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*Ten Months Earlier*
Abigael lay exactly where Dean Winchester had placed her months ago—her body untouched, her expression still and hauntingly serene. Time had not dared disturb her. The apartment around her had surrendered to dust and shadows. No cleaners. No visitors. That had been the plan—complete isolation to ensure she wouldn't be disturbed. It was less a home now and more a tomb. Her tomb. Then came the bang. A loud, echoing crack against the front door. And again. And again. Someone was trying to break in.
With a final, thunderous blow, the door tore free from its hinges and slammed to the floor with a metallic shriek. Silence followed. Boots thudded heavily against the floorboards as a figure stepped inside. The apartment swallowed them whole—pitch black, no light but the narrow cone of a flashlight clutched beneath a raised weapon. Dust swirled through the beam like ash.
Room by room, the intruder moved. Each door was pushed open with caution, and each corner was checked for movement. Nothing. Just silence. Until they reached the master bedroom. The man paused, fingers brushing against the wood before slowly pushing the door open. It creaked ominously, the sound loud in the still air. Then he saw her.
A woman laid out on the bed like a ghost of herself. Pale, unmoving. A single dagger protruding from her chest. The flashlight beam steadied on her face. Unblinking. Unbreathing. He stepped forward, careful now, every sense on high alert as he approached the bed. His eyes scanned her body, the dagger, the way her hands were folded as if in peaceful slumber. But there was nothing peaceful about it.
He set the flashlight down on the nightstand, its beam casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the room. The dim glow illuminated Abigael's still form in full, catching the edges of the ornate dagger embedded in her chest. The man holstered his gun, the tension in his posture shifting from defensive to focused curiosity.
With measured steps, he approached the bed again. His large, calloused hand reached for the dagger's hilt—its surface dark and ancient, pulsing faintly with residual energy. As his palm pressed firmly against it, he prepared to pull. But the moment his skin made full contact, a jolt of heat surged into his hand.
At first, it was tolerable—like holding a mug of scalding coffee—but it grew hotter. Much hotter. The hilt flared, searing through flesh like a branding iron. His muscles tensed, but his grip wouldn't loosen. It was as if the dagger had locked him in place.
"AHHHH—!" A roar of pain tore from his throat, echoing through the apartment like a wounded animal. Then, before he could react further, a violent force erupted from the dagger itself. A wave of pure, invisible energy exploded outward, hurling him backwards like a ragdoll.
His body hit the wardrobe with a bone-jarring crunch, wood splintering on impact. The furniture shattered, collapsing beneath him as he slumped to the floor in a heap of broken glass and debris. Groaning, he rolled to his side, breathing hard through the pain.
