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Another week slipped through my fingers like dust, and still, nothing worked. Every potion I brewed, every elixir I sipped in the hope of restoring my strength, fizzled out like smoke in the wind. I wasn't even halfway through the recipes in my Grimoire, but desperation had me mixing brews I had no business combining. That... had ended badly.
Sam hadn't returned. No texts, no calls. Dean was just as silent. It was as if I'd vanished from their lives entirely—like I was a ghost haunting Bobby's walls, seen only by him. And Bobby, to his credit, tried to distract me. He dragged me along on hunts. Said I needed fresh air. Said punching monsters would help. And maybe he wasn't wrong. But healing wasn't just about bruises and banishing demons.
Today, I buried myself in potion work. The pages of my Grimoire were crisp beneath my fingertips as my eyes scanned the description of my latest attempt. A small cauldron sat on the stove, bubbling over a low flame. To the right, the counter was cluttered with a medley of ingredients—jars filled with hemlock, wormwood, eye of newt, frog legs, chicken feet... a grotesque pantry that was equal parts Bobby's stockpile and my own collection.
My fingers trailed the glass until they landed on what I needed—eye of newt. I pinched the slimy thing between my fingers and dropped it into the pot. Instantly, the potion hissed and popped with a small internal boom. Smoke billowed up in spirals, and I took a cautious step back.
"What the hell is that smell?!" Bobby's voice carried from the hallway, thick with disgust. A smirk tugged at my lips as I glanced over my shoulder. He stood there, nose wrinkled like a bloodhound that had just sniffed roadkill. "Smells like death," he muttered.
"Tastes worse," I replied sweetly. "Good thing you're not the one drinking it... Did you get what I asked for?" I arched a brow at him.
Bobby held up a plastic bag with a look of deep scepticism. "One murder victim's index finger—just like you asked." The bone inside was long, splintered, and yellowed with age. Perfect. I took the bag and unsealed it, pulling the bony finger free. Its weight was unnerving for something so small. I stared at it for a moment before a sly grin crept onto my face.
"Double, double, toil and trouble..." I murmured playfully, watching Bobby roll his eyes. I dropped the finger into the cauldron. Another boom. Another cloud of smoke. From the corner of my eye, I saw Bobby instinctively step back. As the smoke cleared, I grimaced. The potion had turned a sickly, sludgy brown.
"It looks like—"
"I know," I cut him off, my own nose scrunching. "Let's just... hope this one works." Grabbing a mug, I dipped it into the cauldron, letting the foul concoction fill it halfway. It smelled like rotting leaves mixed with swamp water and regret. "Bottoms up," I muttered to myself, flashing Bobby a grin I didn't feel.
I downed it in one go. The liquid slid down my throat like slime, thick and bitter, sending an instant ripple of nausea through my body. I gagged, half-spitting into the mug again, but forced myself to keep it down. My face twisted into several unattractive expressions as the taste lingered, like it was trying to claw its way back up.
