𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖌𝖔𝖉. dean winchester (ON HIATUS)

[ 001 ] the reckless and the cautious

𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖌𝖔𝖉 !
...chapter one

The moment Isabelle Lawson laid eyes on Dean Winchester, she knew they weren't cut out to be friends.

His smirk, the way he carried himself with a confident swagger—it all rubbed her the wrong way. She had a mission, and distractions like Dean were not part of the plan.

Breaking into the mansion had been the easiest part of her plan, a testament to her meticulous preparation. The night was slightly windy, with the trees whispering secrets under the moonlight. Isabelle was in Janesville, Wisconsin, on a mission to safely retrieve a cursed amulet. The mansion loomed in the darkness, its gothic architecture casting long shadows on the manicured lawn. She moved silently, her footsteps muffled by the damp grass. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant promise of rain.

The Lawsons have, for centuries, protected and kept supernatural items safe. It was a legacy she was bound to uphold. After her father passed, she traveled to California to resume his work, dedicating herself to the family tradition. Her father's study had become her sanctuary, filled with ancient tomes and artifacts that spoke of their lineage. The scent of old leather and parchment always brought her comfort, a connection to the past she held dear. Every book, every relic told a story of their duty and sacrifice.

Isabelle's family had mastered the intricacies of witch spells, hex bags, Enochian—angelic languages that seemed almost otherworldly in their complexity—and demonic writings, cryptic symbols that could summon or banish with a flick of the wrist. Their knowledge was vast, a legacy handed down through generations like a precious heirloom. Each member of the Lawson family had dedicated their lives to preserving and wielding this ancient power, their expertise the backbone of their prominence in the supernatural community.

In stark contrast, the Winchesters represented the rough, unrefined edge of the hunting world.  Their reputation was built on the raw, often dangerous, work of facing the monsters and dark forces that lurked in the shadows.

The Winchesters were well known within the Lawsons, though not exactly famous in a way they would've have liked. Among the hunter community, the Winchesters were at the bottom of the food chain, the ones doing the dirty work no one else wanted. They were the underdogs, the grunts who faced danger head-on while the Lawsons enjoyed their ivory tower of privilege and superiority.

The Lawsons' grand estate was a stark contrast to the gritty motels and backroad hideouts where the Winchesters usually found themselves. The air there smelled of polished wood and old money, mingling with the faint scent of lavender from the meticulously maintained gardens. Ornate chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting a warm, almost regal glow over the room. Isabelle couldn't help but feel a twinge of disdain for the opulence that surrounded her.

Dean and Sam found the Lawsons snobby, too pure for combat and to face the real stuff. They were classified as a joke by some hunters who'd had bad encounters with the family. The Lawsons were the ones who strategized from afar, delegating the dangerous missions to those they considered expendable. Hunters who had faced life and death found the Lawsons' approach laughable, their pristine appearances and manicured hands a stark contrast to the scars and calluses borne by true hunters.