When Dean Winchester finds himself at the mercy of Bella Talbot, desperate for information that might save his soul, he crosses paths with Nadia Turner-the strong-willed, fiercely independent daughter of hunter Rufus Turner. Though the connection be...
"This is it?" Nadia asked, sitting at Chuck's cluttered table, her eyes fixed on his laptop screen. The latest document on display bore the title: Lucifer Rising.
Chuck, dressed casually in jeans, a t-shirt, and an army green button-up, and clutching a half-full glass of whiskey, shifted awkwardly beside her. The scent of stale liquor hung in the air, mingling with the faint mustiness of a writer's den long overdue for a deep clean. He hadn't expected company, much less an archangel in his space, especially when he'd been planning to spend his day wallowing in whiskey and regret, with the possibility of overpriced companionship in the cards.
Nadia leaned forward, propping her elbows on the desk as she began reading. Her brows knit together, absorbing the prophetic words.
"Whiskey?" Chuck offered, his tone casual but his eyes wary.
"Coffee would be better," she replied without looking up, her voice calm but distant.
As Nadia read, she opened her journal, flipping to a blank page. She began jotting down notes in quick, precise handwriting.
Chuck scratched the back of his neck, offering a faint, nervous smile. She looked so at home here. Her jacket was tossed over the arm of the couch in the living room, its pocket faintly blinking with the glow of her phone—a voicemail notification. He recognized her focus, that razor-sharp determination, and it tugged at something deep inside him, like a distant memory he wasn't ready to revisit.
"What's that?" Chuck asked, his curiosity piqued as he shuffled toward the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
"A diary of sorts," Nadia murmured, flipping back to cross-reference a previous note. "But lately, I've been using it to keep track of important details from my mom's books."
"So, you write?" Chuck's eyebrows lifted, genuine surprise in his tone.
"Not really. It's more about getting the words out of my head," she replied absently, still focused on the screen.
Chuck hesitated, leaning against the counter as the coffee machine gurgled to life. "That's what writing is," he said softly.
Nadia paused for a moment, her pen stalling mid-sentence. She looked up at him briefly, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face before fading. "I meant, I'm no storyteller. But I guess so. I've never thought of myself as a writer, honestly. But it's... helped me process everything these past few months."
Chuck's lips twitched into a small smile. "Maybe it's in your blood, you know? Writing."
She shrugged, her focus already returning to the screen. "My stepmother was a writer, but that's about it."
Chuck tilted his head, watching her with a wistful expression. "Yeah, but maybe there are different kinds of angels. Some who fight, some who write."
"Angels do talk in riddles," Nadia muttered, shaking her head. Her pen resumed its steady rhythm as she jotted another note.
The coffee machine beeped, snapping him back to the present. Chuck poured a mug and set it beside her on the desk. "Here," he said.
"Thanks," Nadia murmured, absently reaching for the cup as her eyes stayed glued to the screen.
Chuck joined her at the table, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he watched her.
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