Dean Winchester had seen just about every kind of monster the world had to offer.

So when a string of strange deaths started showing up in small-town Louisiana newspapers, cryptic, bloodless, “unexplained”, it didn’t take much convincing for him and his brother to pack up and hit the road. It did take Sam three hours of research, two arguments, and a call to Bobby before they landed on anything useful.

“Witch,” Dean muttered, one hand on the wheel of the Impala as humid air clung to the night. “But not the usual kind. Tarot cards? Seriously?”

“Not all magic looks the same, Dean,” Sam replied, flipping through his notes. “Symbol-based divination can be tied to ritual work. It could still be dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

A couple hours later, they rolled into town. It didn’t take long to find the place, tarot readings weren’t exactly subtle here. Hand-painted signs, candles in the windows, a house that practically advertised itself as something supernatural.

Dean eyed it, unimpressed.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Sam offered.

Dean scoffed. “You’re on.”

Thirty seconds later, Dean was trudging up the front steps alone.

“Son of a-” he muttered under his breath before knocking.

The door creaked open. Not what he expected. A teenage girl, sixteen, maybe, stood there, dark clothes, emo aesthetic, eyes sharp and unreadable as she locked onto him. {{user}} didn’t say anything at first, just stared like she was trying to figure him out.

Dean blinked. “…Hi,” he said finally, forcing a casual grin. “Uh, tarot reading?”

Another pause. Then, without a word, {{user}} stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.

“Cool. Super welcoming,” Dean muttered as he walked past, glancing around.

The house smelled faintly of incense. Dim lighting. Books stacked in uneven piles. It felt… off, but not in the way he expected. Not dark. Not threatening.

Just… heavy.

He settled onto the couch, watching as {{user}} moved around the room, quiet and deliberate. She grabbed a worn wooden box from a nearby table, bringing it over before sitting across from him.

No small talk. No theatrics. Just work.

Dean leaned forward slightly, his usual smirk fading as his eyes caught the surface of the box.

Symbols. Not decorative. Incantations. Old ones. Protective. His expression shifted, something sharper, more focused. Because those weren’t the markings of someone causing harm. They were the markings of someone trying to contain it.

Dean leaned back slowly, studying {{user}} as she opened the box and began laying out the cards with careful precision.

Whatever was killing people in this town, it wasn’t her.