Chapter Text
South Dakota, 2004
The road stretched out, deserted, swallowed up by the night. Rain fell in thin diagonal streaks, scratching the Impala's windscreen. Bon Jovi's ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ played just loud enough to drown out the hum of the engine. Dean tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm of the guitar solo, his eyes fixed on the satnav, which he was only half paying attention to.
John had sent him to ‘check something out’, a series of strange deaths in a backwater that even the road maps seemed to want to forget. Three men had been found dead, their hearts stopped, without a trace of injury. All blond, all within a ten-kilometre radius of an old house: the Simons property.
According to records, James Simons had been an abusive father, a real country bastard. His wife Emma had shot him dead after years of abuse, before hanging herself in the attic. Their son, Gary, had been found dead in the barn several weeks earlier, his head smashed in. Officially, it was a ‘domestic accident’.
Dean knew a ghost on the run when he saw one on paper. He parked the car below and turned off the engine. Silence fell suddenly, broken only by the wind and the creaking of the trees. The building stood out a hundred metres away: large, rickety, with a grey façade worn down by time. The shutters flapped gently, creaking like moans. The others were found on the ground, torn from their windows by time and wind.
Dean grabbed his salt rifle, checked the torch, locked the car and set off down the muddy path leading to the house.
That's when he saw her.
A figure was crouched in front of the porch, torch shining on a footprint in the mud. Small, athletic, brunette, with a tapered pixie cut that contrasted with her pale skin. She wore a black leather jacket, worn jeans, and had a focused look, ready to react to the slightest threat, and an expression of fierce concentration. The torch cast sharp shadows across her face: dark, attentive eyes, an air of calm determination.
Dean slowed down, intrigued. It wasn't the first time he'd come across someone on a hunt, but usually it was either cops or suicidal amateurs. Not women who seemed to know exactly what they were doing.
She looked up at him, the torch in one hand and the other resting on the gun at her hip.
-‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice low but confident.
Dean raised an eyebrow, a half-smile playing on his lips.
-‘Usually, I'm the one who starts with that.’
-‘This is private property. Are you looking for trouble?’
-‘Trouble, no. What's in that house, maybe.’
She narrowed her eyes slightly. The light from her lamp caught the barrel of the salt rifle Dean was carrying over his shoulder. And then her expression changed, no longer fearful, but with a flash of recognition.
-‘You hunt.’
-‘It would appear so. And you too, I imagine.’
She slowly stood up.
-‘Lyra O'Neill.’
-‘Dean Winchester.’
Silence. The wind slammed a shutter above them, and the old building groaned like a wounded animal.
-‘So, Winchester,’ she said, putting away her weapon, ‘you plan to steal my kill?’
Dean smiled wryly.
-‘Your kill? I was here first.’
-‘Not according to my records.’
-‘You keep records?’
-‘And files too. You should try it, it keeps you from rushing in head first.’
He snickered.
-‘Yeah, but where's the fun in that?’
She stared at him, raised an eyebrow, then sighed.
-‘Listen, cowboy, we can play “it's my haunted house” all night, or we can go take out the Simons before they kill another blond guy.’
Dean frowned.
-‘The Simons? Do you know who they are?’
-‘Yeah. James, the father, a complete bastard. His wife Emma shot him after he made their lives hell. Then she hanged herself. Their son, Gary, was killed by his father in the barn. Now Emma kills all the men who look like her husband.’ Blond, square jaw, a bit cocky...
She looked at him with an amused gleam in her eye.
-‘You know the type.’
Dean raised a finger.
-‘Hey, I'm not blond.’
-‘No, but you're almost his type. Enough to end up on her list, if you ask me.’
He grimaced.
-‘Great. So I'm almost her type.’
-‘Congratulations. You'll be excellent bait.’
-‘Great. I love this plan.’
-‘Me too.’
-‘I was being ironic.’
-‘I wasn't.’
She gave him a mischievous look before heading towards the house. Dean followed her, torch in hand, a smirk on his face. But before climbing the front steps, he glanced around quickly, his hands casually in his jacket pockets.
-‘Hey. So, um... do we pretend everything's normal, or do we just jump right into the weird stuff?’ He raised an eyebrow, his smirk lazy but alert.
Lyra looked at him defiantly, a smirk on her face:
-‘Tell me your definitions of normal and weird, and I'll give you my answer.’
Dean laughed dryly, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and taking a few steps forward, his boots crunching on the gravel:
-’Well, for me, normal would be a nice cold beer, maybe some classic rock on the radio, and no supernatural threats within 80 kilometres. Weird? That kind of crap. Abandoned houses that aren't really abandoned, creepy dolls, and a fresh hell waiting for us inside.’
His gaze intensified as he looked at her.
-‘But hey... maybe for a tough hunter like you, that's normal. Just another Tuesday, right?’
Lyra raised an eyebrow.
-‘On Tuesdays, I sleep badly. The rest of the time, I hunt ghosts.’
Dean shrugged, a smirk on his face.
-‘Okay... you're clearly not the tourist type.’
He leaned slightly towards her. Lyra had to lift her head to meet his eyes; he was taller than her.
-’‘Trying to score points by complimenting me, Winchester?’
Dean's smirk widened, but a glimmer of sincerity flashed in his green eyes when they met.
-‘I'm just saying what I see. You've got guts, Pixie, I'll give you that. Even if your taste in property leaves something to be desired.’
He took a step back, his expression turning more serious.
-‘Come on, let's go before I lose my nerve. Ladies first?’
-‘If this gentleman needs a shield... who am I to stop him from hiding behind me?’ Lyra said.
Dean laughed heartily:
-‘A shield, huh? I like your thinking.’
They climbed the steps side by side, Dean following close behind, his hand on his rifle. His low, teasing voice made her smile:
-‘Just remember, if things get too tense, I won't hesitate to push you in front of me. In love and exorcism, anything goes, right?’
-‘Deal, Winchester. But don't scream like a little girl if you encounter rats,’ she replied seriously.
-‘Oh, I wouldn't dare scream. But if you hear applause, don't be surprised. Rat infestations are just the icing on the cake,’ he whispered.
Dean put his hand on the door, pausing:
-‘Okay, here's the plan. We stick together, we protect each other. But if something attacks us and it's not human, I shoot first and ask questions later. Deal?’
Lyra replied, firm and pragmatic:
-‘Deal.’
She took a deep breath and kicked the door hard. She opened it abruptly:
-‘Mrs Simons! Your husband was a real piece of shit. I completely understand wanting to kill him after your death, given what he did to you when you were alive. But killing all the blondes in the neighbourhood is a bit excessive!’
An icy silence followed her words. The temperature dropped sharply. Dust floated in the beams of the torches, and the house seemed to hold its breath.
Then a high-pitched, broken laugh echoed from the end of the corridor. Dean's torch flickered. A small wooden toy fell from the upper landing and rolled in the dust.
Two figures materialised. First Emma Simons: stained dress, tangled hair, face contorted with pain and hatred. Her eyes burned with cold anger. Then Gary, twisted, unsteady, jaw clenched, moving like a rabid animal.
Emma pivoted towards Lyra, her fingers spread as if to grab:
-‘You talk too much, living one. You say things. You know too much.’
The air screamed. The lights flickered. The radio in the Impala spat out a few dead guitar notes before going silent.
Dean opened fire with his salt gun. The white substance whipped through the air and made Emma vibrate. She screamed and backed away, but not far enough to disappear. Lyra, focused, fired her pistol next, methodically, calmly, while Gary leapt forward and knocked over an old wardrobe.
Dean and Lyra, back to back, formed an effective and instinctive duo, a balance of control and panic. The house groaned around them, but tonight they were ready to fight. They advanced cautiously, armed with salt, composure, and a dark humour that, for the moment, protected them as much as their weapons. The old Simons house was not going to win tonight.