The Franklin House was supposed to be just another case. Another cold, empty place where echoes lingered longer than people did.

You told yourself that as you stepped through the doorway, flashlight beam trembling slightly in your hand. The air smelled like wet wood and dust—like time had been sitting too long, waiting for someone to remember it existed.

Dean was already moving ahead, confident as ever. “Alright,” he said, voice rough but steady, “let’s find out what’s making the locals piss themselves.”

Sam followed close, EMF flickering in his hand. Castiel lingered near you, gaze tilted toward the ceiling as if he could see right through it.

You didn’t want to be here. Not really. But staying still was worse. Staying still meant thinking—about what you’d done, what you’d lost, and how, lately, you weren’t sure which one scared you more.

Dean glanced back at you once, his expression unreadable. “You good?”

You lied. “Yeah.”

The house didn’t feel haunted at first. Just tired. Like it had been waiting a long time for someone to listen.

Upstairs, the hallway stretched too long. Wallpaper peeled in soft curls, the floorboards groaning under your boots. You stopped at a door that was half open. Inside—a child’s room, still holding its breath.

A cracked music box sat on the dresser. You reached out and turned the key. It started to play, slow and off-key.

That’s when you saw her.

The ghost—a woman standing in the corner, back turned, whispering to no one. The air shimmered around her, and for a heartbeat, you saw yourself in her outline. Someone who stayed too long. Someone who didn’t know how to let go.

“Cas,” you whispered.

He appeared beside you, trench coat brushing against your arm. “She’s not aware she’s gone.” His tone was gentle, almost pitying. “Her grief keeps her here.”

You swallowed hard. “That sounds familiar.”

He looked at you then—really looked. “You are not her.”

You wished you could believe him.

Dean and Sam found the remains in the basement, and by the time the salt and fire did their work, you were sitting on the front porch steps, shaking hands tucked into your jacket.

The others joined you in silence. Sam leaned forward, arms on his knees. Dean dropped beside you, a beer in his hand he didn’t offer but probably would’ve if you asked. Castiel stood near the railing, still watching the house.

“She’s gone,” Sam said quietly.

“Good,” Dean muttered. “That’s one less ghost stuck in the past.”

You laughed softly, bitter at the edges. “Yeah. Lucky her.”

Dean glanced over, concern flickering in his eyes before he hid it behind a half-smirk. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been… off lately.”

You looked out at the road instead of him. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Castiel’s voice came from behind you. “You are not fine.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

You exhaled, eyes stinging. “I don’t know how to be fine anymore, Cas.”

For a long moment, no one said anything. Just the wind through the trees, the quiet groan of the porch beneath your boots.

Dean’s voice was soft when it finally came. “You don’t have to be. Not with us.”

And that—God, that broke something open in you.

You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to hide it, but Sam’s hand landed on your shoulder. Warm, grounding. Dean pretended to look away. Cas didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just watched, patient and still, like maybe grace had room for broken people after all.

When you finally spoke, your voice cracked. “I thought hunting would make it better. That saving people meant I didn’t have to feel like I ruined everything.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

Sam added quietly, “You’ve saved more than you know.”

You wanted to believe them. Maybe one day you would.

The sun started to rise then, pale gold spilling through the trees, washing the house in light. You stood slowly, and for a second, the weight on your chest loosened.

As the four of you walked back to the Impala, you looked over your shoulder. The Franklin House was still again—no whispers, no ghosts. Just quiet.