I liked this town.
Not because it was beautiful—it wasn't. Just small, sun-bleached, and ordinary. One main street with a crooked diner, two gas stations, a faded bookstore with torn spines and dry coffee smells. Everything about it whispered forgettable.
And that's exactly what made it interesting.
Things hide better in places like this.
Maggie and Don were here for work—something about a cursed heirloom masquerading as a music box. I didn't ask. I rarely do unless the details affect me directly.
They trusted me enough to let me wander. I earned that freedom through precision—perfect grades, graceful manners, wards so well-layered even angels would miss my trail.
So when I slipped out that morning, dressed in a soft lavender dress and white lace-up flats, no one stopped me.
No one ever does.
The streets were quiet, heat shimmering off the concrete. The breeze tasted like dry leaves and burnt sugar.
I was halfway through a scoop of lemon ice from a cart vendor when I saw them.
Sam was bent over a crooked water fountain, sleeves rolled to his elbows, face flushed from the sun.
Dean stood nearby, eyes sweeping the street with the kind of watchfulness that didn't belong to someone his age.
He spotted me first.
And froze.
My heart didn't race. It simply… shifted.
An internal click. A moment folding in on itself.
I didn't smile.
Not yet.
"Hello, boys," I said as I approached, voice as calm as silk stretched over wire.
Sam straightened instantly.
His face lit up.
"Bela?!"
"Hello, Sam."
Dean's jaw tightened. His gaze was sharp, unreadable.
I turned to him. "Dean."
"You again," he said, neutral.
But his voice carried something—caution, recognition… and something else.
We stood there for a second, three ghosts haunting a dusty sidewalk.
Then Sam laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You look… different."
"Do I?" I asked, feigning mild curiosity.
He nodded. "Taller. Uh, older?"
"She was always older," Dean muttered.
That earned him a sidelong glance from me.
"Still charming, I see."
He crossed his arms. "Still mysterious."
Sam looked between us, eyebrows raised. "Okay, tension."
We walked.
None of us said where we were going, but we found our way to the same cracked bench at the edge of the small town park—overgrown grass, crooked fence, bees drifting lazily in the heavy air.
We sat. Sam took the middle. Dean flanked his brother like a bodyguard.
I didn't mind.
Dean hadn't stopped watching me.
"You haven't changed," I said to him.
"You have," he replied.
Sam tilted his head. "So… are you just traveling? Again?"
"My parents are working," I said.
"Same ones?" Sam asked.
Dean shot him a look. Sam quickly corrected, "I mean… just curious."
I smiled, sweet and practiced.
"They're the only ones that matter."
Dean watched me like he was trying to line up facts in his head.
Like I didn't fit.
Because I didn't.
He was taller now. The jawline had sharpened, the voice deeper, but still pulled tight with discipline. The kind of weariness boys like him didn't talk about. The kind that aged a soul long before it aged the body.
He was always alert. Always half-ready to fight.
And yet, I unsettled him.
Not because I was dangerous.
But because I made him feel seen—truly seen.
Sam, in contrast, was warm. Still idealistic in ways Dean no longer allowed himself to be.
"So what do you do when you're not appearing out of nowhere?" he asked, grinning.
"Read. Study. Practice."
He tilted his head. "Practice what?"
Dean leaned in slightly.
I let the silence linger.
"Control," I said finally.
Sam blinked. "Like… school control?"
Dean gave him a look.
"No," I said. "Something closer to balance."
Dean frowned.
"You talk like someone who's been through war."
"Maybe I have."
Sam's brow furrowed. "You're eleven."
"Am I?"
The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable.
Dean glanced away first.
Sam didn't.
"You're not normal," Dean said.
I turned my head slightly. "And you are?"
Sam laughed once—short, surprised.
Dean looked annoyed.
I didn't press.
They didn't ask what I was.
Not directly.
But it lingered in every word. Every pause.
I was too poised. Too graceful. Too… deliberate.
Even the way I sat was calculated. Controlled.
Dean couldn't stop watching.
And I could tell he hated that he couldn't.
"Did you tell your father about me?" I asked after a beat.
Sam hesitated.
Dean didn't.
"No."
"Why not?"
Dean's gaze hardened. "He doesn't need to know."
Sam added, "He'd just ask too many questions. He'd… make it complicated."
I nodded.
"I appreciate the discretion."
Dean didn't answer.
But he didn't deny it either.
We talked for nearly an hour—small things, safe topics.
But underneath it all, the conversation moved like chess. Every word a move. Every silence a calculation.
Sam asked me what I believed in.
"Survival," I said.
Dean didn't laugh.
Sam didn't smile.
When I stood to leave, I smoothed my dress and gave them both a long, measured look.
"You'll see me again."
Dean didn't flinch.
Sam's voice was soft. "Good."
As I walked away, I didn't turn back.
Because I didn't have to.
I already knew they were watching.
Beth – Her Voice in the Quiet
POV: Elizabeth "Beth" Straton
There's something you learn early, being near Bela.
When her magic shifts, so does the world.
I was across the ocean when it happened.
In our sanctum, standing over a map marked with ley lines and recruitment pins, trying to organize the next phase of her plans.
And then I felt it.
A tug—not from her magic, but from her soul.
A note of memory. Recognition. Stirred fate.
It wasn't romantic. Not yet.
But something had pulled her.
And through our link, I felt it too.
I remember what it was like before I met her.
A girl bullied for knowing too much. For asking the wrong questions. For hearing voices no one else believed in.
Then she found me.
Taught me how to focus. To cast. To matter.
She gave me purpose.
And now, when her pulse flutters across dimensions, mine echoes it.
Something—someone—had reached her.
And I feared that it wasn't over.