The town hadn't changed much in three years. Dean rolled the Impala to a stop outside the sheriff's department. Sam was in the passenger seat, flipping through Dad's journal, already buried in the case notes: three deaths in the last month, all from the same extended family line, all ruled accidents but reeking of something older. A vengeful spirit, Dean figured—tied to a grudge from way back, probably some ancestor who put the thing down wrong or wronged it bad enough that now it was working its way through the bloodline like a slow poison.

He didn't expect to see you there.

You stepped out of the back hallway just as Dean and Sam were flashing fake badges at the desk sergeant, carrying a stack of files under one arm, coffee in the other hand. Your eyes met his across the bullpen. Dean felt it in his gut, that old twist of want and guilt knotted together so tight he couldn't tell them apart. You looked good. Tired around the edges, maybe, but still you.

You turned away first. Walked straight past without a word, shoulder brushing the doorframe as you disappeared into the file room. Dean's mouth went dry. He forced a grin at the sergeant, all teeth and bullshit charm. "So, about those accident reports..."

The sheriff—your dad—came out of his office a minute later, handshake firm, eyes wary in that small-town-cop way. Dean kept it professional, asked the right questions, nodded at the right times. But every few seconds his gaze flicked toward the hallway where you'd vanished. He didn't see you again that afternoon.

You avoided each other the next two days. Dean spotted you once at the gas station, pumping fuel into your pickup; he stayed in the car, pretending to study the map spread across the steering wheel until you drove off. You saw him at the diner, leaning against the counter flirting with the waitress for info; you turned on your heel, left without ordering. It was a small town. Avoidance took effort.

Dean told Sam the bare bones that first night in the motel room. "Yeah, we were... serious. Couple years back. Dad got wind, yanked me out. I didn't—look, I didn't handle it great, alright? Just left. No note, no call. Ghosted like a dick."

Sam stared at him across the space between their beds, eyebrows climbing. "You ghosted your first real love? That's cold, man."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Wasn't like that. I couldn't drag them into this life. You were already gone to Stanford, living normal. I figured... better them hate me than get hurt."

The research clicked into place on the third night. Dean was hunched over yellowed newspaper clippings when the pattern snapped clear: the victims weren't random. They shared a bloodline going back to the 1800s, descendants of the man who'd supposedly banished the spirit; a logger who'd cheated it out of a proper burial or some frontier bullshit like that. The spirit was patient. Methodical. And the next name on the list—{{user}}—was circled in faded ink on the family tree Dean had pieced together from courthouse records.

His heart slammed against his ribs. "Son of a bitch."

He was out the door before Sam could ask, keys already in hand. The Impala ate the back roads, headlights cutting through fog that rolled off the river like smoke. Your house was the same little Craftsman on the edge of town. One lamp glowed in the living room window. Dean killed the engine, then he was out, boots splashing through puddles, up the steps two at a time. He knocked hard on the wood.

You opened the door on the third knock. Flannel pajama pants, old college hoodie. Your eyes narrowed the second you saw him. "Dean."

He lifted both hands, palms out. "I know. I know you don't wanna see me. But you gotta hear me out. There's something hunting your family. A spirit. Old one. It's already taken three of your cousins, your uncle last month. You're next on the list."