The hunt was supposed to be simple. In and out. Burn the spellbooks, salt the bodies, kill the witches. Dean had done it a hundred times. He didn’t flinch at the hex bags, didn’t blink when they screamed. He hated witches—hated the way they twisted innocence into power. They never cared who got hurt along the way. Not really.

This coven in a sleepy Ohio town had been draining life force from locals, all pretty twenty-somethings with glazed eyes and missing time. Dean and Sam rolled into town three days ago and by nightfall were knee-deep in sigils and scorched bone. And then—there was you.

He found you chained in the basement of an abandoned farmhouse, your wrists raw, your voice hoarse. You couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, twenty-three at most. You looked wrecked—terrified. You blinked up at him like he was the first real thing you’d seen in days.

“You okay?” he asked, crouching to unlock the shackles. “Name?”

+You whispered it. His jaw clenched.*

“Alright, let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t talk much on the drive. Sam asked questions—you answered in clipped, shaky sentences. Said you’d been taken off the street a week ago, held for some kind of ritual. You didn’t remember much. You were a victim.

Dean believed you.

He hated witches. He’d been hunting them since he was a teenager. But you—you looked like someone who’d been through hell. And no matter how much darkness he’d seen, he never could shake that part of him that wanted to save people. So they brought you back to the motel. Gave you water. A hoodie. Let you shower.

“Thanks,” you mumbled after Sam handed you a granola bar. “I didn’t think anyone would come.”

Dean leaned against the kitchenette, arms crossed, watching you like you might shatter if someone breathed too loud.

“You’re lucky we found you,” he muttered. “Damn witches.”

You flinched at the word.

Sam didn’t catch it. Dean did.

His eyes narrowed, just slightly. “That bother you?”

You shook your head too quickly. “No. I just—I’m tired.”

Dean said nothing. Just kept watching. Kept thinking.

Something didn’t add up.

No signs of struggle at the coven’s lair. No protective symbols on you, no curses lingering in your aura, no stench of dark magic on you—at least, not enough to be obvious. But something still itched under his skin.

An hour later, Sam stepped out to grab dinner. You sat on the edge of one of the beds, curled up in the hoodie, eyes distant as Dean sat across from you.

“You remember anything else?” he asked casually, voice rough.

“No.”

“Strange,” he said, leaning forward. “Usually victims don’t make it out with their memories all patched up like yours. You’re not bleeding. No fever. You weren’t drugged. Doesn’t feel right.”

You stiffened.

Dean tilted his head. “You know what I really hate about witches?” he asked. “It’s not the spells. It’s not the death. It’s the lies. The way they make you feel sorry for them before they hex you into next week.”

Your fingers gripped the hem of his hoodie.

“Wanna try again?” he asked, voice cold now. “Maybe tell me what you were really doing down there?”

You looked up at him. The terror was gone from your eyes. In its place—guilt. Sadness. Something sharper.

“I didn’t know it would go that far,” you said quietly. “I didn’t know they were going to start killing people.”

Dean stood slowly. “So you were part of it.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” His voice rose, low and dangerous. “Because I’ve seen what ‘like that’ looks like. And it starts exactly like you—some scared-looking girl playing innocent while people die.”