and I show them where the cemetery is. Locals eye the three of us—some curious, others suspicious.
We grab a table at a local coffeehouse and order coffee and a slice of pie for Dean. I watch with amusement as he stuffs it into his face.
“So you have no idea who cursed this place?” Sam asks.
“No. The lore only goes back so far. Either the witch or necromancer who placed the curse is still active, or the curse is tied to an object somewhere in the cemetery. I scoured the place yesterday, but it’s hard to look for something when you don’t know what it looks like.”
“So we just gank the zombies, right?” Dean asks with his mouth full. “Then we’re good for another hundred years.”
“If we can’t find the source, yes. But I’d like to leave knowing we didn’t save these people just so their grandkids could get killed a century from now.” I say.
Sam nods. Dean does too, his focus divided between pie and the plan. A young waitress refills our coffee, and Dean smiles appreciatively at her. I see her blush before she hurries away. I roll my eyes and say nothing. He looks at me, eyebrow raised. “What?”
“Nothing.” I say, averting my eyes and taking another sip of my coffee.
I can tell he’s intrigued by me, but I tell myself I’m not interested in a playboy like him. Growing up around hunters taught me most of them are the same - overconfident, cocky, and overly friendly with any woman they meet on a hunt. Dean fits the cliché perfectly. Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t. He seems softer, gentler. I find myself wondering if he would’ve chosen this life if it hadn’t been forced on him the way it had.
I can feel Dean’s eyes resting on me for a few seconds longer before he leans back in his seat.
“So what do we do? Check out the cemetery one more time to see if we can find anything? Or…”
“Or?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“…or does this place have a bar somewhere? We can drink a beer, play a game of pool. Have some fun before we start ganking those bitches.”
“‘Those bitches’ were loved ones of the people who live here, Dean. Be respectful,” Sam says with a frown.
“Yeah, yeah. Before we save the town. What do you say, Sue? You in?” Dean asks, grinning at me.
I look at Dean, then Sam. “Go, if you want,” Sam says. “I’m gonna stay and see if I can find more on the cause of this curse.”
I look at Dean again. “Sure, why not.” I drain my cup and slide out of the booth. “There’s a dive bar on the other side of town. We can walk there.”
“Great. Let’s go,” Dean says, following me.
We walk through the town toward the bar. “So you said your regular hunting buddy was unavailable. Who’s that?” he asks.
“Russell Carter. He’s a hunter who came to consult Elena on a case he was working on. I joined him on that particular hunt, and we’ve been friends and hunting buddies ever since.”
“Hm. Haven’t heard of him,” Dean says. “Must be nice. Do you work with a lot of other hunters?”
“Sometimes. I’m not really…” I pause and sigh while looking for the words. “I don’t like to hang around a lot of people.”
“Because of the empath thing?”
I turn my head to look at him and find his green eyes fixed on me with genuine interest. He’s more perceptive than I gave him credit for.
“Yeah,” I say. “Hunters can be… intense. I’ve known Russ for a long time now. He’s a chill dude, and I’m tuned into him. Being around him doesn’t drain me as much as being around other people.”
“Must be tough, to feel everything like that,” he says.
“Sometimes,” I say simply, not really feeling the need to elaborate further. Most hunters I’ve met have shown interest in my abilities - at best out of genuine curiosity and at worst because they viewed me as a useful tool. It makes me hesitant about sharing too much, though I can tell Dean’s intentions with his line of questioning aren’t bad.
We walk in comfortable silence until we reach the dive bar. Inside, it’s mostly empty aside from a few guys sitting around a table playing cards, and an old drunk sitting by a slot machine in the corner. We walk over to the bar and order a couple of beers. My eye flicks to the pool table.
“Wanna play?”
“Sure, sweetheart,” Dean says with a grin.
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I say, slightly annoyed, racking the balls onto the table.
His grin falters for just a fraction of a second before it returns. “Sure thing, Sue, my apologies,” he says, his voice smooth as butter.
As he leans over the table to break the balls, I ask him, “Does that actually work on women? The witty remarks, the nicknames, the charm?”
He breaks, two balls immediately flying into the corner pockets, and stands to meet my gaze, his grin still present.
“Are you saying I’m charming?”
“I’m saying you’re trying to be,” I respond dryly.
He pockets another ball, then straightens. “I don’t know, Sue, you tell me - is it working?” He steps closer to me, his grin never faltering. The intense look in his eyes makes my stomach jump despite myself. I shield myself from it and casually sip my beer.
“No.”
He chuckles and shrugs, leaning over to aim for his next shot, but misses.
As soon as I lean over the table next, I feel his eyes on me, watching me again, triggering annoyance, but this time also a slight flush in my cheeks. I miss my shot and curse softly. Normally I’m much better at pool, but something about this dude is affecting me, and I don’t like that.
“Oof. You’re in trouble now,” he says. In just a few shots, he clears the table, leaving only my balls and the eight ball. He aims for the eight ball to go into the middle pocket, but misses.
I raise my emotional walls, tuning this man - and whatever effect he has on me - out, and force myself to focus on the game. The next few shots are mine, and one after another I clear my balls from the table. Dean whistles. “Nice comeback, sweetheart.”
I throw him a warning glance, and he raises his hands in defense. “Sorry, sorry. Force of habit,” he says. “Won’t say it again.”
I can’t help but smile as I say “You’d better not”, right before pocketing my final ball, leaving just the eight ball. I throw him a smug look as I walk around the table. I grab the chalk from right beside where his hand is resting on the edge, and hold eye contact while saying “middle pocket, left”.
He presses his lips together and nods, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. I feel his appreciation for me growing, and realize I like that. I lean over the table, this time not minding his eyes following the movement, and pocket the eight ball in the left middle pocket with ease.
Dean claps slowly. “Well played”.
“Thanks” I say with a grin. “One more?”
“Sure” he says, but as he reaches to take the balls out of the corner pocket, his phone rings. He answers it. “Sam?”
I hear Sam’s voice on the other end of the line. “Sure thing Sammy, we’ll meet you there” Dean says before hanging up the phone. He drains his beer in one go, puts down the bottle and looks at me.
“Sam found something. Let's go.”
Dean and I meet Sam at the town library, where he’s sitting at a table, covered in old papers and files.
“So, supernerd, what have you found?” Dean asks.
“Okay,” Sam says, ignoring his brother’s quip. “So this town’s version of the story is wrong. It’s not a random curse, and it’s not just… zombies every hundred years.”
He glances at us, making sure we’re following.
“There was a family here before the town officially existed. One of the first settler families. The Blackwoods.”
Dean frowns. “Let me guess. Freaky reputation.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “They were known for… unconventional practices. Healing, burial rites—stuff people didn’t understand back then. By the late 1600s, that was enough to get you labeled a witch.”
He taps a brittle photocopy of an old record.
“The last heir - Elias Blackwood - was accused of necromancy and burned by the townsfolk in 1705. No trial. No official record beyond a church note and a few personal accounts. And here’s the thing. He was buried afterward. And according to the burial register, he was laid to rest with a family heirloom. Something personal.”
“And that’s the problem,” Dean says.
Sam nods. “Yeah. Whatever that object is, Elias must have cursed it before he died, tied the spell to himself and the land. Every hundred years, the curse reactivates.”
“Zombies,” Dean mutters.
“Reanimated bodies,” Sam corrects automatically. “They’re not the point. They’re a side effect. As long as that object is intact and buried with him, the curse keeps resetting.”
“Which means killing the zombies won’t stop it. We have to find the grave, and whatever he was buried with,” I say.
“Sounds like a plan. Let’s go,” Dean says, already rising from the table.
We make our way to the cemetery, the sun already setting behind the town buildings.
“We need to be discreet,” Sam says. “I’ve noticed some of the townspeople are suspicious of us being here.”
“Let them be. We’re trying to save their asses here,” Dean says.
We split up to walk through the tombstones, reading the names on them. After a while, we meet under a tree in the middle of the cemetery.
“Anything?” Sam asks, looking at us.
“Nothing. No Blackwoods,” Dean says.
“Me neither,” I say. “But maybe he didn’t get a tombstone? Or he was buried somewhere else? Away from the other people?”
“Let’s check behind the church,” Sam says with a nod.
We walk to the other side of the church, and right then I pick up something with my empathic ability—a low hum, like something moving deep below your feet.
Before I can say anything, Sam says, “Look there,” pointing to a place on the ground that is suspiciously barren compared to the soil around it.
As we step closer, we see that the dead spot forms an almost perfect circle around a heavily oxidized, sunken metal plate with faded numbers on it.
“Bingo,” Dean says.
My senses confirm what he says; there’s something powerful buried in the ground here.
Sam glances around, seeing a few townspeople cross the street further on. “We should wait until it’s darker to dig up the body,” he says in a low voice.
“Cutting it a little close then, aren’t we, Sam?” Dean says. “Aren’t the dead supposed to rise at midnight?”
“Yeah, but if the townsfolk report us to the local police and we get arrested for grave robbing, that’s a bigger problem,” Sam says.
“Fine, fine. Let’s get some dinner, get our stuff, and then we’ll come back,” Dean says.
After eating a pizza at a local diner, we make our way back to the Impala to get a duffel bag filled with shovels, crowbars, shotguns, salt, and machetes. By the time we get back to the cemetery, it’s fully dark.
“Let’s get this over with,” Dean says.
We start digging, the three of us working in silence except for a few grunts here and there. We work slowly, as a result of the soil being damp and heavy, and I feel the pressure from the dark energy below us rising.
“Uh, guys,” I say. “What time is it?”
Dean looks at his watch. “Shit,” he says. “Eleven forty-five.”
“Then let’s hurry the fuck up, because I don’t think I mentioned this, but I absolutely hate zombies,” I say.
I hear Dean chuckle as the three of us increase the tempo, panting a little from the effort, and then we finally hear a clink as Sam’s shovel hits something solid—the sound of metal against metal.
A grin spreads on his face as he crawls down to clear the dirt from the lid of the casket.
“It’s made of lead,” Sam says.
“Oh, great,” Dean says sarcastically. “Let’s see if we can open it.”
As the boys work to lift the heavy leaden lid from the casket, I feel a cold shiver run through my body, and I turn around.
“Uh, guys? We have company,” I say, seeing several decomposed hands reaching up from below the ground on the other side of the church.
Dean looks up and sees it too. “Damn it. Come on, Sammy, put your back into it.”
They manage to pry the lid open with their crowbars, but by that time several zombies have managed to free themselves from the ground. I grab a shotgun and raise it, looking back to see what the guys are doing. Dean’s eyes meet mine as he climbs out of the hole we dug.
“Sam, find the object. We’ll fight them off,” he says to his brother.
Sam, carrying a flashlight, just says, “Got it,” digging through the dirt and decomposed remains in the casket.
Dean’s eyes meet mine. “You take the left side,” he says. “I’ll go right.”
I nod and move to the left, focusing on the movement of the zombies in front of us. As the ones on the ground start moving, more and more hands stick up from the earth, and my stomach sinks at how many there are. I raise my shotgun to shoot at the first zombie half-walking, half-running toward me, and from the moment the shot’s fired, all hell breaks loose.
All the zombies are focused on us now - some still looking shockingly like the people they used to be, others severely decomposed and straight out of a horror movie. One zombie is dragging itself across the ground with its hands, its legs missing.
“Come on, Sammy, what’s taking so long?” Dean barks at his younger brother, firing round after round at the zombies approaching us, only slowing them down and pissing them off more.
“It’s too damn dark, I can’t find anything!” Sam shouts, frustrated.
“Well, look harder, damn it!” Dean retorts.
I switch my shotgun for a machete and lunge toward the zombie closest to me, chopping its head off. My empathic sense picks up on something behind me, and I twirl around, swinging the machete, cutting off the arm of a zombie that was coming to grab me from behind. I jump back and take another swing at it, at the same time as Dean fires a shot at its head. It distracts the zombie just enough for me to take its head off.
“You okay?” he yells my way.
“Great, thanks,” I throw back. “Did I mention I hate zombies?”
He barks a laugh before shooting another zombie in the head. “You really picked the wrong job then, kid,” he says.
“Found it!” Sam yells from inside the grave.
Relief surges through me, even as another corpse lunges forward. I swing the machete, decapitating it in one clean arc.
“Then burn it!” Dean shouts, firing another round before shoving a zombie back with his shoulder.
“I’m working on it!” Sam snaps.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. Sam scrambles out of the grave, clutching what looks like a heavy signet ring. Even from here I can feel it — thick, rotten magic clinging to it like tar.
“That’s it!” I yell. “That’s the anchor!”
Sam dumps half a canister of salt over the ring. He fumbles for the lighter fluid in the duffel, douses the ring without ceremony, then strikes his lighter. The first spark dies in the wind.
“Sam!” Dean barks, slamming the butt of his shotgun into a corpse’s skull.
“Hold on!”
The second spark catches. Sam tosses the lighter onto the soaked ring. The flames roar up instantly.
I feel the change like a shockwave blowing through me, starting at the ring and fanning out over the cemetery. The zombies that were moving toward us slow, then stop, then slump to the ground. For a moment, the only sound is the sizzle of fire combined with our heavy breathing.
“Well, that was fun,” Dean says after a moment. “But I think it’s time to get out of here.”
“Are we just going to leave all the bodies scattered around?” Sam asks.
Dean shrugs. “Town’ll take care of them. We did our part,” he says. I feel Sam’s discomfort at the idea that townspeople will wake up in the morning to find their deceased relatives and loved ones lying on the ground in the middle of the cemetery, but we know there’s no time to put all of them back in the ground.
Sam sighs and crouches down to check the ring on the ground. I look at it and feel the faded remnants of the magic that was there, the echo of things that happened here a long time ago.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
We make our way back to the motel, gathering our things and loading them into the Impala and my own car so we can get out of town before people start waking up. Dean slams the trunk shut and turns around to look at me.
“Well, it was a pleasure working with you, Sue,” he says with a grin.
I look at him, his face and clothes covered in dirt - his cocky smirk, the shimmer in his eyes - and smile. “Same, Winchester,” I say.
“Wait, Dean,” Sam says. “I was thinking… maybe Sue could join us for a while. Help us find dad?” He looks at me, and then at Dean again.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. “Come on, no way, Sam. It’s you and me. You know that. Not you, me, and…” He stops there, looking at me almost apologetically.
I snort, sensing Dean’s hesitation to take a woman along on their journey.
“Come on, Dean. You saw her tonight. She’s a good hunter. And her abilities could be really helpful—to find dad, help solve other cases we run into along the way, maybe even to find Yellow-Eyes.”
I see Dean hesitate, his eyes flicking from me to Sam and back. He’s not eager to have me tag along, but he knows that what his brother says makes sense.
“Look, if I can help you find John, I’ll gladly do it,” I say, raising my hands. “I owe him that. But if you don’t want me to come, that’s up to you.”
Dean takes a deep breath before saying, “Alright, fine. But no chick-flick shit along the way, okay? And keep up. I’m not slowing down for you.”
“Sure, Dean, no worries,” I say, shaking my head, laughing. “Let’s go.”