Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She was honestly surprised no one had pulled over to talk to her yet. People usually did. Maybe because they weren’t used to seeing a child walk down the shoulder of the road.
Her feet hurt. She’d been walking since after breakfast. That was probably why she felt sick, too. A lot of walking after eating pancakes.

Bee frowned, squinting in the midday sun. It was partly cloudy. The air smelt wet with rain, even if it hadn’t rained yet. She was coming up on the hill where the gas station was. The gas station Frank sometimes took her with him to get fish bait and he’d buy her a Bug Juice.

Just as she crested the hill… that was when she saw it.

A sleek, black car. Big. Low. Sharp-angled.

The car she had seen in her dreams.

Shoulders aching, she halted beside it, the girl huffing and puffing as she tried to catch her breath. She had found it. She had found the car.

Her gaze turned to the convenience store as the doors opened with the jingle of a bell. Two men stepped out. Two men that looked kind of like John.

One had short hair. Leather jacket. Boots. Holes in the knees of his jeans. He looked more like John than the other one. Especially the way he smiled. But his eyes were softer. Brighter. He was looking at the receipt, complaining about gas prices. That sounded familiar.

The other had longer hair, about chin-length. His face was softer, especially in the angles. Dark eyes, like John. He was wearing a flannel and a t-shirt. Jeans. Sneakers. Busy juggling an armful of snacks, muttering about how everywhere charged for bags nowadays.

That was them.

She’d found them.

---------

Dean glanced up toward the Impala. Paused. And did a double-take. Blinked. Stared. “Sam. … There’s a kid standing by Baby.”

“Hm?” Sam’s gaze turned toward the Impala.

“You see that, right?”

“Uh… Yep. There’s a kid, there.”

Standing by the impala was a child. Maybe eight years old, give or take. Her hair was short, a mess of dark locks that couldn’t decide if they wanted to be wavy or curly. Pale, freckled, with dark rings under those baby blue eyes. She was wearing an orange jacket, a striped long-sleeved shirt, a pair of green overalls, and yellow rain boots. Her little dinosaur backpack looked heavy, drooping at her back like she could barely carry it.

The air had gone still as she stared at them, still and unmoving. Feeling almost thin. The wind had died, the rustle of the leaves from before now absent.

Dean glanced around. The rest of the parking lot was empty. Baby was still parked by the second pump. The kid hadn’t been there before, but she looked like she was waiting for someone.

Sam moved first. Approaching slowly, like he was afraid of scaring off an animal. There was a brief second, a pause, before Dean followed.

“Uh… Hey.” Sam’s voice was gentle, his tone soft. “Are you lost?”

“No.” The girl shook her head. “I was waiting for you.”

Sam’s brows shot up, and he peered over at Dean.

Dean gave her a puzzled look, hands in his jacket pockets, brows furrowing. “What do you mean, waiting for us?”

“Exactly what I said?” She peered critically at him.

“… Where’re your parents?”

She frowned, gaze falling. She kicked a pebble. “Dead. Well… Mom’s dead. John never came back, so I guess he’s dead, too.”

They both froze, staring at her, glancing at each other before peering down at her again. Dean’s brows knit, his head tilting a bit as he tried to parse her meaning. “John who?”

Sam lowered to sit on his heels, bringing himself down to her level. “What’s your name?”

“Bethany Winchester.”

Dean’s mouth fell open slightly. His stomach dropped as her words sank in. Sam’s lips parted on a hitched breath.

The sound of an engine rumbling, tires on pavement, drew their attention as a beat-up sedan pulled into the gas station parking lot. The driver didn’t even bother shutting it off before throwing the door open and stepping out.

“Bethany, what did we tell you about wandering off—” He stopped dead, mid-sentence, when he spotted Dean and Sam.

The man’s eyes widened. His mouth worked silently, his haggard face fluxing between confusion and a grim sort of resignation.

He sighed. “Winchester?”

“Uh… Yeah.” Dean answered.

Sam stood. “We’re—”

“John’s boys.” The man said.

The child blinked, glancing between them. “You know them?”

“I know them, yeah.” He gave a long-suffering sigh, scrubbing his face with a hand before rubbing his neck. “John told me not to tell you. Said it was safer. Said it was temporary. Said he’d be back.” He looks at Sam and Dean, exhausted. “He didn’t come back.”

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Sam’s heart sank.

“… I’m Frank Winslow. I run a foster-home.” The man paused, then gestured toward the car. “Look… you two better come to the house. We need to talk.”

---------

Frank led them back to the house, at the edge of town by a sparse patch of woods and an empty field. It was an old farmhouse, unassuming and cozy, with a chain link fence around the perimeter. Off to one side was a garage, and the other side a small play area – complete with a sandbox, a tire swing, and a trampoline.

A couple older kids were playing basketball in the driveway until Frank pulled in, his fosters glancing at the black Impala that parked on the curb at the edge of the property.

Hunters died on the job. Their quarry wasn’t above targeting their families. Things happened. So, the Hunter network had an unfortunate need for such places. Frank glanced at Bee in the rear-view mirror. But he didn’t say anything. No usual lecture, no questions, no attempts at negotiation so she would stay put instead of wandering off. Just a tired, faintly relieved quiet.

When they pulled up, Frank’s wife Margarite stepped out onto the porch, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. Her brows pinched in, whatever she had been about to quip cutting off when the two men emerged from the Impala. She sighed, quietly taking the backpack off Bee’s shoulders and ushering her inside.

As they came up the sidewalk, Dean could no longer hold back the question that had been gnawing at him. “What do you mean, he told you not to tell us?”

“I mean John made me damn near swear to it. He wouldn’t say why, no matter how much I poked him. You know how he was.”

His jaw tightened.

Sam’s gaze dropped, and he slid his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching faintly.

“…Then we heard through the grapevine that he’s… passed.”

Sam gave a faint nod — the kind that says *yeah, we know, and it still hurts.*

Dean didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Frank shook his head, leading them inside. “This is the fifth time she’s run away trying to find you two.”

Sam’s gaze snapped up as the three of them stepped into the kitchen.

“We have other kids we’ve got to look out for. And you’re her brothers. Half brothers. Whatever.” Frank looked directly at Dean — because Dean is the oldest, the one who radiates responsibility even when he’s silent. “Usual policy is that the closest living relative takes custody in incidents like this. That’s you two.”

Dean swallowed hard, throat feeling tight.

“… Wait here.” He gestured to the dining room as he turned, moving down the hall.

Bee watched in silence as Margarite set a tray down on the table, laden with fresh lemonade and clean glasses. She poured one for either guest and set them out. Bee herself was sitting at the table with her own glass, swinging her legs under the table.

After a long moment, Frank returned with a thick stack of paperwork, and drops it on the table. Not neatly. Not ceremonially.

Just drops it.

“Here. All of it.” Frank said. “Birth certificate, medical forms, school records, CPS notes… everything.”

Dean stared at the pile like it was a bomb.

Sam reached out, hesitating briefly before pulling the stack closer. He started flipping through it, already in research mode.

Frank slumped into a chair. “She’s a good kid. A really good kid. But she’s… complicated.”

Bee pouted at him from across the table. “I’m right here.” Her shoulders hunched, just a little.

He sighs. “I know, Bee. But you are.” Frank then looked at the Winchesters. “She doesn’t sleep right. She talks in her sleep. She wanders. She wakes up in places she didn’t fall asleep. She says things that don’t make sense. She knows things she shouldn’t know.”

Dean and Sam exchange a look.

The foster father continued. “And she’s been asking about you two for months. Said she had dreams about ‘the car’ and ‘the brothers.’ We thought it was symbolic or something.”

He gestures helplessly.

“Turns out she meant it literally.”

“Look… Ten minutes ago, we didn’t even know she existed.” Dean said quietly, glancing at the child. “We’re not just… casually road-tripping!”

“You’re Hunters like your old man.” Frank drawled. “Yes, I know. But… Honestly? I think it’d be safer if you just take her with you. At least then she won’t be running off alone.”

Sam’s gaze rose from the girl’s birth certificate, peering at Dean, who seemed to be at a loss for words. Quietly, Sam showed him the certificate. Signed by one Tanya Carter… and a signature that was unmistakable… John Winchester. As if they needed more proof besides their bizarre first encounter.

Dean rose from his chair, pacing slowly, dragging his fingers through his hair. Part of him wanted to protest. But he didn’t know what he would say. Not when he’d already made up his mind. Halting, hands resting on his hips, he huffed out a curse under his breath.

“Dean?” Sam asked quietly, turning to look at him. “… I think he’s right.”

He nodded.

Frank turned to the child. “… Go pack your things.”

She slid out of her chair, turning and heading for the stairs. Margarite rested a hand briefly on Bee’s back as she passed — a silent reassurance, or maybe a goodbye.

“And more than your damn books! Things like CLOTHES.”

---------

Bee trudged up the stairs, her boots thumping softly on the old wood. She didn’t rush. She never rushed when she packed. Rushing made you forget things.

Her room was small but tidy — not because she was neat, but because she didn’t have much. A bed. A dresser. A shelf with a few mismatched books. A plastic bin of blocks and dominoes. A jar she used for catching bugs and frogs. A single plush fruit bat sitting on her pillow.

She went straight to the bookshelf.

Not the dresser. Not the closet. The bookshelf.

She pulled down the three books she always took. The one about animals, the one about dream symbols, the one with the pictures of old buildings she liked… She stacked them carefully on the bed.

Then she grabbed her notebook — the one with the bent cover and the doodles of frogs and spirals — and tucked it under her arm.

Only then did she turn to Henry.

The plush fruit bat was soft from years of being held, wings closed around his body with a little Velcro clasp. She picked him up gently, brushing a thumb over his button eyes.

“I’m taking you,” she whispered. “Obviously.”

Henry didn’t answer, but she nodded anyway.

She opened her dinosaur backpack and started loading it. Notebook, books, Henry, a handful of dominoes, a stick she’d found last week that looked like a wand, a smooth stone she liked the feel of…

The bag was already heavy.

She zipped it halfway, then paused.

Bee paused, then sighed.

Right. Clothes.

She went to the dresser and pulled out two shirts, one pair of pants, socks – she grabbed mismatched ones because they were “friends” – underwear… She stuffed them in on top of the books. The zipper strained, but she got it closed.

She stood there for a moment, looking around her room. She didn’t have posters or toys or decorations. Nothing she felt the need to take.

Except—

She walked to the windowsill and picked up a chipped mug with a faded daisy on it. Her mother’s mug. The one she kept even though she wasn’t supposed to drink out of it.
She held it to her chest for a moment, then tucked it carefully into the side pocket of her backpack.

The zipper didn’t close all the way, but that was fine.

She slung the bag over her shoulder. It nearly pulled her sideways, but she adjusted her stance like she always did.

Henry peeked out from the top.

Bee nodded to herself.

“Okay.” She whispered to herself. “Ready.”

Bee tromped back down the stairs, backpack dragging her slightly sideways. Henry’s plush head poked out the top, the plush bat’s button eyes glinting softly. The dinosaur backpack’s zipper strained against its cargo. One rainbow-striped sock was hanging halfway out of the side pocket.

Dean saw her first. He blinked. Then he blinked again.

“…That’s it?” He asked, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and concern.

“I brought my books.” Bee tilted her head faintly.

Sam stepped closer, peering down in the gap where the zipper was too strained to close. Sam’s expression softens immediately.

Dean’s does the opposite, his face tensing a bit in what could’ve been a wince. “Kid, there’s no way you packed enough clothes. Is it all books?”

“It’s mostly books.” The girl said simply. “They’re important.”

Dean dragged a hand over his face. “So are pants!”

Bee pouted. “I brought pants.”

Sam bit back a smile. “She did. They’re just… under everything else.”

Dean muttered something under his breath, sounding like a prayer and a curse at the same time.

Margarite stepped in with the quiet authority of a woman who has repacked this child’s bag more times than she can count.

“Come here, sweetheart.” She said, patting the table.

Bee climbed into a chair. Margarite unzips the backpack and begins sorting with practiced hands. Dean watched, brows furrowing as the woman pulled out the books, the dominoes, the stick, the stone, the plushie. As she does, Frank headed upstairs, and Margarite began to repack the dinosaur bag with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a dozen times over.

“We’ll keep Henry on top so he doesn’t get squished.” Margarite said.

Bee nodded solemnly.

Margarite folded the clothes properly, tucking them at the bottom, then layered the books flat so the weight wouldn’t pull Bee backward. She wrapped the mug in a shirt so it wouldn’t break.

While Margarite repacks, Dean stepped back from the table. He paced a slow, tight circle at the edge of the kitchen. His hands were on his hips. His breathing was shallow, his mouth dry. He swore he could feel a migraine coming on.

“Sam…” Dean shook his head, peering helplessly at him. “Sam, we can’t—I mean, look at her. She’s a kid. She’s a KID. We hunt monsters. We sleep in motels. We get shot at. We… We can’t—”

Sam moved closer, lowering his voice. “Dean.”

Dean keeps pacing. “She brought a rock, Sam. A rock. And a stick. And a… a stuffed bat named Henry. She doesn’t know what she’s walking into.”

“… Neither did we.” Sam reminded him in a quiet voice.

Dean stops.

Sam continues, gentle but firm. “She’s been trying to find us for months. She ran away five times. She followed a dream to the Impala. She’s John’s kid, Dean. And she’s ours now.”

Dean’s throat works. He looks at Bee — small, quiet, watching Margarite repack her life into a dinosaur backpack.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

Sam gives a soft, sad smile. “You didn’t know how to raise me either. You still did.”

Dean looks away, jaw tight.

Sam steps closer. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Dean let out a shaky breath, nodding faintly. Not because he’s ready. But because he’s already decided.

Frank came back downstairs, a small duffle-bag on his shoulder. “Here. It’s the rest of her clothes. All her other belongings are in her backpack.” He nodded to said backpack.

“That’s all she has?” Sam’s brows knit upwards.

Stepping closer to the two younger man, Frank said softly, “She didn’t come to us with much. We even offered to take her back to the house she was from, but she said it’d be safer not to. I tried getting her to tell me what she meant, but John agreed and said he grabbed what he could. So… Yeah. This is all she’s got.” He looked at Bee, and something in his face softened.

“Wait… SHE said it was too dangerous?” Dean questioned, voice barely above a whisper. “And dad… agreed with her? Listened to a kid?”

Frank shrugged helplessly, handing him the duffle bag. “Beats me, kid. It really does. I wish I could tell you more. But… Well, now you know about as much as we do.”

“There.” Margarite said as she got the dinosaur backpack closed. “Now it all fits.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Bee said politely.

The woman gave her a sad smile, running her hand over Bee’s messy hair. “You behave for your brothers, now. Understand?”

She nodded. “I’ll try.”

A sigh left her, and she helped the girl get her backpack back on.

Pursing his lips, Sam scooped up the paperwork, knowing they’d need it in case they were questioned by well-meaning police officers or others.

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.” Bee said, peering at them as she stepped toward Sam and Dean. “I didn’t mean to be any trouble.”

“You’re not, sweetheart.” Margarite said. “You’re just… you.”

She nodded faintly, her gaze turning toward her two siblings. Two older half-brothers she had only just met… but knew in her bones she was meant to go with them.

“Well… Alright. Let’s hit the road.” Dean ruffled her hair faintly, making her let out a quiet squeak.

It reminded her of how John would always ruffle her hair. A content feeling, kind of warm, kind of syrupy, settled in her chest as she walked with them, Dean’s hand resting on her shoulder as they headed back to the Impala.

Chapter Text

When Bee fell asleep, Sam had been driving while Dean was going through the paperwork Frank had given him. When she woke up, Dean was driving, and Sam looked half-asleep, his head against the window, mouth and face slack. The sun was rising, painting the sky orange and the clouds pink.

Bee stretched, flexing her toes in her socks – she had kicked off her rain boots that night.

“Mornin, sunshine.” Dean said with a forced casualness in his tone, glancing up at her in the rear-view. “Sleep alright?”

She nodded faintly, rubbing her eyes. “… S’early.”

“Yeah. It is.” He glanced down at the dash. Just a little after five in the morning. “You doing okay?”

“I’m okay.” Bee peered at him, her brows furrowing. “Are you?”

Dean blinked, surprise briefly coloring his face before he masked it. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

“… If you say so.” Her gaze turned aside to where her notebook and pen rested.

Reaching out, Bee pulled her notebook into her lap. The car’s engine thrummed, making her think of a giant cat. It was soothing, threatening to pull her mind back beneath the veil of sleep. But, she was awake now and she decided she would stay awake. For now, at least.

“… He’s drooling.” Bee said without looking up as she scribbled in her notebook.

“Huh?” Dean glanced over at Sam, tensing a bit. He reached over, lightly clapping Sam’s shoulder. “Hey. Not on the upholstery.”

“I’m awake!” Sam slurred, lifting his head. “I’m up.” He paused, touching his face before realizing his predicament and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

He sighed through his nose before speaking again, breaking the quaint silence. “Alright. We need to find a spot to stretch our legs and get some breakfast.”

Neither of them answered.

Dean glanced up in the rear-view again. “Bethany? … Bethany.”

She wrinkled her nose a little, her gaze rising to look at him. “No one calls me that except Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.”

“Yeah?”

“Mom always called me Bee. John called me Bee, too. And Bubs, and kiddo, and runt. No one calls me Bethany.”

“Alright… You care if we call you Bee?”

She shook her head.

“Bee it is.” He took in their surroundings – a small, rural town that looked like most small, rural towns. “Doesn’t look like we have many options for breakfast. But it looks like there’s a truck stop. That okay with you?”

“Do they have pancakes?”

“Probably.”

Bee nodded. “I like pancakes.”

“Sounds good.” Sam agreed, taking a deep breath, rubbing the sleep out of his eye. “Can we just stop someplace next time? My neck’s killing me.”

“We didn’t exactly have a whole lot of options.” Dean drawled, glancing at him. “But sure. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Bee pursed her lips around a smile, giggling softly.

---------

After a few minutes, the car pulled into the parking lot of a low, wide building. It had faded red siding and a roof that used to be white but was now a soft gray from years of sun and rain. The big neon sign flickered where it outlined the peeling paint that said “HANK’S TRUCK STOP & DINER” in white.

A row of semis parked along the far edge, engines idling softly in the cold morning air. One looked like Optimus Prime – same colors, no trailer. There were a couple of pickup trucks near the front, one with a rusted bumper.

Even from inside the car, Bee could smell gas, wet pavement, and bacon fat.

The newspaper vending machine out front was empty, and probably hadn’t been stocked in years. Next to it was a rack of firewood bundles, and windshield washer fluid.

“… Can I bring my notebook in with me?” Bee asked as the car pulled into a vacant spot.

“Sure.” Sam said through a yawn as Dean threw the car in park and shut it off.

Reaching aside, she undid her seatbelt, and reached for her rain boots with a grunt.

He turned in his seat to look at her. “Do you have any shoes in your bag? Those can’t be comfortable.”

“No. And they’re okay. … It rained a lot back home, so I always wore them anyways.”

“Yeah?” Sam arched a brow. “… Where’s home?”

“Arkham, Massachusetts.” Bee said, only to pause, then frown. “It used to be, anyways.”

He fell silent, sharing a quiet look with Dean. Dean’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Arkham was a long ways off. Especially considering they were only another day’s drive from the Bunker. From the look on Dean’s face, he shared Sam’s concern. After all… Why did their father drag Bee all the way to a Hunter foster house in Kansas?

It was a conversation for another time. The near future, certainly, but another time, regardless.

Bee didn’t seem to notice, sliding her boots on with practiced ease. She thanked Sam quietly when he got the door for her, and stuck close as the three of them strode into the diner.

The place smelt like grease. A food kind of grease, not the stuff John used on his boots or guns. The kind of grease that came from burgers, and ham, and bacon. The hostess was an older woman. Wearing dress flats and a worn, black apron. Portly, grey-haired. She carried herself like someone who had been doing this a long time.

“How many, hon?” Her smile was warm. Genuine. Odd, considering her line of work – most service workers weren’t the happiest of people.

“Three.” Dean answered, glancing aside at his siblings.

“Sure thing.” She grabbed a couple menus and a kids menu before peering at Bee. “Would you like a coloring page, hon?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bee answered softly.

Nodding, she picked out a three-pack of crayons and a coloring page, before leading them down the long aisle between old counter stools and worn leather booths, their orange color faded with both time and age. A couple bore patches of silvery duct tape. The yellowish overhead lights hummed, light glinting off the three-tiered glass case stocked with pies.

It looked like something out of those black-and-white shows her mom had always liked. Cozy, old, like time was hesitant to show up and put in a one-billionth Starbucks.
The hostess seated them. Bee sat by the window and Dean sat beside her, Sam sitting across from them.

“What can I get y’all to drink?” The hostess asked.

“Coffee.” Dean said with a faint but polite nod.

“Same.” Sam agreed.

“Sweet tea, please.” Bee swung her legs beneath the table.

The hostess’s brows rose a little. “D’you want lemon?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alrighty.” She nodded, writing down their drink orders. “I’ll give y’all a few minutes.” And with that, walked away, stopping some booths down to check in on some other diners.

Bee looked down at the coloring page. It was a color-by-numbers deal with thick black lines. The kind of coloring page made for babies. She frowned, turning the page over to the blank side and setting it aside for a minute so she could look at the menu. It only took her a few seconds before she decided what she wanted. With that decision made, she pulled the coloring page over and began drawing with her pen.

Sam and Dean shared another quiet look before Dean cleared his throat softly. “So… Bee… How long’ve you been with the Winslows?”

“… A few months, I guess. Since mom died and John dropped me off. Then he never came back.” Bee said quietly, a little sad and a little resigned, as if she was just stating a fact. She paused for a long moment, her pen stilling on the paper. “He’s dead, too. Isn’t he.”

Dean’s stomach sank, his throat tightening fractionally. “… Yeah, kid. He is.” After a moment, he added, “But you’re not alone anymore. Alright? You’ve got us. Me and Sam.”

Sam looked over at Bee, his expression softening as she took a deep breath, nodded, and continued drawing. “He cared about you. He was trying to keep you safe. And we will, too.”

She went still. Not stiff, not shocked. Just still. Her pen paused mid-stroke, staying on the page, as their words sink in. After a second, she nodded. “Okay.”

There was a long moment of quiet, before Bee paused. The bell above the diner’s doors jingled. Her gaze rose, and she spotted a man – or, a man-shaped being – in a black suit with a slate silk paisley tie. Polished shoes. From how the suit fit, it was tailored. He was shorter than Sam and Dean. Broader. And something about him felt… smoother, older, heavier. Bruised with a few faint cracks like glaze gone wrong in a kiln.

His pale blue eyes landed on her and he froze for maybe half a second before surprise was replaced with curiosity.

Dean looked up and tensed beside her. “Jeezus H, not right now…” He muttered.

Sam turned in his seat and went still. Not as still as Dean. Not as tense, either. But wary, all the same, as the man approached their booth and slid in beside Sam like he belonged there, Sam scooting over with a quiet, “Hey!”

“Well, now… This is rather unexpected.” The man said.

“Crowley.” Dean muttered as a stiff greeting.

“Squirrel.” Crowley said, sparing him a glance before again peering at the girl. “Color me curious, but how exactly did you two end up in possession of a child?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Bee stared at him. “You’re a demon.”

Crowley froze, full stop. When Sam looked at him, he swore the demon’s brain was probably doing the Windows dial-up connection error noise. Dean’s brows shot up as he turned to peer down at the girl, then looked at Crowley, trying to figure out how a child, a CHILD, could have deduced that in mere seconds.

“… I—Well, yes, but… Excuse me?” Crowley tilted his head, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing.

The girl stared at him. Though him. As if she could see to the bleeding core of who and what he was, like looking through a freshly-cleaned window.

“Most people don’t open with that, you know.”

Bee shrugged, her attention returning to her doodling. “Most people don’t notice.”

Whatever he was about to retort with was cut off by the waitress returning, though she hesitated at the edge of the table. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were expecting another… Can I get you anything, hon?”

Crowley flashed her a polite-yet-sharp smile. “Hot tea. Black. And if you bring me one of those sad little lemon wedges, I’ll know you weren’t listening.”

His words rolled off her like water off a duck. She merely nodded, giving Sam and Dean their coffee, and setting a glass of iced sweet tea in front of Bee. While Crowley’s expression didn’t change, the glint in his eye softened faintly, just a hair. After, the waitress stepped away, and he spoke again.

“Sweet tea? Brave choice, poppet.” Crowley opined. “Most children go for chocolate milk.”

“… I like tea.” Bee shrugged.

Dean raised his coffee toward his mouth.

“It’s hot.”

And paused a moment before setting it back down. He clasped his hands, glancing between her and Crowley, still trying to wrap his mind around this. The fact Bee knew what a demon was, could identify one so easily... The fact a child was already knee-deep in their world before they could even attempt shielding her from it.

Sam broke the tense silence about as carefully as he could. “Crowley… what are you doing here.”

“Besides to check on my two favorite menaces?” Crowley glanced at him. “And apparently your little hitchhiker.” His eyes flicked to Bee again, sharper this time.

“Crowley, don’t start.” Dean warned, hand tightening on the grip of the coffee mug.

“Oh, relax, Squirrel. If I wanted her dead, she’d be a smear on the wallpaper already.”

Sam tensed. Dean’s jaw clenched. But Bee didn’t react. She’s shading a part of her drawing.

He leaned slightly toward her, voice dropping into something smooth and curious. “Tell me, poppet… how did you know what I am?”

His tone wasn’t mocking, or predatory. A hint of genuine intrigue crept into his voice, genuine curiosity. Like he really wanted to know.

For her part, Bee didn’t look up, her gaze focused on her drawing. “Because you look wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Like a person, but not. Like when a circle fits in the square hole. It’s still not a square.”

“Well… Aren’t you perceptive.”

Sam shifted in his seat, giving the demon a pointed look. “We’re not doing this here.” His voice was polite, but firm. Or, about as firm as he could manage.

Crowley gave him a look that said ‘you can’t stop me,’ but he lets the moment hang.

“You’re loud.” Bee said. “I could hear you before you came in.”

Silence fell between them, filled by the quiet scratching of her pen on paper. Crowley’s expression doesn’t change at first — but something behind his eyes does. A flicker. Not fear. Not anger. Something closer to recognition. He studied her for a moment, really studied her, before speaking again.

“… Could you, now.” He mused, his voice turning thoughtful. “And what, pray tell, does ‘loud’ mean to you?”

“You hum.” Bee didn’t bother looking up from her.

Crowley blinked at her.

Dean looked like he was about to have a stroke, his hands tightening on the mug again even though it’s uncomfortably warm to touch.

Sam’s eyebrows climbed.

“I… hum.” Crowley finally repeated.

“Like a refrigerator. Or a power line. Or when the TV’s on but the screen’s black.”

Crowley went completely still. Not amused, but not offended or threatened either. “… Fascinating.”

“Crowley.” Dean muttered.

“Relax, squirrel. I left my dissection tools at home.” He deadpanned.

Sam took in a sharp breath, the sound hissing faintly through his teeth. Dean’s jaw tightened as he ground his teeth.

“I’m drawing.” Bee said.

Crowley’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, not really a smirk. Something softer, fainter, and harder to name rather. “By all means, poppet. Don’t let me interrupt.” He leaned just slightly. Not enough to crowd her, but enough to get a better view of the paper. “And what’s captured your attention so effectively, hm?”

She didn’t answer right away. In silence, Bee finished a couple lines before setting her pen aside and pushing the drawing to the center of the table.

The drawing was fairly simple. A set of stairs with a doorway at the foot of them. Only, the doorway was completely dark… save for two white dots staring out. Dean felt the back of his neck prickle as he stared down at it. Sam reached for the picture, turning it a fraction to get a better look. He and Dean shared a look. A kind of look that said, ‘Oh shit, what have we gotten into this time?’

And Crowley? He went stock-still, something in him locking up to the point his physical form briefly forgot to fake breathing. Even though it was a child’s drawing, something in him could feel it. That he was looking at something very old… and very dangerous.

“… Where did you see that?” He asked quietly.

“At home. … Before John shot it.” Bee swung her legs under the table and reached for her tea, taking a drink.

Dean felt his stomach sink. Sam straightened in his seat, his pulse jumping a little.

“That’s not a monster under the bed, poppet.” Crowley’s gaze lingered on the drawing’s white orbs.

Be nodded. “I know.”

Dean’s gaze turned to Crowley, and it made him hesitate. The demon’s mask had slipped. Just a hair – anyone who didn’t know him as well as they did would’ve missed it. But Dean saw it. The way his eyes sharpened and his posture stiffened. The air around him seemed to tighten, like the room had dropped a degree.

“Do you know what it is?” Dean leaned forward a little.

“No.” Crowley admitted, peering at him. “… And that should worry you.”

He opened his mouth to retort, to question, something. But any words that he had planned go out the window as the waitress approaches and sets a hot tea in front of Crowley. “Here you are, hon.”

“Delightful.” He said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“Are y’all ready to order?”

“Uh… yeah.” Dean cleared his throat faintly and closed his menu, handing it to her. “Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Whatever’s fastest.”

“Same, please.” Sam nodded, handing her his.

“Just the tea is fine.” Crowley intoned, having zero interest in food, his gaze falling to the girl’s drawing.

“Pancakes, please. With bacon.” Bee handed the waitress her own menu. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing, hon.” The waitress smiled at the girl, spared the three men a glance, and headed back toward the kitchen.

Only when she was gone, out of earshot, did Dean speak up, unable to hold back the question that had risen up in his mind. “Bee… What did it do?”

Bee’s gaze fell – hell, her whole face fell. She fidgeted with her pen, spinning it in a circle on the table. “… It got mom. Then it watched me. And tried to make me go toward it. But I didn’t.”

Dean’s mind derailed in a hail of fire and grim realizations. Whatever this creature was… It had killed her mother. Had tried to lure it toward her, probably to kill her. John had stopped it. Had SHOT it. And took her damn near halfway across the country to get away from it. And the worst part of it? Bee said it like a weatherman delivering a forecast. Matter-of-fact, and dispassionate.

Predatory behavior. A luring mechanism or behavior. A pattern. Sam was already trying to piece together a timeline, trying to parse what the creature was or might’ve been. Beside him, Crowley had fallen quiet, watching the girl with an unreadable expression as she opened her notebook and started to draw. This time, thankfully, she seemed to be drawing a frog.

“Bee… It tried to… pull you toward it?” Dean asked softly despite how tense he’d gone.

“It tried sounding like mom. But it wasn’t her.” Bee answered simply.

“Did it talk?” Sam’s voice was gentle, careful. “Did it speak to you?”

“… It kept repeating the last thing mom said.”

Dean released his coffee mug, resting his elbows on the table as he clasped his hands in front of his mouth, taking a deep breath to steady himself. After a moment, he again turned toward her. “Bee, when it—”

Sam cut him off gently but firmly, tapping his foot against Dean’s shin beneath the table. Not hard, but enough. Dean shot him a look. Sam mouthed silently, “Later.” Dean’s jaw worked. Part of him wanted to protest. The bigger part of him, however, knew Sam was right. He sighed heavily through his nose and nodded, reaching for his now cooled coffee and taking a long drink.

Sam watched him carefully, making sure the message had sunk in. Crowley’s gaze flicked between the brothers, amused and curious — he knows exactly what that exchange meant.

For her part, Bee kept drawing her frog, swinging her legs under the table, unaware of the emotional minefield she just created and partly walked them into.

The silence stretched for a few seconds.

Crowley breaks it first, voice low and almost conversational, “Well. Isn’t this cozy.”

Dean shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

Sam cleared his throat, trying to keep the peace. “We’ll… talk more about this later, Bee. Somewhere quieter.”

“Okay.” Bee said, not looking up.

As if on cue, the waitress returned, balancing a tray as she sets plates of hot food in front of them. Each brother, she had gotten them the special – two eggs, has browns, bacon, toast. Then, set a little plate of pancakes and a side of bacon in front of Bee, who thanked her softly and reached for the syrup where it sat in the middle of the table, just out of her reach.

Dean watched her struggle for a moment before reaching out and setting the syrup in her reach. His face did something complicated – not quite a wince, or at least not a wince of pain. A wince of realization that they were now responsible for a tiny person. A person too short to reach things on her own, too small to outrun a serious threat, too delicate to take any form of hit, and too young to have a full context for their world and the monsters in it… even the one she had seen.

He swallowed thickly, stomach turning, his appetite suddenly falling off despite how good the food looked. Sam glanced between him and Bee, and watched in silence as Bee poured syrup over her pancakes before dipping her bacon in the maple syrup. The sight made something in his chest clench. Dipping bacon in syrup… just like dad always did. It struck something in both brothers, something neither of them were ready to discuss, or prepared to have randomly poked by a child unaware she had poked anything.

“… Christ.” Dean muttered before grabbing his fork, forcing down a few bites of scrambled eggs.

Sam offered him a sympathetic look, poking at his own plate.

Crowley gave a faint chuckle, sipping at his tea as he turned over all this new information in his mind.

Chapter Text

Dean paid quietly at the front, leaving a decent tip for the waitress considering she’d not only been friendly and helpful but had also put up with Crowley. Sam stood beside him, holding a bag with a couple to-go boxes, their appetites a bit gunshy in the wake of Bee’s explanation. Bee stuck close, glancing around but not seeming interested in their surroundings as the main breakfast rush arrived.

Sam glanced at Dean as they stepped out onto the sidewalk around the parking lot, and paused. “You can go ahead and get in, Bee. We’ll catch up in a second.”

Bee looked up at him, then glanced between him and Dean before nodding to herself and heading to the Impala where it sat nearby, in their direct line of sight. Wordlessly, Crowley passed the pair, following the girl to the car. The demon watched her like a hawk, getting the door for her. Bee thanked him quietly, climbing into the backseat. Once the door was closed behind her, Crowley got in the front passenger seat.

Sam tilted his head faintly, noticing how comfortable Bee seemed to be, despite knowing what Crowley was. It threw him for a moment. But, since the demon seemed more interested in learning more about her than harming her, Sam decided that could wait, shaking his head faintly before peering at Dean.

For a moment, Crowley didn’t say anything, watching the child in the rear-view mirror before finally breaking the silence. “Most people would be afraid of me, you realize.”

“Most people are stupid.” Bee muttered.

He cocked a brow, a small but genuine smile tugging at his mouth. “I can’t argue with that.”

“You’re not scary.”

“Beg pardon?” Both brows rose then as he turned in the seat to look back at her.

“You’re loud. And warm. And sharp.”

Crowley blinked, as if she’d spoken in a language he didn’t know.

“But you’re not scary.”

To this, he had no words, his eyes darting between her and her drawings. “Quite the astute little artist, aren’t you.”

---------

“… You okay?” Sam asked softly.

Dean sighed through his nose, hands on his hips. He shook his head. “I don’t even know.” He glanced at where Bee sat in the car, already drawing in her notebook again. “She’s just a kid, Sam.”

“So were we.” He reminded him.

“It’s not the same. I… Dad didn’t even tell us about her!” He gave Sam a look that was both helpless and frustrated. “He drove her from Massachusetts to Kansas and left her here. And we don’t even know if he PLANNED to go back for her or not! I just…!” He brought his hands up, rubbing the back of his neck before clasping them behind his head. “She’s just a kid!”

They both peered at the car. Bee was still drawing, Crowley watching her.

“She’s talking to him like he’s NORMAL.”

“She’s talking to him like how she talks to us.” Sam clarified. “… She’s not scared.”

Dean ground his teeth, hating how true that was. Sure, Bee not being scared of their mutual frenemy made things smoother. But her being afraid would’ve at least made Dean feel a little better – would’ve told him she’d have enough common sense to run if something happened.

“We need to get her home. Figure out what the hell happened.” Dean frowned. “We’re really letting him come with us?”

“Do we have much choice?” Sam countered, the two of them walking to the Impala.

---------

“… It looks like a factory.” Bee said as the Impala pulled up to the large, stoic grey building. “You live here?”

“Yeah.” Sam said, looking over at her where he sat with her in the back seat. “Trust me. It’s a lot cooler on the inside.”

She glanced around. The big, grey box of a building sat in some sparse woodland, the grass long and tawny. The doorway they pulled up to was partway buried in a hillside, like a hobbit hole. The hum of the Impala’s engine seemed to get louder as Dean drove into the bunker’s garage, coasting into its usual spot before throwing it in park.

Though she got her backpack, Dean grabbed her other bag from the trunk, slinging it over his shoulder. Even as she fell into step behind him, Bee glanced back, just to make sure Sam and Crowley were still following. Sam gave her a nod, but she noticed Crowley seemed a little tense – his shoulders were tight, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. She couldn’t say why. Not fear, but… uncomfortable.

Blinking, she returned her attention to Dean.

Emerging in the war room, Dean set Bee’s duffle bag on the table, stepping aside to the mini fridge long enough to grab a Coke. He set it on the table in front of one of the chairs, cracking the can one-handedly. Bee pursed her lips, debating with herself before setting her backpack down and climbing into the chair – she knew they wanted to know, and that she’d have to tell them eventually, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She glanced around the room. The place looked old. Old like a Frankenstein movie, with big clunky computers like ones from when computers took up whole rooms. The table lit up like a tracing tablet, a map displayed on it. The map was off-center, cutting off the top of the world. Furniture was dated like out of that show mom liked… Mad Men? The show about the men in the suits that made ads for newspapers and billboards. Why the show was called Mad Men still puzzled her, but she filed it away for later.

Dean slid into a chair with a heavy sigh, elbows on the map table. Sam sat down beside him, slumped back in his seat, looking equal parts tired and uneasy. Across from them, near her, Crowley seated himself and crossed his legs, elbows on the arms of the chair and his hands clasped in his lap.

“Bee… I know it’s probably the last thing you wanna think about, much less talk about.” Dean said stiffly, carefully, bracing himself for an answer he knew he wouldn’t like. “But… I need you to tell us what happened, that night. With… With the thing that got your mom. Alright?”

Bee nodded quietly, her gaze falling to the soda. Mom had always liked Cherry Pepsi. John had always liked Coke. Bee remembered Mom would sometimes tease John about being old-fashioned. And John would half-jokingly grumble it was what Mom got for dating an older man. Bee never got the joke, but it always made Mom giggle. Bee quietly pulled the soda closer to her, picking at the tab briefly until she remembered how Mom always told her not to, because she could make a sharp spot that could cut her.

“I couldn’t fall asleep because it was watching me. … It scratched at the window to try to get in and I pretended I didn’t notice it ‘cause I hoped it would go away. But it didn’t.” Bee pouted, her gaze falling. She began tracing the edge of South Asia on the table with her finger – a small lifeline to hold onto. “It went downstairs. I dunno how it got in the house. But I didn’t know. I got up and went to go tell Mom.”

Dean felt his stomach turn, his whole frame tensing. One hand scrubbed at his mouth, his eyes fixed on the bright red can of Coke. Whatever it was had watched her. And tried to get to her. That alone had him on-edge. Sam glanced between the two, then looked to Crowley, who remained silent, the demon’s gaze fixed on the girl as she spoke.

“I heard her yell ‘Stay in your room!’ … I thought she was yelling at John. But then I heard her scream, and a thud. And it went quiet. I went to the stairs and saw it looking at me. And it kept repeating what Mom said, but it didn’t sound like her. Sounded wrong. Like someone talking through an old speaker. Tinny.”

She paused, taking a drink of the Coke. A small sip, mostly because Coke tasted sad, to her. So it tended to make her sad.

“So I went back in my room.” Bee said, fidgeting with the can’s tab again. “And I grabbed the old walkie-talkie John gave me, for emergencies. I told him it was in the house and I heard him come up out of the basement – the room I’m not supposed to go in because his Hunting stuff is in there. I heard a gun. It didn’t sound like ones on TV but I know that’s what it was. Then it got quiet. He came upstairs, grabbed the emergency bag mom kept for me in the closet, told me to pack my backpack.” She glanced at the garish, green, dinosaur-print backpack in question. “We stayed in a motel for a couple weeks. Then we took a road trip out to the Winslows. He said he’d come back, but he never did.”

A silence fell between them. Heavy like a lead curtain, thick and suffocating as the adults in the room shared glances – a kind of silent conversation as they all tried to figure out what to say or ask next, and who should say or ask it. In the end, Crowley was the one to break the silence, turning the old swivel office chair toward Bee, his gaze steady.

“Tell me, poppet… Did this thing, this creature that watched you… Did it feel like me? Or like something close?” Crowley ventured, his tone bearing a slightly feigned edge to his curiosity.

“No. … It felt older.” Bee said, tapping the toe of one boot against the underside of the map table. “A lot older. Crooked. Wrong. Cold. It wasn’t stupid, but it didn’t understand what Mom had said, I don’t think.”

Dean’s mouth worked for a moment before he found the words. “Do you mean older than—”

“Demons. … And angels. … And books.” Bee continued tracing the map, circling the same length of coastline as she tried to remember what country it was – the Animaniacs had an episode with a song of all the countries, but she never remembered all of them. “Old like rocks.”

Crowley’s back straightened, his chin tipping back a little as he processed her words. Dean’s gaze snapped to the demon, their eyes meeting briefly as one of Dean’s hands balled into a fist on the table’s surface.

Swallowing thickly, Sam froze, glancing between them. Old like rocks… Older than demons? Older than angels? Part of him struggled to wrap his mind around that, considering their past experiences with either. After all, didn’t the existence of angels and demons confirm the entire book? But if it didn’t… what did that mean? Part of Sam really didn’t want to find out, even as his scholar’s brain was racing with questions and possibilities and implications.

Then, his eyes fell to Bee. Who was, again, starting to pull away like she had at the diner. Something in Sam’s chest clenched, like it was being squeezed in a too-tight fist. “Thank you for telling us, Bee. I… I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

She nodded, blinking as her eyes turned a bit misty.

“Here. Lemme show you your room. You’ll be right next to our rooms, so you’ll be safe. Okay?”

“Okay.” Bee turned her chair, sliding out of it as Sam stood.

Sam gave Dean and Crowley a pointed look. A kind of look that said ‘I know we have our lingering issues but this is kind of important so figure it out.’ With that, he picked up Bee’s bags and walked with her back through the library, left toward their rooms.

Dean watched them go, jaw tight, hands still curled into fists on the table. The moment Bee disappeared down the hallway, he exhaled shakily, dragging both hands down his face.

Crowley didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched the empty doorway with an expression Dean couldn’t read — not smug, not amused. Something quieter. Older.

Dean hated that.
He turned on the demon, voice low and rough. “What the hell does ‘old like rocks’ mean.”

Crowley’s gaze slid to him, slow and deliberate. “It means, Squirrel… that whatever your father shot wasn’t one of mine. Or Heaven’s. Or anything that belongs to the usual family tree.” He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “And that should worry you.”

“Yeah? No shit, Sherlock.”

His eyes flicked toward the hallway, the pair of them faintly catching Sam’s voice as it drifted from down the way. “… She isn’t afraid of me, you know.”

Dean glared at him. “She should be.”

“Oh, I agree. But the fact remains.” Crowley stood, straightening his overcoat. “And that makes me wonder what’s out there that she thinks is so much worse.”

He stood, maybe a bit too fast, his chair skidding away from him a little. “Stay here. Don’t follow them.”

“Squirrel…” Crowley gave a long-suffering sigh. “In case it escaped your notice, I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Dean brushed past him, heading after Sam. He found him and Bee in the room across from Dean’s, just down the hall from Sam’s. Close to the bathroom, a decent distance from any entry point, away from windows… Hopefully, a room that would be safe enough until they could figure out which way was up again.

---------

It was a big room. Almost as big as Mom’s room had been. With a big bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and even a desk and chair, and a bookshelf. It looked like a hotel room, or a house showing. Bare, neatly made, but not lived-in.

Sam set her duffle bag and backpack on the bed. “Dean’s room is right across the hall. And my room’s right next to his. So we’re both right there if you need us. Alright?”

“Okay.” Bee said, taking in the hardwood floor and old-timey wallpaper and half-wall wood paneling. Like an old hotel.

“I can help you unpack, if you want.”

She considered for a moment, then nodded, dragging her backpack closer to her and unzipping it. She heard footsteps from the doorway, but barely noticed, reaching for her plush bat.

“Ah. So this is the Henry Ms. Winslow was talking about?”

“Yeah. He’s a flying fox.” She set Henry aside by the pillows. “He’s a keystone species because they’re responsible for up to 98% of seed dispersal in rainforests.”

Sam blinked, staring at her before a small, soft, almost startled laugh left him. “That’s… pretty impressive, Bee. Not many people would know that.”

“… I like knowing things.” She reached for her books next.

“Can I ask why he’s named Henry?”

“I named him after the statue in front of Miskatonic University Library.”

There were only a few books. The first was a cumbersome hardback, leather-bound and embossed with a ribbon bookmark. Dante’s Divine Comedy.

“That book was mom’s.” Bee said, almost absently. “She let me read it but it was kinda boring so I never finished it.”

“… Oh.” Sam said, his voice quiet.

The second book was a dinosaur encyclopedia. And that tracked, considering Bee’s backpack. The third was a dream interpretation dictionary. Fourth was a book about world mythology. And the last book was called A Sorcerer’s Cookbook.

“… That one’s mom’s too, but she never made anything from it ‘cause the ingredients were weird and expensive and hard to find.”

Sam hesitated.

“She wasn’t a witch, if that’s what you’re wondering. … She liked knowing things, too.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask that.”

Bee shrugged beginning to carry her books, one by one, to the bookshelf.

“… You like dinosaurs?”

“Everyone should like dinosaurs.” Bee said. “Dinosaurs are cool.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. Sam glanced over his shoulder to where Dean stood in the doorway, watching silently with a vaguely pained expression. Crowley stood behind him. Rather than linger on their presence, Sam turned his attention back to Bee.

“What’s your favorite dinosaur?”

The question made Bee pause and tilt her head, as if he had asked a philosopher for their most sage advice. She did a little wiggle or sway, as if dancing to some unseen tune. “Favorite herbivore is Plateosaurus. Favorite carnivore is Yutyrannus. Favorite omnivore is Oviraptor.”

Sam nodded with a thoughtful look. “Very discerning tastes.”

Bee placed the last book on the shelf and stepped back, hands on her hips like she was evaluating her work. Sam smiled at the posture — so small, so serious, so determined to make this strange room hers.

Dean cleared his throat softly. “You, uh… need anything else? We can get you more blankets. Or a lamp. Or—”

“I’m okay.” She said it simply, but her voice wobbled just a little. Sam caught it. Dean definitely caught it.

Crowley’s gaze flicked to her, then to the brothers, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “Well. She settles in quickly.”

Dean shot him a look that could peel paint. “Crowley. Out.”

Crowley raised both hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll go… lurk somewhere.” He slipped away down the hall, humming something old and off-key.

Sam crouched a little to meet Bee’s eye level. “If you need anything — anything at all — you come get us. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

Bee nodded, fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt. “…Okay.”

Dean softened, just a fraction. “You’re safe here, kiddo.”

Bee looked between them — Sam’s steady warmth, Dean’s fierce protectiveness — and for the first time since the diner, her shoulders loosened. She climbed onto the bed, pulling Henry into her lap, and began removing her rain boots.

Sam stood, giving Dean a quiet, meaningful look. “We’ll take shifts.” He said quietly.

“Yeah. No way in hell we’re leaving her alone.” Dean nodded, jaw tight. “Tomorrow, one of us needs to head out and… grab some things. A few extra blankets, top off the groceries…”

He nodded, glancing between Dean and Bee. “I can, if you want. That way you can keep an eye on her. Doesn’t look like Crowley plans to leave anytime soon.”

Dean hesitated, peering down the hall toward the war room. “No. … It doesn’t.”

“As much as I hate to say it, maybe keeping him close by wouldn’t be a bad idea. At least until we figure out what we’re dealing with.”

“You can’t be serious.” He huffed under his breath, brows furrowing as he peered at Sam.

“Dean.”

He groaned, rubbing his eyes, already feeling a headache coming on. After a moment, Dean nodded. “Right. Enemy of my enemy. … That doesn’t make him a friend, either.”

“No. That’s why they invented the word ‘ally.’ Even if it’s temporary.”

Dean grit his teeth, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

Sam gave a tight-lipped smile, patting Dean’s shoulder.

Bee’s voice, small and quiet, “Can I look around? … This place is really big.”

His attention returned to her. “Sure. Lemme give you the tour.” And he looked to Dean, adding quietly. “I’ll go for a supply run tomorrow, okay? … Give yourself a second to breathe.”

Dean nodded, pushing away from the doorframe and watching as Bee followed Sam down the hall.

---------

Bee padded down the hallway beside Sam, Henry tucked under one arm, her socked feet silent against the bunker floor. She kept close, but not clingy — curious, cautious, taking everything in with wide, assessing eyes.

Dean lingered in the doorway a moment longer, watching them go. His shoulders sagged once they were out of sight, the weight of the day settling on him like a lead blanket.

Crowley reappeared at the far end of the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “You’re doing a marvelous job pretending you’re not terrified.”

Dean didn’t even look at him. “Crowley. Not now.”

Crowley pushed off the wall, strolling closer with that infuriatingly casual gait. “She’s stronger than she looks, you know.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “She shouldn’t have to be.”

Crowley’s expression flickered — not pity, not sympathy, but something like understanding. “Also true.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The bunker hummed quietly around them, old lights buzzing, air vents sighing.

Dean finally exhaled, long and shaky. “If you’re staying, you follow the rules. You don’t go near her unless Sam or I are there. You don’t talk to her alone. You don’t—”

Crowley held up a hand. “Relax, Squirrel. I’m not here to corrupt the child. I’m here because I’m curious. And let’s face it… Whatever’s after her isn’t something you want to face without me.”

Dean hated how true that felt. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Just… stay out of the way.”

Crowley smirked faintly. “I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Text

Sam had left after breakfast. “Supply run,” he’d said. Like John used to. Bee didn’t understand why they didn’t just say ‘going to the store,’ but she supposed it couldn’t be helped. After all, she hadn’t started saying ‘cool beans’ until she met Quincy – one of the Winslows’ other foster kids. Now every time she said it, she thought of him.

Dean was in the kitchen, making lunch. Bologna and cheese sandwiches, and orange Kool-Aid. For her part, while he did that, Bee had meandered her way to the library.

It wasn’t as big as the Miskatonic University Library, Bee was sure. Mom had taken her there enough times to know. And it didn’t have any statues of any important librarians, which seemed a little rude. But the place was warm. Old. It smelled like… that one word she could never remember that smelled like old books. A good smell.

Her gaze wandered over the spines. The books didn’t seem to be in any particular order. Some didn’t even have the titles or author names on the spines. As she strode down the length of the hall, Bee paused, spotting Crowley.

He was sitting in one of the leather armchairs, feet propped up, reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose. It made her wonder why demons would need reading glasses, but she decided against asking, thinking it would be rude or sound mean if she did. His feet were propped on the table, legs crossed at the ankles, like he owned the place. Like he belonged here.

Bee glanced back over her shoulder, then looked at Crowley again before slowly walking toward him. “Are you supposed to have your feet on the table?”

“Hm?” Crowley peered at her, his brows rising fractionally. “In most societies? No.”

Bee’s eyes narrowed faintly as she surveyed him. That hadn’t been the answer she had been expecting. She rounded the table and climbed into the chair across from him. “What’re you reading?”

“Philosophy. … I just made it to Diogenes. … Do you know who that is, poppet?”

“The man who founded cynicism, renounced his wealth, and lived in an urn on the side of the road. He’s most famous for mocking Plato by holding up a plucked chicken after Plato said man could be described as a featherless biped.”

Crowley blinked at her. Then snapped the book closed, the pages clapping softly. For a heartbeat he simply stared, as if reassessing the creature in front of him.

“…Quite right.” He finally said, his voice lower than before. “Though most people only remember the chicken.”

Bee shrugged. “The chicken’s funny.”

A breath escaped him — not quite a laugh, but something close. He set the book aside with deliberate care, removing his reading glasses and folding them neatly, tucking them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

“You’re full of surprises.” He mused.

She didn’t seem to notice the weight in his tone. She was already leaning forward, curious about the book he’d set down, her eyes tracing the plain black cover.

Crowley watched her with a new, sharper focus — the kind he usually reserved for ancient relics or dangerous spells. Something in his posture shifted, subtle but unmistakable: interest edged with caution.

“Tell me.” He said, steepling his fingers. “Do you always recite the biographies of mad philosophers before lunch, or am I just particularly blessed today?”

Bee swung her legs under the chair. “I like knowing things.”

Crowley’s mouth twitched — not a smirk, not quite a smile. Something smaller. Warmer. Unbidden. “Yes…” He murmured. “I can see that.”

Dean stepped into the library, carrying two plates of sandwiches and a glass of Kool Aid. He froze.

Bee sat at the table, legs swinging, her socks mismatched. Across from her, Crowley lounged in one of the leather chairs, the book he had been reading now closed but close – within his reach. The lamp beside him cast a warm glow.

He looked… settled. Comfortable. Like he belonged there. Like he’d been there for years. Like he sat talking with Bee every afternoon.

Something in Dean’s chest jolted — sharp, unwelcome, too familiar. A flash of memory: /Crowley slumped against him, bleeding in his arms, whispering confessions into his shoulder in a pained, pleading voice. Dean’s hands gripping him tight, holding him upright, holding him together./

And now, the antithesis… Crowley sitting there, looking domestic of all things. Soft, even.

He crushed the feeling instantly.

“Crowley. Feet. Down.” His voice came out rougher than he meant. Crowley’s eyes flicked up, catching the edge in it — and something in his expression shifted, just for a heartbeat. Recognition. And something else he didn’t name.

Bee glanced between them repeatedly. Curiosity tugged at her, but she wasn’t sure what question she wanted to ask, or how she would even word it if she did.

Dean tore his gaze away from Crowley’s stupid relaxed posture and set the plates down harder than necessary. “Lunch.”

She watched as he slid one plate and the glass of Kool Aid in front of her, leaving the table long enough to grab himself a Coke from the war room’s mini fridge. When he returned, he sat in the chair beside Bee, his posture tense even as he tried to force himself to relax.

“We were talking about philosophers.” Bee said, picking up her sandwich and taking a bite. She chewed slowly and swallowed before speaking. “He was surprised I knew who Diogenes was.”

“In fairness, poppet, most children your age wouldn’t even know what philosophy was, much less be able to name a specific philosopher.” Crowley intoned, glancing Dean’s way before choosing to ignore whatever it was he had seen.

Dean tilted his head, peering at Bee as he cracked his soda open one handedly. “You’re a pretty advanced reader, looks like.”

“… Mom said so, too.” Bee took another bite, though she was careful not to talk with her mouth full. “She decided to homeschool me ‘cause the teachers kept taking my books away. They kept sayin’ my books were ‘too advanced.’ And ‘too mature.’ … I think the other kids were just babies. You shouldn’t still be reading Dr. Seuss when you’re in third grade.”

Several feelings rushed through him before he could really help it. Anger — not at her mother, but at the teachers. Punishing a kid for being smart… like how some of Sam’s teachers would single him out, or wouldn’t listen when Dean had something to say. It was a familiar feeling, old and sour in his chest.

Then guilt, sharp and useless. Even if he knew it was John’s fault for not telling them about her, part of Dean wondered why — and another part suspected he’d never get an answer that made sense.

He glanced at Crowley, their eyes meeting briefly. Crowley’s expression flickered — something like understanding, something like warning — before Dean tore his gaze away and looked back at Bee.

His voice softened without his permission. “Yeah, well… you’re not gonna have that problem here.”

A soft, tentative, but very genuine smile crossed the child’s face. Those powder blue eyes swept the library and her smile faded back into what seemed to be her resting expression.

“…It’s gonna take me forever to read all this.”

Crowley’s gaze softened, just a shade. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry, poppet. You’ve got time.” A beat. “And if you don’t, well… we’ll make some.”

Dean went still. Something in his chest twisted — relief, fear, and something he crushed before it could take shape. Crowley’s tone was too warm. Too gentle. Too familiar. Too much like the man he’d held together once, bleeding and begging. Dean scolded himself, trying to shove the memory down again, further… with all the tangled, complicated feelings that went with it.

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve got time. All the time in the world.”

Bee swung her legs, thinking. Then, “…Are you staying here too, Crowley?”

Dean inhaled his soda at exactly the wrong moment. He coughed—hard—nearly slamming the can down as carbonation burned his nose. His eyes watered. His face flushed. He waved a hand like he could physically bat the moment away.

“Wh—Jeezus, kid—!”

But he wasn’t choking on the soda. He was choking on the implications. The idea. The realization.

Crowley staying. Crowley being wanted. Crowley being asked. Crowley being part of the “we.”

And worse—Dean’s brain had the nerve to flash an image of Crowley in those stupid reading glasses of his, looking domestic and settled and like he belonged here. With them. With him. Dean crushed that thought instantly, and ruthlessly. And snuffed out that damned feeling for the THIRD time, trying to bury it further, deeper, far away where he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted, delighted by the sheer audacity of the girl’s question. He leaned back in the chair, folding his hands over his stomach, considering her with a kind of amused fondness he didn’t bother hiding.

“Well now… That depends, poppet. Do you want me to stay?” He said it lightly, but there was a thread of something real beneath it—curiosity, maybe even hope.

He wasn’t asking Dean. He wasn’t asking permission. He was asking her.

And that alone is nearly enough to make Dean combust. His eyes narrowed at the demon as he tapped a knuckle against the table.

Bee blinked at Dean, head tilting slightly. She didn’t understand why he was coughing. She didn’t understand why Crowley looked so pleased. She didn’t understand why the air suddenly felt… weird. Or why Crowley was looking at Dean with that weird, knowing but somehow soft kind of look.

“… It was just a question.” Her brows knit together. Her tone wasn’t defensive, or upset. Rather, she sounded genuinely puzzled. “Don’t you three ever get lonely out here? … It’s a really big place for three people.”

Silence.

Crowley swallowed hard, his throat clicking, taking a moment. *The three of you* echoed in his mind a few times, bouncing around his skull. She was including him. Not just Sam and Dean, but… him. And he was in no way prepared for that peculiar, warm ache her words had pushed into his ribs.

“That’s one word for it,” Crowley said blandly, though his eyes softened. “But it’s not quite as big, now, is it.”

Even though he didn’t look at Dean when he said that, Dean felt it. For a long moment, Dean wasn’t sure how to respond, how to answer… or how to handle Crowley’s quiet confirmation. And he hated not that Bee asked, but that she felt lonely enough herself to see it reflected in them.

“Yeah.” Dean finally said, gaze falling to his as of yet untouched sandwich. “It can get lonely.”

“… I get lonely, too.” Bee said, her gaze falling.

Crowley went still, his expression turning unreadable, a flicker of something passing behind his eyes. Dean’s heart clenched. He wanted to reach out, but wasn’t sure how.

“Well,” Crowley’s voice broke the silence, unexpectedly soft, warm, and sincere, “you aren’t alone now, poppet.”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded, his voice coming out tighter, rougher, than he’d care to admit or contemplate. “You’ve got us. … All three of us.” The words felt heavier than he meant them to.

Bee glanced between them, a small smile blooming. And in that moment, the Bunker didn’t feel quite so big.

The moment Bee smiled — small, relieved, trusting — Dean felt something in his chest twist so sharply he almost winces. Almost.

Because now he’s thinking too much. And that was something that never meant good news.

Bee was lonely. Had been for a long time. Enough to recognize it in a trio of misfit adults without missing a beat. That alone was enough to make his stomach turn. But Crowley’s voice? Soft, warm, so sincere… in a way Dean had only ever heard ONCE…

Dean hated how true it sounded. Hated how gentle it was. Hated that Bee believed it. Hated how much HE believed it.

But then it gets worse. Because of course it does.

Because Crowley’s voice — soft, warm, sincere — is still echoing in his head. /You aren’t alone now, poppet./ Dean’s thoughts start looping, fast and messy:
/She shouldn’t have to feel lonely. She shouldn’t have had to see ours. She shouldn’t be thinking about any of this. She’s a kid. She’s a kid and she’s ours and she’s looking at us like we’re—/

He cuts the thought off before it can finish.

Because the idea of being a “we” with Crowley is—

/Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. Shove that down. Deeper. Harder. Bury it./

Dean takes a breath that doesn’t quite make it to his lungs.

And then the guilt hits. Because Bee shouldn’t have to ask if they’re lonely. She shouldn’t have to notice. She shouldn’t have to carry that.

He glanced at Crowley — just a flicker — and Crowley was watching him with that unreadable, too-knowing expression. Not smug. Not mocking. Something else. Something Dean refuses to name.

Dean looks away fast and takes a swig of his Coke.

His sandwich sits untouched. His soda tastes like metal. His chest feels too tight.

He doesn’t know how to fix any of this.

And that’s the part that scared him.

Bee’s smile lingered for a moment longer — then her head tilted sharply to the side. She went still. Not frightened, as far as they could tell. Not tense. Just… listening.

Dean noticed first. His brows pulled together, his body going tense on reflex. “Bee?”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, tracking her expression with sudden interest.

Sam’s voice came drifting in from the hallway. “…and that’s why she’s here, Cas, we’re trying to— Bee?”

Bee blinked slowly, gaze drifting toward the war room door.

“…Something’s loud.” She murmured.

Crowley straightened in his chair, every line of him sharpening. Dean’s stomach dropped. Sam stepped fully into the room — Castiel right behind him, carrying two grocery bags with stiff, careful precision. The moment Cas crossed the threshold, Bee winced. Not dramatically. Just a tiny scrunch of her nose, like someone had turned on a bright light.

“… You’re very loud.” Bee said, her tone neutral even though she was staring at him as if studying a worksheet

Castiel froze.

Dean choked on absolutely nothing – a faint, scoff-like sound.

Crowley looked delighted.

Cocking a brow, Sam looked between all four of them like he’d walked into a sitcom.

Cas blinked once, slowly. “… I am… loud?”

Bee nodded, serious. “Like a car alarm.”

Dean slapped a hand over his mouth to hide the laugh that almost escaped. Crowley did not bother hiding his.

For his part, Cas looked personally offended by the comparison, as well as confused. His head tilted, his brows knitting.

“Okaaay… Bee, this is Cas. He’s a friend of ours.” Sam said, trying to talk through the grin trying to form on his own face. “Cas… this is our little sister, Bee.”

Little sister. The words felt like someone had socked Dean in the chest, and he masked the face he made by taking another drink of his Coke.

“You’re an angel.” Bee said, looking Cas up and down with that same indifferent scrutiny she had first looked Crowley over with.

Cas blinked. “… Yes.”

“…That explains the noise.” Bee nodded, almost to herself, and took another bite of her sandwich.

Dean lost the battle with his laugh. Crowley looked like Christmas had come early. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and rubbed his eyes.
Cas blinks again, slower this time, like he’s running diagnostics on himself.

His brows knit, his head tilts, and he looks down at his own vessel as if expecting to find a siren strapped to his chest. “…I do not emit… noise.”

Bee squints at him, unimpressed.

“You do.” Bee said. “Loud. And sharp. And cold.”

Cas looks personally wounded, even though he still didn’t understand. He glanced at Sam for backup.

Unsure what to say, Sam mustered a helpless shrug.

Crowley leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, wearing the smuggest expression the bunker has ever seen. “Well, feathers, children do tend to be honest. Painfully so.”

In silence, Cas turns his head toward Crowley with the slow, deliberate precision of a man deciding whether or not to smite someone.

Bee paused mid-bite, her gaze snapping to Cas. She didn’t like that look. She especially didn’t like that an angel was looking at Crowley like that. She chewed slowly. Crowley didn’t seem afraid or even nervous…

Crowley’s grin widened. “Car alarm, wasn’t it? Delightful.”

A strangled sound welled in Dean’s throat that might be a laugh or a plea for mercy. He propped an elbow on the table, resting a hand over his mouth casual-like even though he was purposely hiding a smile.

Dean drags a hand down his face, trying to smother the laugh clawing its way up his throat. His eyes are watering. His shoulders are shaking. He is losing it.

He coughs once, hard, trying to force himself back into seriousness. “Cas, buddy, she’s not— she’s not wrong.”

Cas stares at him, betrayed.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to look composed. “I mean, not in a bad way. Just— you know. Angel radio. Grace static. Whatever.” He gestured vaguely, like that explains anything.

It didn’t.

Bee nodded solemnly, as if Dean had just confirmed her scientific findings, though she didn’t take her eyes off Castiel.

Dean immediately regretted opening his mouth. Then, as he glanced between Bee and Cas, Dean noticed the shift in Bee’s demeanor, saw the walls going back up. Though, he wasn’t sure why just yet.

Sam set the groceries down very slowly, like he was afraid any sudden movement will make the situation worse. He looked at Bee. He looked at Cas. He looked at Crowley. He looked at Dean.

Then Sam looked at the ceiling, as if asking God for strength. “…Okay. So. Bee can hear angels. And demons.”

“What?” Cas looked to Sam, then again peered at Bee, his expression mellowing fractionally.

Crowley snorted.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek.

Sam pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. “Right. Great. Awesome. Totally normal day.” He rubs his temples. “Anyone want to tell me why the emotional temperature in here feels like a therapy session exploded?”

Dean goes rigid. Crowley’s eyes sparkle. Bee swings her legs, oblivious. None of them answered. Cas tilted his head again, but cut himself off when he saw Bee’s eyes return to him. Somehow sharper and cooler than before, as if he was a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. Didn’t belong. He took a step back, giving the child some space.

“… You’re loud.” Bee said, conclusively, and reached for her Kool-Aid.

A beat of silence fell, and Sam cleared his throat. “Cas, can you help me put this stuff away?”

“Of course.” Cas nodded faintly, watching Sam pick up his own bag of groceries.

Bee watched them walk toward the kitchen, silent, her eyes boring into Cas’s back.

Only once the pair were out of earshot did Dean quietly turn toward her, leaning a little closer, lowering and softening his voice. “Hey… You alright, kiddo?”

“… I’m fine.”

“You sure? … You can always tell us if you’re not.”

Bee hesitated, staring down at her plate. “I don’t like how he looks at people.”

Dean almost questioned it. Almost. But something in his mind clicked at her words, replaying how Cas had turned to glare at Crowley – that familiar /you’re insufferable/ look that Dean guessed could be taken as hostile. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure.

“Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s looking through someone instead of at them.” Bee added quietly, addressing the unspoken question.

“Oh.” Dean’s gaze fell briefly before he peered at her. “He’s a friend, Bee. He won’t hurt us.” He glanced Crowley’s way. “Any of us. I promise.”

She didn’t seem particularly convinced, but nodded all the same.

In silence, Crowley watched Bee finish her sandwich, trying to parse out whether or not she was afraid of Cas. Because the idea this child, whom he had just met, whom was the younger sister of his two frenemies – was /protective/ of him, HIM, was a foreign concept he refused to entertain.

---------

Sam nudged Cas toward the kitchen with a gentle elbow, grabbing a box of cereal from one of the bags.

Cas followed, stiff and unsettled.

Once they were out of the main room, Cas leaned in slightly. “Why did she react like that?”

Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… Two reasons, maybe. I think the big one is that she didn’t like how you looked at Crowley.”

“I… What?” The look he gave Sam was nothing short of baffled.

He nodded. “She likes him. And she knows Dean likes him, even if Dean won’t admit it. She’s very perceptive. And not in the normal sense.” Sam began unpacking the grocery bags, laying the stuff out on the table just to give himself something to do while he talked. “Like… It’s hard to explain. But when we were at the diner, she noticed Crowley before she could see him. I don’t think it’s actual sound. More like, that’s just the only word she has for it. I think it’s something more… ontological.”

“That… is very uncommon for humans.” Cas turned his explanation over in his head. “Is it similar to what you’ve experienced?”

“No. It’s… Different. And a lot more pronounced. But we’ve only had her with us for a couple days. Once I get a chance to spend some time with her, we’ll probably learn more.” Sam patted Cas’s shoulder, though he was unsure if he was reassuring the Angel or himself. “Just… give her some time to warm up to you. She’s not used to how you and Crowley usually are with each other, yet. But she’ll come around.”

Cas nodded absently, turning the information over in his mind as he moved to help Sam put the groceries up.

Chapter Text

There were countless books in the Bunker’s library. Literal hundreds, likely, though boredom aside, Crowley had no desire to count them all. But for now, he was alone to his own devices.

Castiel was walking the perimeter – the outer halls. Dean and Sam were both asleep. Bee was asleep. And that left Crowley, alone, as usual. True, he COULD hunker down and feign sleep, as he sometimes did. As it stood, his mind was too busy, gears turning. And yes, he COULD wander, like Castiel. But he didn’t want to become entangled in conversation with him… or go close to the room where—

/No./ Crowley cut that thought off sharply. He didn’t want to think about it. He was having a difficult enough time coping without popping out for a fix. But he needed a clear head right now.

So, he found himself walking slowly amidst the bookshelves. Glancing over the covers, taking in the silence of the Bunker. And it was because of this silence that he noticed the barely-there sound of socked feet padding across the floor.

Crowley paused by the hallway corridor that led to the wing the Winchesters occupied. The only light was from the map table, dull and dim. But the unmistakable silhouette of a child emerged from the dark, her eyes hooded and unfocused.

“Poppet? What on Earth are you doing up so late?” Crowley questioned, his voice stern but not angry.

The child gave no response, striding into the library… and walking directly past him as if he were just a piece of furniture. Walking toward the war-room. Crowley’s irritation evaporated, replaced by something cooler and far more attentive.

“… Poppet?”

Again, nothing. Not even a blink. Not even the slightest turn of her head. He quickened his pace just a hair, catching up to her before pausing.

Crowley’s irritation evaporated. His posture sharpened, attention narrowing on the girl’s unfocused eyes. Something in her expression — or the lack of one — made him fall silent.

Rather than try to wake her, he followed her, wanting to see what sort of mission a child’s brain would send them on in their sleep.

Bee made it to the map table before she stopped. One hand traced the edge of it. Her other hand reached out, finding the edge of a chair. Crowley’s body moved closer on instinct, ready to catch her if she fell, one hand hovering at her shoulders. But she didn’t fall, merely clambering into the chair.

One of her hands found a discarded pencil. The other found a loose sheet of paper. The chair nearly slid when she leaned forward, but Crowley stopped it, keeping it in place so it didn’t roll out from under her. He watched in silence as the girl brought pencil to paper… and began to draw in her sleep.

Graphite whispered across the paper in purposeful strokes, as if the girl had done this a hundred times. Steady and sure, her small hand moving with that same eerie inward focus she’d had at the diner.

Crowley leaned in just enough to see the lines forming—

And that was when he felt it. A faint shift in the air. A tepid prickle at the back of his neck.

Grace.

Castiel.

Crowley didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

Cas’s voice came from the doorway, low and uncertain. “Crowley?”

Crowley’s hand shot up instantly — a sharp, quiet gesture for silence. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just decisive. He didn’t look away from Bee. His focus stayed locked on her, as if the slightest disturbance might shatter whatever fragile thread she was following.

“Don’t.” Barely a whisper.

A warning, not for Cas’s sake, but hers. She was drawing this for a reason, even if it was a subconscious one.

Cas stepped closer anyway, drawn by the sight of Bee hunched over the table. The dim map light caught the buttons of his coat as he moved into view.

Bee’s pencil faltered. Her shoulders tightened. Even asleep, she registered him – the Angel’s presence.

Crowley’s voice dropped to a hiss, still soft enough not to break the moment. “Back up, Feathers.”

Cas froze, eyes flicking from Crowley to Bee, confusion knitting his brow. He took a single step back. Bee relaxed. The pencil resumed its steady, whispering path across the page. Crowley exhaled through his nose, barely audible.

Then, without looking at Cas, “Go get Moose.”

Cas hesitated — not used to taking orders from Crowley, especially whispered ones — but something in Crowley’s posture, in the tension of the room, made him obey.
He slipped away down the hall, silent as a shadow.

Crowley stayed exactly where he was, one hand still braced on the back of Bee’s chair, watching the drawing take shape with a sinking feeling in his gut. Unaware of the tenseness in his shoulders, in his gaze as he stared down at her progressing drawing, Bee continued, murmuring something unintelligible.

After a few minutes, Sam stepped into the library with a stifled yawn, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. Cas followed him close behind, halting some distance away – what seemed to be the threshold of her awareness in her current state.

“What’s going on?” Sam whispered.

Crowley nodded down at Bee’s drawing, his voice a low murmur. “She waltzed in here and started drawing. Just headed straight for the map table.”

Inching closer, his shoulder brushing the Demon’s – Crowley tensed fractionally but didn’t pull away – Sam peered down at the drawing.

Bee’s pencil slowed, then stopped. Her hand hovered for a moment, as if waiting for some unseen cue, before she set the pencil down with a soft clatter. Her shoulders sagged. The tension drained out of her spine all at once, and she slumped sideways, drifting deeper into sleep.

Sam reached out on instinct, steadying her before she could slide off the chair. His other hand braced the paper, keeping it from fluttering to the floor.

He looked down.

And froze.

Crowley watched the change in Sam’s face — the way his breath hitched, the way his eyes sharpened, the way his jaw tightened. Not fear. Not confusion. Something heavier. Something that made Crowley’s stomach drop even before he saw the page.

Sam swallowed hard. “…Okay.” He whispered, voice thin. “Alright.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

Bee murmured something that might’ve been syllables, her head lolling against his chest. Sam gathered her up with care, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She curled into him without waking, small and warm and utterly unaware of the weight she’d just placed on the table.

Crowley’s gaze flicked to the drawing, but Sam shifted, blocking it from view as he turned toward the hallway.

“I’ll put her back to bed.” Sam murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Cas stepped aside, giving him space.

Crowley stayed where he was, eyes lingering on the edge of the paper — the faint outline of something dark, something wrong — before Sam carried Bee out of sight.

As he walked, part of Sam wondered if this was what Dean felt like, with him. Sure, they were only four years apart, but… he wondered. Quietly, he laid Bee back down in her bed, tugging the covers over her, making a mental note to himself that they needed to get her some proper pajamas instead of letting her sleep in her clothes like Dean. A faint smile tugged at Sam’s lips before he could fully stop it.

Looking aside, Sam spotted Bee’s plush bat. Quietly, he eased the toy into her arms, and smoothed a hand over her hair. Out of the three of them, her hair was the most like John’s, Sam realized. Dark, unable to decide if it was wavy or curly. All it was missing was the greys.

Sighing softly, Sam rose, stepping out of her room and pulling the door closed gently with a quiet click. He hesitated, listening to see if Bee had woken up, but when no commotion came, Sam strode back to the library.

“Okay.” He said quietly, glancing between Cas and Crowley. “We’ll… figure this out in the morning. I wanna wait until Dean is up on his own. No reason to make him freak out.” He ruffled his own hair, glancing back at the hallway before again peering at the Demon and Angel. “I’m gonna head back to bed, but if she gets back up, one of you keep an eye on her and the other come get me. Okay?”

“Obviously.” Crowley scoffed.

Sam rolled his eyes a little at that, but the tension didn’t leave his shoulders. He turned and made his way back to his room, the image of Bee’s drawing still sitting heavy behind his eyes.

---------

Dean shuffled through the library, rubbing sleep from his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. He didn’t bother with the lights — the dim glow from the map table was enough to guide him toward the kitchen and the promise of caffeine.

He stepped into the war room.

And stopped.

Sam was already there, leaning against the table with a mug in hand. Crowley sat in one of the chairs, legs crossed, tea steaming in front of him. Cas stood stiffly beside the table, holding a cup of coffee he clearly had no intention of drinking but had accepted the offer of coffee regardless, letting the mug warm his fingers.

All three of them looked up at the same time.

Dean blinked. “…Okay. What’d I walk into?”

Sam straightened a little too quickly. “Morning.”

“Is it?” Crowley arched a brow.

Cas didn’t move besides to look over at him.

Dean’s stomach sank. He knew that look. He knew that silence. Something had happened. And he was the last to know.

Quietly, Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Bee sleepwalked last night.”

“What?” Dean tilted his head sharply as if he’d misheard.

“It was actually rather fascinating to watch.” Crowley opined dryly, and nodded to a paper on the map table. “She drew that, while she was at it.”

He hesitated. From the Demon’s tone, it wasn’t good news. The look on Sam’s face only confirmed that much. Dean was suddenly, painfully awake in scant seconds. He strode closer to the table, Sam giving him room.

Lying on the table was a single loose sheet of paper. On that paper, a drawing. A drawing of a road, a guardrail, a tree… and two white dots for eyes, peering out of the darkness.
Dean’s breath caught. His hand hovered over the edge of the table, not quite touching it.

After a beat, Crowley reached into his suit jacket’s inner pocket. He pulled out a paper and unfolded it – the first drawing, from the diner – and set it beside the second drawing.

Crowley gave Cas a pointed look. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

Cas’s brows knit. He gazed down at the drawings intently, studying them. “No. … These don’t feel Celestial. Or Infernal. … Where did she see this?”

Dean swallowed hard. “… She said back at her house. … It killed her mom.” He glanced between the pair. “So neither of you know what this thing is?”

“No.” Cas shook his head.

Dean pursed his lips, dragging a hand over his hair.

“Home.” Crowley said, his eyes turning toward Sam. “Where did she say home was, exactly?”

“Arkham, Massachusetts.” Sam answered.

Sam’s answer hung in the air for a beat too long.

Crowley went very still.

Not the theatrical stillness he used when he wanted attention. Not the predatory stillness he used when he was about to strike. Something quieter. Older. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“…You’re joking.” Not a question. A hope.

Sam shook his head.

Crowley exhaled once, sharp and humorless. “Bloody brilliant.”

Dean frowned. “What? What’s wrong with Arkham?”

Crowley didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on the drawings, on the white dots staring out of the dark. “Arkham,” he said slowly, “is the sort of place even demons avoid. Thin walls. Old things. The kind of town where the locals pretend nothing’s wrong because the alternative is admitting everything is.”

Cas tilted his head. “I have heard the name. It is associated with… anomalies.”

Crowley snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “So what, this thing came from there?”

Crowley shook his head sharply. “No. That’s not what I said.”

He tapped the second drawing again — the road, the guardrail, the tree.

“This,” he said quietly, “isn’t Arkham.”

Sam’s cocked a brow at him. “You think she saw it again?”

Crowley didn’t look away from the page.

“I think,” he said, voice low, “that whatever she saw back home… she saw it somewhere else too.”

Cas’s brow furrowed, concern flickering across his face.

Dean felt his breath catch in his ribs. Small, sharp, as his stomach headed toward his boots. “… You think it followed her.”

“I think it’s a possibility we can’t ignore.” Crowley fell quiet for a few seconds, eyes still on the drawings. When he finally spoke, his voice was different — measured, deliberate. “Has she spoke of her mother, much?”

“Her mom’s only been dead a few months, Crowley. So forgive me if I decided not to dig too much.” Dean muttered, eyes narrowing.

“Well, you know what they say. Knowledge is power.” He rolled his shoulders a bit, and offered a small smirk. “Arkham is two things. Old, and insular. There are probably still surviving records. And the town has more than a few… odd lineages.”

“As much as I hate saying it,” Sam sighed as he peered down at the drawings, “he’s right. … Maybe if we learn more about Bee’s mom, we can figure out what that thing is… and how it survived after dad shot it.”

Chapter Text

Dean strode down the hallway, rubbing a hand over his face. It was late enough in the morning that Bee should’ve been stirring, and after the night they’d had, he wanted to check on her himself. Wanted to see for himself that she was okay.

The foster dad’s words echoed in his mind – the way the older man had warned them about Bee’s nighttime proclivities.

He pushed her door open quietly.

Bee was already sitting up.

“… Bee?”

No response.

Dean crept closer, tilting his head as he peered at her.

She wasn’t awake — not really. Her eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, her head tilted slightly toward the doorway as if she’d been listening for him.

Slowly, Dean eased himself onto the edge of the bed, resting a hand on her foot through the covers. “Hey, kiddo… You with me? … Can you hear me, Bee?”

Her eyes widened a fraction. A slow blink. And then they focused — really focused — on him. Those baby blues traced his face, taking in his expression, his presence.

“Dean?” She whispered, voice small and scratchy with sleep.

“There you are.” He forced a smile, gentle and steady. “Morning.”

Bee blinked again, this time more awake, and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Morning.”

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Figured it was getting too late to sleep in much more. You hungry?”

She nodded, leaning toward him without thinking, and Dean reached out automatically, steadying her with a hand between her shoulder blades.

“Alright.” He said, voice low. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

And as she slid off the bed, still blinking herself fully into the world, Dean kept his hand on her back — not guiding, just… there.

Just in case.

Bee leaned into Dean’s side, faintly, walking with him down the hall and through the library. Sam was on his laptop, chewing his thumb nail as he scrolled through something, Cas standing behind his chair and peering over Sam’s shoulder.

Sam glanced at them and mustered a small smile. “Hey, Bee. … You slept in a bit late. You okay?”

“… I think so, yeah.” Bee nodded to him, glancing between him and Cas as she and Dean moved toward the war-room, and the corridor that led to the kitchen.

She was about to ask where Crowley was. But, as they neared the kitchen, she could hear him. That softer, warmer hum that reminded her of a furnace or space-heater running in another room. He was pouring water from an electric kettle into a coffee mug, a tea bag’s string hanging over the rim. Hearing Dean’s boots on the hardwood floor, Crowley turned a fraction – enough to glance them over.

“I see Sleeping Beauty finally decided to join us.” Crowley intoned, though his words lacked any real bite. “Did you rest well, poppet?”

“It’s too early to tell yet.” Bee yawned softly, a squeak leaving her. “But I figure I’ll know in a few minutes.”

Dean snorted, a grin tugging at his mouth.

As he reached for a box of Captain Crunch, Bee paused, her brows furrowing a bit as she caught the tea’s aroma. “… Darjeeling?”

Dean’s brows lifted, just a fraction.

“Hm?” Crowley turned, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features before he quickly masked it – not quick enough to keep Dean or Bee from seeing it, but enough to save his dignity.

“It’s the tea Mom used to like.” Bee said quietly.

“Then your mother was a woman of good taste.” Crowley glanced at Dean.

“… May I have some, please?” Her voice was quiet, almost hopeful.

The Demon’s mouth worked wordlessly for a moment before shutting with a soft click of teeth. Dean had gone still beside Bee, half-expecting Crowley to scoff or shut her down.

But he didn’t.

Crowley inhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders rising in a long-suffering sigh.

“Oh, brilliant. The puppy-eyes run in the family.” He muttered it like a complaint, but his voice had lost all its bite. He reached up into the cabinet for another mug. “Alright, alright. You may. … Before you make me bloody melt.”

Dean blinked. /In the family./ He wasn’t sure why that hit him the way it did — warm and sharp all at once — but it did.

Crowley reached into the cabinet for another mug, movements brisk but not irritated. If anything, he looked… resigned. Softened, even, in that tiny, reluctant way he’d never admit to. Bee watched him with quiet expectation, hands folded on the counter. Her shoulders loosened, the tension melting out of her posture. Crowley’s hum warmed a little — like a space heater being turned up a notch.

Wordlessly, Crowley set the mug down, poured the hot water, and dropped in a fresh tea bag. He didn’t look at her as he did it.

Bee reached toward the sugar canister, fingers stretching just shy of it when she rose on her tiptoes.

Without a word, Crowley slid it closer. Not dramatically. Not even consciously, maybe. Just… a small, instinctive act of care.

Dean saw it. Bee saw it. Crowley pretended he didn’t.

She thanked him quietly, leaving his side long enough to grab a spoon and the bottle of half-and-half from the fridge. When she returned, she dunked the teabag a couple times before scooping two spoonfuls of sugar in and adding just a little cream. The spoon clicked against the sides of the mug, and she stood there for a moment, trying to be patient and let it cool.

Bee peered at Crowley as he took a sip of his own tea, glancing between him and his mug. “…Does being a Demon make it easier to drink hot things?”

Dean pursed his lips around a laugh, closing the bag of cereal with a chip-clip and sliding it back into the box.

“…Yes and no.” Crowley answered, giving her a puzzled look. “I’m just used to it.”

“…John would do that with his coffee. Said it never bothered him.” She shrugged, her gaze turning back down to her own tea. “Just curious.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked to Dean — quick, assessing — before returning to Bee. Something in his expression shifted, subtle and unreadable, but softer than before.

Dean felt that warm-sharp twist in his chest again and looked away, busying himself with bowls and cereal like it could hide the way the moment hit him.

They moved to the kitchen table. Dean left long enough to grab the gallon of milk from the fridge, coming back and pouring some for her and himself. Crowley sat opposite them, settling back in the chair, legs crossed. Dean watched quietly as Bee used her spoon to push the cereal pieces beneath the milk, trying to saturate it faster so the Captain Crunch didn’t completely destroy her mouth.

“…How’d you sleep, kiddo?” Dean asked quietly.

“Okay, I guess.” Bee frowned, kicking her feet beneath the table. “I had a dream I was watching a man on a train in Japan but he missed his stop and he got really sad because he wanted to go straight home after work.”

Dean’s spoon paused midair. “I… What?”

“Sometimes,” Bee said, as if this were normal, “I dream I’m watching other people. From behind their eyes. Like… I know I’m not them, but I’m seeing what they see.”

Crowley’s gaze flicked up at that — sharp, assessing — before he schooled his expression back into bored neutrality.

“…Huh.” Dean cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “That sounds… neat, I guess.”

Bee shrugged and went back to her cereal.

---------

Sam scrolls through DMV records, Cas leaning over his shoulder.

“Here…” Sam murmured. “Driver’s license. LPN certification. Employment records from a nursing home, Olive Grove, in Arkham.”

He clicked on a staff photo from the ‘Former Team Members’ directory. It was grainy, a bit outdated. Her hair was a soft, wheat blonde done back in a bun. Blue eyes. No makeup. She didn’t look John’s age — maybe in her thirties. Bee definitely had the same eyes, same nose. Wearing blue scrubs.

Sam’s breath hitched — the resemblance was impossible to miss.

Cas tilted his head. “She appears… ordinary.”

“Yeah.” Sam said quietly. “That’s what worries me.”

He clicked another link. This one on the DMV website. It took him to vehicle registration.

Sam’s breath caught. “…Cas.”

The angel leaned closer. “What is it?”

He swallowed. “This is the car Dad was driving when he died.”

Cas frowned. “I thought the Impala—”

“No.” Sam said, voice thin. “Dean had the Impala. Dad… Dad was driving this.”

He turned the screen so Cas could see the make and model more clearly. A 1998 Subaru Outback. Registered to Bee’s mother.

Cas’s expression tightened, a faint crease forming between his brows. “He kept her vehicle.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded slowly. “He did.”

And that’s when Crowley appeared in the doorway, tea in hand, watching them with that too-still expression — the kind that suggested he’d been listening longer than he wanted them to know.

“Crowley?” Sam arched a brow, searching the demon’s posture and expression.

“Find anything useful, Moose?” Crowley slid into the chair next to him but didn’t scoot closer.

“I… Yeah.” He cleared his throat, nodding, centering himself. “Her mom was an LPN at a nursing home. She worked in the Alzheimer’s and Critical Care wing. No criminal record. No previous marriages, no other kids.”

“Yet you look like you’ve seen a ghost. … Spill it. What else did you find?”

Sam frowned. After a moment of internal debate, he turned his laptop so Crowley could see.

“…Ah. That explains the look on your face.”

“So. Your turn.” Sam said, resting his elbows on the table, folding his arms loosely. “Did Bee say anything? About last night?”

“Yes. She had a dream. Specifically, she was backseat observing a man in another country who missed his stop on the train. Her specific words were that she was ‘watching behind his eyes.’”

“…That’s not astral projection.”

“No.” Crowley agreed. “But I’m not discounting the possibility she can do that as well. For now.” He sipped at his tea quietly before setting the mug aside, within easy reach. “Tell me you at least know the poor woman’s name.”

“Well, yeah. It was on Bee’s birth certificate.” Sam let out a small huff. “Her mom’s name was Tanya Carter.”

Crowley didn’t move at first.

Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just… stillness.

But it wasn’t the theatrical stillness he used to intimidate. It wasn’t the predatory stillness he used before striking.

This was something quieter. Older. A recognition he hadn’t expected to feel.

His eyes lowered — not in deference, but in thought — and he exhaled once through his nose, a soft, controlled sound.

“…Tanya Carter,” he repeated, tasting the name like it was a memory he couldn’t quite place. “Of course it is.”

Sam frowned. “You know her?”

“No.” Crowley’s answer was immediate, but not dismissive. “Not personally. But I know the type.”

Cas straightened slightly. “What type?”

Crowley’s gaze flicked to the staff photo on the screen — the grainy image of a woman in blue scrubs, hair pulled back, eyes soft and inward.

“The kind of person who sees more than she should,” Crowley murmured. “The kind who keeps her head down because the alternative is being noticed by the wrong things.”
Sam’s stomach tightened. “You think she knew something.”

“I think,” Crowley said slowly, “that she felt something. And that whatever she felt… Bee inherited.”

He leaned back in the chair, tea forgotten, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes weren’t on the screen anymore — they were somewhere else entirely, following a thread only he could see.

Then, abruptly, he stood.

Sam blinked. “Crowley?”

Crowley smoothed his suit jacket, composure snapping back into place like a mask.

“I need to speak with the girl.”

Cas’s wings rustled faintly — a sign of unease. “Why?”

Crowley gave him a look that was almost gentle. Almost.

“Because she’s the only one who can tell me what her mother saw. And she won’t say it to any of you.”

Sam bristled. “Why not?”

Crowley’s smile was thin, humorless.

“Because you ask questions with your heads.” He tapped his temple. “She answers with her senses.”

He turned toward the hallway.

“And I speak her language.”

---------

Bee finishes her cereal slowly, still waking up, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. Dean sits beside her, nursing his coffee, watching her with that soft, protective focus he never admits to having.

But right now… He can’t help it.

Her small form leaned against his arm without thinking. Dean doesn’t move away.

“Hey.” He murmurs, nudging her shoulder gently. “You doin okay?”

Bee nods, stirring the last bits of cereal around the bowl. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Dean huffs a small laugh. “Yeah, kiddo. Me too.”

She looks up at him, eyes soft. “Thanks for waking me up.”

Dean’s chest tightens. “Anytime.”

Bee reaches for her tea, takes a sip, and makes a small, pleased sound. Dean smiled into his coffee. It’s nothing dramatic. Nothing heavy. Just… a moment. A normal one. Something small, simple, and domestic that made him wonder what life might’ve been like if he wasn’t a Hunter – if he, Sam, and their father hadn’t been hunters.

And that’s when the footsteps approach. Coming from the library. Dean knew from the cadence that it wasn’t Cas. And he knew from the sound that it wasn’t Sam – no telltale squeak of sneakers.

Bee didn’t seem to notice. Or, rather, she didn’t feel the sense of gravity those steps carried. She quietly drank the milk from the bottom of the cereal bowl before getting up and heading to the sink.

Crowley stopped just inside the doorway, tea in hand, posture composed but not cold. His eyes flick to Bee — softening for a fraction of a second — then settle on Dean.

“Winchester.” He says quietly.

Dean glanced up, wary but not hostile. “What.”

Crowley hesitated — which is rare enough that Dean straightens a little. “I need to speak with the girl.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “About what?”

Crowley’s voice stays low, careful, glancing at Bee where she stood rinsing her bowl. “About what she saw. And what she didn’t realize she saw.”

Dean’s first instinct is to say no. To shut it down. To keep Bee close.

Crowley saw it. He lifts a hand, palm out — not in surrender, but in reassurance.

“You can watch from the door.” Crowley said. “I’m not asking you to leave her alone with me. I’m asking you to let me speak her language.”

Dean’s brows knit. “Her language?”

Crowley nods toward the girl. “She thinks in senses. In impressions. In things she can’t explain to you because you ask direct questions.”

Dean swallows. He hates that Crowley’s right. He hates that he knows it.

But he also knew Bee needs someone who can understand the way she experienced and described the world — and right now, that someone wasn’t Dean.

Dean exhaled slowly. “Fine. But I’m right there. Doorway. In sight.”

Crowley’s mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but close. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Finished, Bee set the rinsed bowl down in the sink and turned. She glanced between Crowley and Dean, seeing some unspoken tension but unable to put a name to it. It felt almost like a string being pulled from either end until it was taut and slowly coming unwound.

Crowley’s expression softened by a hair — just enough for Bee to notice.

“Bee,” he said, tone gentler than she’d ever heard from him. “When you’ve a moment, poppet… I’d like to speak with you. In the war-room.”

Bee blinked, curious but not afraid. “Okay.”

Dean rose halfway from his chair, steady and present. Crowley didn’t look at him, but his next words were meant for Dean as much as for her.

“Just a conversation,” Crowley added. “You can stay where you can see her.”

Dean nodded once — tight, controlled, but accepting.

Bee padded toward the war-room doorway, tea still in hand, and Crowley followed at a respectful distance.

Dean watched them go, a knot of worry in his chest… but also a strange, reluctant relief.

Chapter Text

Bee set her tea on the map table with care and climbed into one of the chairs. Crowley sat across from her, the table’s warm light casting a soft glow between them. Dean stood in the doorway to the kitchen corridor, arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame — present, steady, watching.

“…You told Sam and Dean that you’re from Arkham, is that right, poppet?” Crowley settled back, elbows on the chair’s arms, fingers steepled loosely.

“Yeah. Arkham, Massachusetts.” Bee nodded, shifting to sit on her knees. “1321 East Derby Street.”

He inclined his head. “How did home feel to you, before you saw the creature at the foot of the stairs?”

Bee blinked, surprised he’d asked that — surprised he’d asked the right question. Her gaze dropped to her tea as she considered.

“…Quiet,” she said softly.

Crowley didn’t interrupt. He watched her expression with careful neutrality, the kind that meant he was listening closely.

“Old,” Bee added. “It felt like the inside of a museum. Everyone trying to be quiet. Or… like when you’re at a sleepover and you’re trying not to wake anyone up.”

Dean’s brows knit faintly. He didn’t move, but Bee’s words hit him somewhere deep.

“The house was warm,” she continued. “It was colder when John was gone because Mom liked John a lot. So it always felt warmer and less quiet when he was around.”

Dean winced — a small, involuntary flicker — but Bee’s tone held no judgment. Just memory.

“The library felt really quiet,” Bee went on. “And cold. They banned me for a week once because I tried to go into the Restricted Archive.”

She pouted at the memory.

Crowley’s eyes sharpened — just a fraction — but his voice stayed mild. “Did you now.”

Her shoulders hunched a little. “It wasn’t locked and there wasn’t a sign, so I thought it was just another section.”

There was a pause before he uncrossed his legs and leaned a bit closer, resting his elbows on the map table. “Did the Restricted Archive have a certain feel?”

Bee tilted her head, thinking about it before finding the words. “Not really. … Prickly. Like when you fall asleep on your arm. But it was a little louder. Like TV static. Not as loud as Cas. But louder than you.”

“… How does the Bunker feel by comparison?”

Her eyes trailed across the room. With the old-timey computers, the bookshelves, the off-center map table, the vintage furniture. “… Cozy. Big. Like an empty dollhouse. … It feels lonely.”

Crowley tilted his head faintly — not mocking, not skeptical. Just… absorbing.

“Like a lot of people used to be here, and now it’s just us five.”

“An empty dollhouse.” He echoed softly. “That’s quite the description.”

Bee shrugged, fingers curling around her warm mug. “It’s not bad. Just… quiet. Like it’s waiting for something.”

“… Poppet.”

Her gaze rose to meet Crowley’s.

“I want you to think carefully. And tell me the truth. … That night, when you saw the creature… What did it feel like, or sound like, to you?”

“Cold.” Bee said without hesitation. “Very cold. Like when in documentaries, they tell you the water can kill you in two minutes kind of cold. Sharp. Not sharp like a knife. Sharp like broken glass. It felt… crooked. Wrong.” Her gaze fell to the map. “Off-center even though I was looking right at it. It sounded like… sand.”

“Sand?”

“Sand. Like if you have an hourglass and you turn it over. Or if you pour salt out of the canister. It sounds like sand.”

Crowley’s fingers stilled against the table at that. From the doorway, Dean felt a chill crawl up his spine. He straightened, sensing the shift even if he didn’t understand it. Crowley’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpened. He leaned back slightly, as if giving himself room to think.

“…I see.” He murmured, voice mild. Too mild.

Bee blinked at him. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, poppet.” Crowley’s tone softened, almost gentle. “You said something very helpful.”

He steepled his fingers, gaze drifting to the map table for a moment — not unfocused, but calculating. Filing away her words. Testing them against things he knew, things he suspected, things he hoped weren’t true. Then he leaned forward again, voice low.

“Tell me,” he said, “when you saw it… did it feel like it was in the house with you? Or did it feel like it was… somewhere else. Reaching in.”

Bee frowned, thinking hard. “Somewhere else.” She whispered. “Like it wasn’t supposed to fit. Like it was squeezing through a crack.”

Crowley inhaled slowly through his nose.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

Bee looked between them, confused. “Is that bad?”

Crowley’s smile was thin, careful. “It means that you’re describing something very few people ever notice.” He didn’t elaborate. Not yet. He needed more. He needed to be sure. So he softened his voice again, coaxing rather than interrogating. “Let’s keep going, poppet. You’re doing beautifully. … Had you ever seen it before that night?”

“No. Never saw it. But I could feel it, and hear it. Watching. Looking in. Like a dollhouse.” Bee said quietly, lowering to sit with her legs crisscrossed in the chair.

“You said it stopped at the window.” Dean said quietly from where he stood.

Bee glanced over at him. “Yeah. But I dunno why. I feel like it could’ve broke it if…” Her eyes widened.

“If it were actually on the other side of the window.” Crowley finished for her.

Her gaze snapped to him. “It was there, but not there. It couldn’t get in that way, so it went downstairs.” She glanced around the table before sliding out of the chair. “I need my notebook! I’ll be right back!” And rushed out of the room, back down the hall.

Dean sputtered, stepping deeper into the room, watching her until she was out of sight. Then, slowly, his attention drifted back to Crowley.

“…You know what it is.”

“I have a theory,” Crowley corrected mildly. “And honestly? …I hope I’m wrong.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Crowley.”

Crowley finally looked up at him — really looked — and for once, there was no smirk, no snark, no mask.

“Winchester,” he said quietly, “if I’m right… then we’re dealing with something older than Heaven and Hell. Something your father never had a name for. …And she is in very serious danger.”

Dean’s breath hitched — a small, sharp sound he didn’t mean to make. Before he could mask the sheer, visceral terror that hooked into his gut, Bee came rushing back into the room, notebook clutched to her chest, barely even noticing Sam and Cas where they watched from the edge of the library.

She climbed back into the chair, flipping to a blank page and beginning to draw — hurriedly but precisely — her pen moving with a kind of instinctive certainty.
It only took a few seconds before Crowley and Dean saw she was sketching a loose floorplan of her former home.

Crowley took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

There it was. The corridor at the foot of the stairs. The back door. The kitchen. And the near-perfect 90-degree angle where the stoop and doorway met the kitchen wall.
Crowley’s eyes narrowed — not in anger, but in recognition. A terrible, quiet recognition.

Dean’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Crowley. Please tell me you’re wrong.”

Crowley didn’t look away from the drawing. “I’d love to,” he murmured. “Truly. But that angle… that’s not a coincidence. And neither is the way she described it.”

Dean swallowed hard. “What does that mean.”

Crowley’s jaw flexed — the smallest tell of tension.

“It means,” he said softly, “that whatever was watching her… wasn’t standing in that hallway.”

He tapped the corner of the drawing with one finger.

“It was coming through it.”

Sam’s voice emerged from the edge of the war-room, where it met the library. “So it’s something extradimensional?”

Crowley peered at him. “That’s one word for it.”

“So, what, it can come through any angle?” Dean scoffed, a thread of panic peeking through his voice.

“I suspect perfect angles are easiest for it.” Crowley glanced around, his brows knitting. “… This place is a study in symmetry. So why hasn’t it shown up here?”

“Well, the Men of Letters knew more than most hunters.” Sam shrugged. “Maybe there’s some kind of ward on the building it can’t get through?”

“Or it’s too boxy.” Bee suggested. “The outside walls are too flat, and the chimneys are circles. And the corners point out instead of in.”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to her.

“Or both.” Cas suggested quietly. “Either way, I think it would be best if she not go outside. Not until we learn more.”

Bee nodded quietly.

“I’ll start looking through the Men of Letter files.” Sam said, a steely determination sliding into his tone. “Cas?”

“I’ll help.” Cas said.

Dean opened his mouth to comment, but the words were lost when Bee looked over at him. “You should try to call Professor Armitage. He’s the head librarian at Miskatonic. He knows all kinds of stuff.”

He bristled faintly. “I… That IS a good idea, Bee, but…”

“But what?”

A low chuckle rolled in Crowley’s throat. “Suffice to say that Hunters and Miskatonic don’t exactly get along.”

“Oh.” Bee pouted. “Is that why they kept hanging up when John tried to call them?”

Crowley’s eyes flicked to Dean — sharp, knowing — before returning to Bee.

“…Yes, poppet,” he said softly. “That would be why.”

Dean froze.

Not visibly — not enough for Bee to notice — but something in him locked up, like a gear catching in the wrong place.

John Winchester. Calling Miskatonic.

Of all places. Of all people.

Dean felt the thought hit him sideways, warm and cold at the same time. His father didn’t call anyone for help unless he was desperate. He didn’t trust institutions. He didn’t trust scholars. He sure as hell didn’t trust people who knew more than he did.

But he’d called them. More than once, if Bee was right.

And they’d hung up on him.

Dean swallowed hard, a tight, dry click in his throat. He didn’t know what unsettled him more — the idea of John reaching out to a place like Miskatonic… or the idea that John had been scared enough to try.

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

But Crowley saw it. Of course he did.

The demon’s gaze flicked to Dean — not mocking, not triumphant, just… knowing. A quiet acknowledgment of the ground shifting under Dean’s feet.

Bee, oblivious, swung her legs under the chair and went back to her drawing.

Sam and Cas exchanged a look — concern, confusion, calculation.

And Crowley exhaled slowly, the sound soft and heavy in the war-room’s stillness.

“Well,” he said, voice low, “I suppose it’s time I stop dancing around it.”

Dean’s head snapped up.

Crowley folded his hands on the table, eyes dark and steady. “What you’re dealing with isn’t a ghost. Or a Demon. Or anything your father ever taught you to kill.”

A beat. A breath. A quiet, terrible certainty.

“It’s a Hound of Tindalos.”