Savannah smells like a memory—like rosewater and regret.
It clings to the corners of buildings, seeps into the cracks between cobblestones, drips from the moss-laden trees like secrets. The city breathes slow, thick breaths, and exhales something ancient between every step you take.
It feels like a place that remembers.
I like it here.
Maggie calls it "a city of bones and charm." She says Savannah is half-graveyard, half debutante. I think that's why she smiles more here.
Don thinks it's over-salted with restless spirits and old power twisted into urban decay. He walked the perimeter of our hotel three times before setting down a single bag.
We came for "business," which usually means someone important has disturbed something they shouldn't have and now needs witches who actually understand what they're dealing with. My parents wear expensive smiles and tailored glamour and walk into these problems like they own the consequences.
They usually do.
We're here for a week.
Maggie packed seven outfits for me, all age-appropriate but fashionably lethal. Don packed six books: ley line geometry, ancestral summoning, and one slim grimoire he warned me not to open outside a warded circle.
"I trust you," he said, placing a palm to my cheek before leaving to meet the client.
I trust me, too.
Which is why I slipped out that morning the moment the elevator doors opened to the hotel lobby.
They trust me to explore. I've earned that.
I don't sneak. I leave. There's a difference.
I carry a charm sewn into my sandal strap, a blade disguised as a gold-tipped hairpin, and three minor wards layered on my skin. No one notices the ten-year-old girl with a leather-bound journal and perfect posture.
They just get out of my way.
I wandered the city without a map.
Savannah doesn't want to be followed by lines. It wants to be felt.
The streets shifted in and out of sunlight, narrow alleys splitting off between statues and wrought-iron balconies. I passed bookstores, cafés with tarot readers inside, a man selling painted bones he claimed were raccoon but definitely weren't.
I bought nothing.
I was looking for something I couldn't name yet.
Then I heard them.
The sound of a crash. A voice raised—two, actually. Arguing like only siblings could.
My feet moved before I could question it.
I turned into a narrow alley just behind a flower shop and saw them.
Two boys.
One older, crouched beside a spilled grocery bag. Shoulder-length brown hair, green eyes, and a jawline that would one day shatter expectations. Worn flannel, scuffed boots, and a scowl.
The other—my age—stood nearby with arms crossed. Shorter, lighter hair, big hazel eyes that were wide with annoyance. He looked like he read too much and thought too deeply.
My chest stuttered.
Because I knew them.
Sam and Dean Winchester.
Not just characters. Not just lore.
Living, breathing, unaware boys caught in the coils of fate.
My heart kicked once—hard—then steadied. My mind sharpened.
They hadn't seen me yet.
I could walk away.
But I didn't.
"Should I come back when the duel starts," I said lightly, "or are you nearly done?"
The older one—Dean—straightened instantly. His eyes snapped to mine like he expected something dangerous and found it.
The younger—Sam—just blinked, then smiled.
"She's British," he said like that explained something.
"Yes," I replied, walking closer.
I crouched beside the can of ravioli and handed it to Dean, brushing it off with the edge of my sleeve.
"Still salvageable."
He took it slowly. His fingers brushed mine. He looked confused.
"Thanks," he muttered.
I rose, brushing my skirt as I studied them up close.
Dean was built like a soldier even now. Broad-shouldered, too aware, already tired in a way no child should be.
Sam was all curiosity, brightness wrapped in the shell of a boy already learning how the world cuts too deep.
They weren't just brothers.
They were opposites orbiting the same tragedy.
"You're not from around here," Dean said, suspicious but polite.
"Neither are you."
Sam asked, "Are you British?"
"Yes."
"That's cool."
Dean frowned. "Don't tell strangers they're cool."
"She helped," Sam replied.
Dean glanced at me again. "She could be a demon."
"I'm flattered," I said smoothly.
Dean flushed slightly.
Sam snorted.
I told them my name was Bela.
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Like the vampire?"
"Like the thief," I replied, watching his reaction carefully.
He didn't understand. Not yet.
But I saw something flicker behind his eyes.
Recognition without reason.
Good.
We talked.
Just long enough to taste the air between us. Just enough for me to be certain this wasn't chance.
Sam asked about books. I told him I liked stories with monsters wearing human skin.
Dean watched me like I was a locked door.
He was right to.
He was already a protector. He couldn't help it. Even now, standing half-starved in a Georgia alley with a bag of groceries and a crumpled flannel, he was calculating whether I could hurt them.
I respected that.
I admired it.
I pitied it.
Eventually, I excused myself.
"My parents will wonder if I've hexed someone."
Sam blinked.
Dean scowled.
I smiled.
"Joking."
Not really.
"Will we see you again?" Sam asked, voice open and full of something like hope.
That hurt more than I expected.
"Probably," I said.
Then I turned and left.
I didn't look back.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I already knew.
Later that evening…
I sat in the hotel bathtub, water up to my chin, arms resting along porcelain like a queen in exile.
My grimoire lay open on a towel beside me, ink still damp.
I had drawn both boys' faces from memory. Sam's eyes were easier. Dean's mouth more difficult—always on the edge of a smirk or a snarl.
I wrote beneath their sketches.
Sam: Curious. Kind. He will break if no one teaches him to bend.
Dean: Sharp. Tired. Loyal like a dying star.
Both marked.
Neither ready.
Don knocked once and entered.
I didn't cover myself. Modesty was performative, and Don wasn't interested in the performance.
"You met them," he said without preamble.
"I did."
"Did they recognize you?"
"No."
He set down a small bottle—eucalyptus oil for the ritual burns on my palms—and sat on the edge of the sink.
"Do you feel different?"
I thought for a long moment.
Then: "I feel seen."
Later, Maggie poured two glasses of wine and slid a folded file toward me.
It was thinner than expected.
"Sam and Dean Winchester," she said. "Children of Mary and John. Touched by fate, tracked by death, and walking a line between blood and fire."
I flipped through photographs. Birth records. School reports. Psychic residue scans.
"No Men of Letters mention," I said.
"Not directly," she replied. "But they're woven into the threads."
I stopped at a photo of Mary.
Her smile was gentle. Her eyes already sad.
"They're going to suffer," I said.
Maggie nodded. "You know how this story ends."
"Not anymore," I murmured.
That night, I lit three candles.
One for protection.
One for clarity.
And one for interference.
I whispered their names into the flame and watched the smoke curl like ribbons around the sigils.
I didn't bind them.
Not yet.
But I left a thread.
A whisper.
A promise.
Because I don't believe in fate.
I believe in choice.
And they've just made their first one:
They saw me.