In Supernatural TV/Vampire Diaries with The Force as the Chosen One

One year later

The knife sliced through the air, its silver blade catching the morning light as it rotated once, twice, then embedded itself in the wooden target with a satisfying thunk.

"Better," John Winchester nodded, arms crossed over his chest. "But you're still telegraphing your throw. A second slower and anything with decent reflexes would be out of the way."

Lucien, now eleven, wiped sweat from his brow and approached the target. The knife had hit just left of center - not perfect, but far better than his attempts six months ago when he could barely make the blade stick (of course, without the use of the Force.)

"Again," John ordered as Lucien retrieved the weapon.

A year had changed many things at Bobby Singer's house.

The makeshift classroom now doubled as a training area. Latin words shared blackboard space with monster classifications.

The salvage yard had acquired targets, training dummies, and a rudimentary obstacle course that Dean insisted on calling "The Gauntlet."

Lucien himself had changed too. He'd grown three inches, his frame still lean but beginning to show the first hints of muscle from daily training.

His hair, longer now, was tied back in a small ponytail that Dean constantly threatened to cut off in his sleep. (Lucien one not to back down, in turn threatened to force levitate his mattress onto the roof for a month straight if he did.)

Taking position again, Lucien focused on the target. He steadied his hand and calmed his breathing, without the use of the Force.

John had been clear: basic skills had to be mastered without supernatural assistance.

The knife flew true this time, striking dead center.

"Now we're talking," John said with a hint of approval. "Five more like that and we'll call it a morning."

From the porch, Kate watched with mixed emotions.

She'd adapted to this new life better than anyone expected, finding purpose in patching up hunters who passed through and establishing a network of medical contacts willing to treat supernatural injuries without asking questions.

But watching her eleven-year-old train with throwing knives still made her stomach clench.

"He's getting good," Bobby commented, joining her with coffee mugs in both hands. He offered one to Kate, who accepted it gratefully.

"Too good," she sighed. "Sometimes I forget he's still a child."

Bobby's expression softened beneath his ever-present cap. "Children grow up faster in this life. Not saying it's right, just how it is."

"I know," Kate replied, watching as Lucien landed another perfect throw. "At least the Force gives him an edge most hunters don't have."

"That it does," Bobby agreed. "Though that power's a double-edged sword. Makes him safer in some ways, bigger target in others."

The screen door banged open as Adam burst out, clutching a paper airplane. At eight, he remained largely sheltered from the harsher aspects of hunting, though he knew the basics of how to protect himself and stay safe.

"Lulu! Look what Sam showed me how to make!" he called, launching the paper creation. It soared impressively before nosediving into the dirt.

John checked his watch. "We're done for now," he told Lucien. "Pack your gear. Family meeting in thirty minutes."

Lucien's heartbeat quickened. He knew what this meant - the hunt they'd been discussing for weeks was finally happening.

His first.

----------------------

The kitchen table had long since ceased being just for meals. Maps, newspaper clippings, and printouts covered its surface as the Winchester-Milligan-Singer family gathered around it.

Dean leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, while Sam sat organizing notes. Bobby stood by the refrigerator, arms crossed, while Kate took the seat beside Adam.

John unfolded a map of Minnesota, pointing to a small town circled in red.

"Riverdale," he began. "Former mining town, population just under two thousand. In the last three months, three people have been hospitalized after visiting the old Blackwood Estate on the edge of town." John explained while glancing towards his 2nd youngest son.

Lucien sat straighter, already familiar with the case but eager to show his knowledge.

"Martha Blackwood," he said, "died in 1911, supposedly suicide by hanging after discovering her husband's affair with a local seamstress. Attacks started after teenagers broke into the estate three months ago."

John nodded, glancing at Dean. "What are we looking at pattern-wise?"

"Victims are all male," Dean replied, shifting into hunter mode. "Attacks happen between 11 PM and 3 AM. Injuries consistent with severe lacerations, like being clawed by something invisible."

"Typical vengeful spirit MO," Sam added. "Woman wronged by unfaithful husband, now attacks men who enter her territory."

"Seems straightforward," Bobby commented. "Salt and burn job."

"Which is why it's suitable for observation," John said, looking directly at Lucien. "This will be your first field experience. You'll watch, learn, but not engage. Clear?"

"Yes, sir," Lucien answered immediately.

Kate's lips pressed into a thin line. "I still think eleven is too young."

"I was taking Dean on observation runs at seven," John countered.

"And I turned out awesome," Dean grinned, earning an eye-roll from Sam.

"We'll all be there," John assured Kate. "Me, Dean, Sam. Lucien stays back, observes the process, learns how a real hunt works outside of books and training."

Lucien had spent months preparing for this moment, devouring every book on spirits Bobby owned.

He'd memorized protection symbols, practiced salt lines until he could lay them perfectly in seconds, recited exorcisms until Latin felt like a second language- in case demons were ever the cause.

Expect the normally unexpected as they say.

"There's something else," he said, causing all eyes to turn to him. "I've reviewed all the research, but something feels... off about this case."

John's expression shifted from instructional to interested. "Explain."

"The temperature drops reported are more severe than typical hauntings. Fifteen to twenty degrees. And the victims reported feeling drained afterward, even without physical contact."

Lucien flipped through his notebook. "Also, the EMF readings from the local paranormal investigators' website show unusual fluctuations."

The family had learned to trust Lucien's instincts over the past year. His connection to the Force often gave him insights others missed.

"Could be faulty equipment," Dean suggested. "Those ghost hunter types don't exactly use professional gear."

"Or the house's old wiring interfering," Sam added.

"Still," John said thoughtfully, "we'll do more research before taking action. Sam, dig deeper into the Blackwood family history. Dean, see if you can find any similar cases in the region."

"Lucien's instinct's been right before, I'm sending you with some extra goodies," Bobby said, moving to a cabinet. "Got some special charms might help if this turns out to be something nastier than your average spook."

"When do we leave?" Lucien asked, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.

"Tomorrow morning," John answered. "Six AM sharp. And Lucien-" he fixed his son with a serious look, "- again, this is observation only. You stay back, you stay safe. No heroics."

"Yes, sir," Lucien repeated, though inwardly he was already planning what he might do if things went sideways.

After the meeting dispersed, Sam found Lucien in his room, meticulously packing a small duffel bag.

"Nervous?" the sixteen-year-old asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"No," Lucien replied too quickly, then admitted, "Maybe a little."

Sam smiled. "First hunt's always scary. Even if you're just watching."

"I'm not scared," Lucien clarified. "I just want to do it right. Not mess up."

Sam entered the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You know, my first hunt, I was so nervous I forgot to load the shotgun. Dean never let me hear the end of it."

Lucien paused his packing. "But you were good at research, right? Even then?"

"Yeah, that part came naturally." Sam picked up one of Lucien's notebooks, flipping through pages of carefully documented supernatural lore. "Like it does for you."

"Dad says knowledge is half the battle."

"He's right." Sam hesitated. "About that feeling you mentioned... what exactly feels off about this case?"

Lucien frowned, trying to articulate what the Force was telling him. "It's like... when you hear a song playing in another room. You can tell something's not quite right with the melody, but you can't figure out which note is wrong."

Sam nodded slowly. "Trust that feeling. Dad might act like he knows everything, but even he misses things sometimes."

"Will he be mad if I speak up during the hunt? If I notice something?" Lucien asked, cause if that was the case, it would be quite annoying. And he'd like to beforehand be prepared for a shouting match and not be taken by surprise.

"Not if you're right," Sam said, then added with a slight smile, "And maybe not too mad if you're wrong, as long as you've got good reasons."

From downstairs, Dean's voice called up: "Sammy! Need your geek brain down here!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Duty calls. Pack extra socks. You always need more socks than you think."

As Sam left, Lucien returned to his packing, checking items off his mental list. Salt, iron, silver knife, flashlight, extra batteries. He paused at his small collection of Force-related notes, debating whether to bring them.

The Force had become more reliable over the past year, though still frustratingly inconsistent.

He could move objects consistently now, as long as they weren't too heavy.

His sensing abilities had sharpened - he could detect supernatural presences within about fifty feet on good days.

The way the Force flows through them is quite different than humans.

Once, during training, he'd even managed to enhance his speed enough to dodge Dean's surprise attack.

But John insisted he master traditional hunting skills first. "The Force is a tool," he'd said, "not a crutch."

Lucien slipped one small notebook of Force techniques into his bag anyway. Better to have it and not need it. 

'I have it all already memorised by heart, but if something... unexpected happens. Something Force related, then at least the others can read it to understand what is happening in case I for some reason can't tell 'em.'

--------------------------

The Impala devoured highway miles as dawn broke over the Minnesota landscape. John drove with Dean beside him, while Sam and Lucien occupied the back seat.

Classic rock played softly from the speakers - Zeppelin, Dean's choice for the morning drive, like almost always.

"Quiz time," John announced, eyes on the road. "Lucien, most effective weapon against a spirit?"

"Iron disrupts their form temporarily. Salt repels and can create barriers. Salt and Fire together destroys their anchors," Lucien recited.

"Signs of spirit activity?"

"EMF spikes, cold spots, electrical interference, unexplained noises, visible manifestation in order of increasing energy expenditure."

John nodded approvingly. "And if a spirit manages to grab you?"

"Drop and roll away from the point of contact. Call for backup. Use iron or salt if available."

"He's got it down better than you did, Sammy," Dean commented with a smirk.

"I was nine on my first observation hunt, jerk," Sam retorted.

"Still cried when the ghost showed up, bitch."

"Language," John warned automatically, though without much heat. "Lucien, what's our primary objective today?"

"Reconnaissance and observation," Lucien answered promptly. "Verify the haunting, locate remains, determine if there are any complicating factors before proceeding with disposal."

"And your role specifically?"

"Stay back, observe, learn. No engagement unless directly ordered."

John's eyes met Lucien's in the rearview mirror. "This isn't training anymore. Real hunts have real consequences. You follow orders exactly. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

The conversation shifted to logistics as they approached Riverdale. Sam reviewed the plan - cemetery first to locate Martha Blackwood's grave, then interviews with witnesses under their cover, followed by a daytime reconnaissance of the Blackwood Estate.

"If everything checks out, we do the salt and burn tonight," John concluded.

"And if Lucien's right about something being off?" Sam asked.

John's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "Then we reassess. But all the research points to a standard haunting."

"Still gonna trust the kid's spidey sense," Dean said. "He called that shifter in Tulsa before we even knew there was a case."

Lucien had almost forgotten about that - a passing comment he'd made about a news story that had led to the discovery of a shapeshifter killing homeless people.

His Force sensitivity had picked up on inconsistencies in the reported timeline that the others had missed.

It's really been the thing he's been training the most. Power is good and all, but knowing danger, and what the danger is before it arrives or is far away, is in some ways far more advantageous.

As they passed the "Welcome to Riverdale" sign, Lucien - focusing - felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere - not just the typical small-town quietness, but something deeper.

The Force rippled faintly, like distant thunder felt rather than heard.

"We're being watched," he said suddenly.

Three heads turned toward him.

"Spirit?" John asked sharply.

Lucien closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force. "No... human. Curious, not threatening." He pointed toward a diner as they passed. "There. Woman in the window."

Dean twisted to look. "Huh. Cute blonde checking us out. Good eye, Lu."

"Small town," Sam explained. "Strangers get noticed."

But Lucien wasn't convinced that explained the peculiar feeling. As they continued toward the cemetery, the sensation faded, but a vague uneasiness remained.

Something about Riverdale wasn't right.

-------------------------

Riverdale Cemetery spread across a gentle hill overlooking the town, its older sections marked by weathered Victorian monuments.

John parked the Impala along the gravel path, and they split into pairs - John with Lucien, Dean with Sam - to locate Martha Blackwood's grave.

"This is part of the job some people - stupid people - don't think about," John explained as they walked between headstones. "Preparation. Knowing exactly where the remains are before you need to dig them up at midnight."

Lucien nodded, taking mental notes. "Section B, Plot 33, according to the records."

They found the grave marker in the older part of the cemetery - a modest stone compared to the ostentatious Blackwood family mausoleum nearby.

The inscription was simple: "Martha Blackwood, 1862-1911, Beloved Wife."

"No epitaph," Lucien noted. "That's unusual for the time period, isn't it?"

John crouched, examining the headstone. "Good observation. Wealthy family like the Blackwoods would typically have something more elaborate, especially for the matriarch."

Dean and Sam joined them, Sam flipping through a small notebook.

"Found something interesting," Sam said. "Cemetery registry lists cause of death as 'hanging,' but doesn't specify suicide. That was an assumption in the newspaper reports."

"Could be they wanted to hide the suicide due to religious objections," Dean suggested.

"Or it wasn't suicide," Lucien said quietly.

John studied the grave thoughtfully. "Ground seems undisturbed. No signs of previous hunters. We'll need to check town records, see if there's anything the newspapers missed."

They marked the location on a small map and returned to the car. Their next stop: the Riverdale Historical Society.

The historical society occupied a converted Victorian home near the town square. A gray-haired woman introduced herself as Margaret Holloway, curator and town historian.

"FBI?" she repeated, examining their badges with surprise. "What brings federal agents to our little town?"

"Investigating a pattern of injuries at the Blackwood Estate," John explained smoothly. "We believe they may be connected to previous incidents."

"Those foolish teenagers," Margaret sighed. "I warned the town council to demolish that place years ago. Nothing but trouble."

"We understand Martha Blackwood died there in 1911," Sam said. "Could you tell us more about the circumstances?"

Margaret's expression darkened. "A tragedy. Found hanging in her bedroom. It is said that Edmund claimed she took her own life after discovering his... indiscretions. But there were rumors."

"What kind of rumors?" Lucien asked, earning a sharp look from John for speaking out of turn.

Margaret seemed to notice him for the first time. "Aren't you a bit young for the FBI?"

"Training program," Dean interjected quickly. "Sort of a 'bring your kid to work' thing. You were saying about rumors?"

Though clearly skeptical, Margaret continued- she wasn't knowledgeable enough about the FBI anyway. "Some said Edmund had strange interests. Occult things. Martha might have discovered more than just his affair."

"Do you have any records from that time?" Sam asked. "Diaries, letters, police reports? Perhaps someone"

"Unfortunately, there was a fire at the courthouse in '43. Lost most of our official records from before 1920."

She hesitated. "But I might have something unofficial. Edmund's business partner kept journals. They're not cataloged yet, but you're welcome to look through them."

While John, Dean, and Sam reviewed the journals, Lucien wandered the small museum. Photographs of Riverdale's mining heyday lined the walls.

One large portrait caught his attention - Edmund Blackwood standing proudly before the mine entrance, surrounded by workers.

Something about the man's eyes disturbed Lucien. They were calculating, cold despite the formal smile. Beside the portrait hung a smaller photograph of Martha - a delicate woman with sad eyes.

"Poor thing never stood a chance," Margaret said, noticing Lucien's interest. "Edmund was a powerful man in this town. Whatever really happened to Martha, no one would have dared question his version."

"Was there an investigation into her death?" Lucien asked.

"Cursory at best. The local doctor signed the death certificate without much examination." She lowered her voice. "There were other disappearances that year too. Three young women from the seamstress shop. Town records say they moved away, but..."

"They were never seen again," Lucien finished.

Margaret nodded grimly.

Across the room, John closed the journal he'd been examining. "We appreciate your help, Ms. Holloway. We'll need to see the Blackwood Estate next."

As they left the historical society, Lucien shared what Margaret had told him about the missing women.

"Three disappearances the same year Martha died," John mused. "Could be connected, could be coincidence."

"Nothing in those journals about occult activity," Sam added. "Mostly business dealings, though there are some pages torn out."

"My money's still on vengeful spirit," Dean said. "Classic case of wronged wife."

"But what if she wasn't just wronged?" Lucien pressed. "What if she was murdered? And what about those missing women?"

John considered this. "Changes the motive but not necessarily the solution. Either way, we need to salt and burn the remains."

Lucien nodded.

------------------------

The Blackwood Estate loomed against the afternoon sky - a once-grand Victorian mansion now fallen into disrepair.

Paint peeled from ornate trim, shutters hung askew, and vines crept up the façade like grasping fingers.

"EMF's already active," Dean noted, watching the reader's lights flicker as they approached the front porch. "In broad daylight too."

"Stay close," John ordered as he picked the rusted padlock on the front door. "Standard formation. Dean on point, Sam left, I'll take right. Lucien, center position, two steps behind me."

The door creaked open, revealing a dust-filled foyer. Sunlight filtered through dirty windows, illuminating floating particles that swirled in their wake as they entered.

Lucien reached out with the Force, scanning for presences.

The house felt... wrong. Not just haunted, but somehow corrupted.

The sensation was subtle but unmistakable, like the difference between spoiled and fresh milk.

"Cold spot here," Sam reported from the parlor. "Significant drop."

"Got some serious EMF in the dining room," Dean called. "Whole meter's lit up like Christmas."

John motioned for Lucien to stay close as they moved toward the grand staircase. "What are you sensing?"

Lucien concentrated. "Definitely a presence. But it's... strange. Not like the training exercises with Bobby. It feels deeper, more embedded in the house itself."

"Different how?"

"Like it's... feeding on something. Growing stronger."

John's expression darkened. "Stay alert. We're just doing reconnaissance today. No heroics."

They systematically explored the first floor, documenting cold spots and EMF readings. The kitchen revealed nothing unusual, nor did the library.

But when they reached the music room, Lucien felt a sharp spike.

"In here," he said, drawn to a section of wall behind a dusty piano. "There's something..."

John followed, watching as Lucien ran his hands over the faded wallpaper. "What is it?"

"Not sure. But something's hidden here." Lucien pressed against different sections until he felt a subtle give. "I think there's a space behind this wall."

Dean joined them, tapping the wall with his knuckles. "Kid's right. Sounds hollow." He examined the seam more closely. "Hidden door, maybe? Common in these old houses."

Sam discovered the mechanism - a decorative rosette that, when turned, released a catch. The panel swung inward, revealing a small hidden room.

The space contained a single chair, a small table, and shelves lined with strange objects - dried herbs, crystals, and several ancient-looking books.

On the table sat a wooden box inlaid with silver symbols.

"Don't touch anything," John warned as Dean swept the EMF meter around the room. The device shrieked, lights maxing out.

"Jackpot," Dean muttered. "Whatever our spook is connected to, it's most likely in here."

Sam examined the books without touching them. "These are occult texts. Some look like grimoires."

"So Edmund was into the dark arts," John concluded. "Confirms the rumors."

Lucien's attention fixed on the wooden box. The Force- particularly the Dark Side - seemed to swirl around it like water circling a drain. "That box is important."

John carefully approached it, using a pen to lift the lid. Inside lay a gold wedding ring on a bed of dried flowers and what appeared to be human hair.

"Binding ritual components," Sam identified. "Hair, wedding ring - symbols of connection to Martha."

"So we've got our anchor," Dean said. "Burn the ring, ghost goes poof."

"Maybe," John said, not sounding entirely convinced. "But why hide it in a secret room? Why not destroy it completely?"

"Because he wanted to control her," Lucien realized aloud. "Not just kill her, but bind her somehow."

John's expression grew troubled. "We need to know exactly what we're dealing with before we move forward. Sam, take photos of everything. Dean, check upstairs. Lucien, stay with me."

As Dean and Sam went about their tasks, John turned to Lucien. "What's the Force telling you? Exactly."

Lucien closed his eyes, concentrating harder than he had before. "The spirit is here, but... contained somehow. Restless. Angry. But there's something else too, something deeper. Like... hunger."

"Hunger for what?"

"Energy. Life." Lucien opened his eyes. "Dad, I don't think this is just a vengeful spirit. It feels wrong."

John studied him for a long moment. "We'll take the ring, research the symbols on the box back at the motel. If this is some kind of binding ritual, we need to understand it before we break it."

Using tongs from their kit, John carefully transferred the ring to a small iron box lined with salt. The moment the lid closed, Lucien felt a shift in the Force - a ripple of awareness, as if something had just noticed them.

"We need to go," he said urgently. "Now."

John didn't question him. "Dean! Sam! We're leaving!"

They exited the house quickly, the afternoon sun a welcome relief after the oppressive atmosphere inside.

As they reached the Impala, Lucien glanced back at an upstairs window.

For just a moment, he thought he saw a woman's face watching them - pale, sorrowful, with eyes that burned with unnatural hunger.

---------------------

The motel room became their war room, walls soon covered with photocopied journal pages, printouts, and hand-drawn diagrams.

Sam had photographed everything in the hidden room, and now they pored over the enlarged images.

"These symbols," Sam said, pointing to markings on the box, "they're for binding and containment. Similar to what we've seen in witch bottles, but modified."

"And these," Dean added, indicating another set, "look like some kind of energy transfer. Bobby might recognize them better."

John was on the phone with Bobby, describing what they'd found. Lucien sat cross-legged on one of the beds, examining the photographs of the books from the hidden room.

"Edmund wasn't just binding Martha's spirit," he said suddenly. "He was using her. The ritual components - they're for drawing power from the dead. Devouring life force."

With the Force now existent- essentially, devouring the Force.

Lucien bit the inside of his cheek. 

John lowered the phone. "Bobby says the same thing. It's an old black magic practice. Binding a spirit to drain its energy."

"But spirits don't have that kind of energy to spare," Sam objected. "They're already struggling to maintain form."

"Unless..." Lucien's eyes widened as pieces clicked together. "Unless he killed her specifically for this purpose. And maybe those three missing women too."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

"A sacrifice," John said grimly. "Multiple sacrifices to power the ritual."

"So what are we dealing with?" Dean asked. "Still a ghost, or something worse?"

"Bobby thinks the ritual could have transformed her," John explained. "A spirit bound and fed with sacrificial energy can become something more powerful. A wraith."

"That explains why the attacks are so violent," Sam realized. "And why victims feel drained afterward. She's not just attacking out of vengeance - she's feeding."

"How do we stop it?" Lucien asked.

John's expression was grim. "Salt and burn still works, but we need to destroy all anchors. The body and anything used in the binding ritual."

"So the ring and whatever else might be in that box," Dean concluded.

"Exactly. We go tonight. Full arsenal." John turned to Lucien. "This changes things. The danger level is higher now. You'll stay even further back during the operation."

"But-"

"No arguments. Wraiths are unpredictable and far more dangerous than standard spirits. You observe from the car."

Lucien wanted to protest but saw the determination in John's eyes. "Yes, sir."

As they prepared their weapons and supplies, Lucien couldn't shake the feeling that they were still missing something crucial. The Force continued to whisper warnings, like a radio signal just out of range.

(Nihilus.)

Lucien's head immediately perked up, as he tried to decipher what the Force just whispered to him. It sounded like it was calling something, something he'd find familiar and understand from the reference what is going on.

But the sound arrived as if it came through water. He didn't understand.

He had a real bad feeling about this.

Whatever Martha Blackwood had became, it was more dangerous than any of them realized.

-------------------

Night fell over Riverdale Cemetery like a heavy curtain, the moon occasionally peeking through racing clouds.

The Impala was parked on a service road fifty yards from Martha's grave, hidden from the main road by a stand of trees.

"Remember the plan," John said as they gathered their equipment. "Dean and I dig. Sam stands guard with the shotgun. Lucien stays in the car with doors locked, windows up."

"But Dad-"

"That's an order." John's tone left no room for argument. "First hunt is observation only. This turned out more dangerous than expected, which means you stay even further back."

Lucien reluctantly slid back into the passenger seat, watching as his father and brothers moved through the cemetery.

They'd done this dozens of times before - locate the grave, dig until they hit the coffin, salt and burn the remains.

Simple. Routine. Except the Force was practically screaming now that nothing about this was routine.

From his vantage point, Lucien could see Dean and John taking turns with the shovels while Sam patrolled the perimeter, shotgun ready. They'd brought the iron box containing the wedding ring, planning to burn it alongside the bones.

The first sign of trouble came when their flashlights began to flicker. Even from the car, Lucien could see the sudden plumes of breath as the temperature plummeted. Frost formed on nearby headstones, spreading like crystalline veins.

Sam raised his shotgun, scanning for manifestation. John and Dean dug faster.

Lucien rolled down the window an inch, extending his senses toward the grave. What he felt chilled him more than the dropping temperature.

The presence was far more potent, butnow, now that it was so much stronger and clearer, he could sense that the strongest anchor didn't come from the grave- It was coming from...

"The mansion," he whispered, fingers gripping the door handle. "She's not in the grave. There's only prints left of her energy there!"

Without thinking, he grabbed the walkie-talkie they'd left for emergencies. "Dad! She's not there! The body must be at the house!"

But static was his only answer. The wraith was interfering with the signal.

Through the windshield, Lucien saw it manifest - a woman's form that shifted and distorted like smoke underwater.

Her dress, once elegant Victorian black, now rippled as though underwater, edges dissolving into tendrils of dark energy.

Her face flickered between beautiful and horrific, skin peeling back to reveal glimpses of skull beneath.

She appeared behind Sam first, who sensed her too late. With a flick of her hand, she sent him flying.

Sam's body arched through the air, arms moving helplessly before crashing against a marble tombstone.

The impact echoed across the cemetery as Sam slumped to the ground, shotgun clattering beside him.

"Sam!" Dean pivoted, shotgun raised to his shoulder. He fired, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating the place.

The salt round passed through the wraith with minimal effect, merely causing her form to ripple like disturbed water. She solidified again almost instantly, her mouth opening in a silent laugh.

John dropped his shovel with a metallic clang and pulled his own weapon, moving with to position himself between the wraith and his fallen son.

His boots kicked up dirt from the half-dug grave as he established a defensive stance.

"Dean, circle left!" John barked, pumping his shotgun. "Keep moving!"

The wraith moved fast, her form coalescing and dissipating like mist. One moment she was near the grave, the next she had materialized directly behind Dean, who was still backing away in a circular pattern as ordered.

Before Dean could turn, tendrils of spectral energy - like ghostly fingers - wrapped around his throat and chest.

His face contorted in pain, skin visibly paling as his knees buckled beneath him. The shotgun slipped from his fingers as he clutched at the invisible force constricting his throat.

She was feeding on him, draining his life force. Even from the car, Lucien could see Dean's Force dimming like a light being slowly extinguished.

John fired repeatedly, rock salt spraying through the air. The wraith merely shifted her form, maintaining her hold on Dean while her body became insubstantial wherever the salt rounds would have hit.

Near the tombstone, Sam stirred weakly, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead as he struggled to push himself upright.

Lucien knew he had seconds to act. His oldest brother's face was now ashen, eyes rolling back.

He grabbed the iron poker they'd left in the car and bolted across the cemetery. The Force flowed through him, enhancing his speed.

His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he sprinted between headstones.

"Hey!" he shouted, voice cracking with effort. "Spook!"

The wraith's head snapped toward him, her face morphing from hunger to rage. Spectral eyes fixed on Lucien, widening at what they sensed - power, life, energy beyond what Dean could provide.

She released Dean, who collapsed face-first onto the cemetery grass with a dull thud, and turned toward this new, more enticing source.

"Lucien, get back!" John roared, lunging forward. His boots slipped on the damp grass as he tried to intercept the wraith's path.

The wraith surged toward Lucien fast, covering the distance between them in an eyeblink. Her form expanded, arms stretching into grotesque claws that reached for him hungrily.

Lucien swung the iron poker in a wide arc. The metal passed through her form with a sizzling sound.

She dispersed momentarily into wisps of black smoke but reformed almost instantly - far faster than a normal spirit should.

"The heart!" Lucien called out, the Force suddenly providing clarity as his mind connected the scattered pieces. "Edmund took her heart! It's in the wall where we found the box!"

John's eyes widened in understanding as he staggered to his feet. The binding ritual would have required a physical anchor - something more significant than just a ring.

The wraith screamed - a sound like metal scraping against bone - and lunged at Lucien again.

This time, he dropped the poker with a clatter and reached out with both hands, calling upon the Force with every ounce of power he had..

Time seemed to slow around him. His awareness changed- like the world became gray and slow.

He felt the connection between the wraith and her anchors - visible now as glowing threads stretching from her form.

One thread led to the grave beneath their feet, another to the iron box containing the wedding ring, and a third - the strongest - extended toward the mansion on the hill, pulsing with Dark Side energy.

Lucien grasped those threads with the Force and squeezed.

The wraith froze in mid-lunge, her form flickering violently like a television with poor reception. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as the pressure on her bonds increased.

Lucien tightened his grip, fingers curling into claws as he visualized crushing the connections.

The effort was immense, far beyond anything he'd attempted before. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cemetery's chill, and warm blood trickled from his nose, dripping onto his shirt.

"Lucien!" John's voice seemed to come from miles away, distorted and slow.

The wraith convulsed, her form rippling more violently by the moment. Lucien focused on the thread connecting her to the cemetery - the weakest link - and with a final mental push, severed it completely.

The thread connecting her to the iron box frayed under his attack but held. The third thread, leading to the mansion, remained intact despite his efforts.

The wraith shrieked as her connection to the cemetery was cut - a sound that existed more in Lucien's mind than in physical reality.

Her form began to dissolve, unable to maintain presence with one anchor destroyed.

With a final, hateful glare at Lucien, she dispersed into mist, pulled back toward her remaining anchors at the mansion. The cemetery air, moments ago frigid with supernatural cold, began to warm.

Lucien's knees buckled beneath him as the Force connection broke. His vision tunneled to pinpricks of light as exhaustion crashed over him. He felt himself falling.

Strong arms caught him before he hit the ground - John, moving desperately to reach his son. Lucien's head lolled against his father's chest, body limp as a rag doll.

"I've got you," John murmured, lowering them both to the ground. His calloused hand brushed blood from Lucien's face with surprising gentleness. "I've got you, son."

Through blurry vision, Lucien saw Dean pushing himself to his knees, color slowly returning to his face.

Sam limped toward them, pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding forehead. Both brothers stared at Lucien with expressions of shock and awe.

"Dad," Lucien whispered, his voice barely audible.

John's arms tightened around him. "Rest now. We'll talk about it later."

"She's... still there," Lucien managed, fighting to stay conscious. "At the mansion. Couldn't... break all the bonds."

"We'll handle it," John assured him, exchanging a meaningful look with Dean and Sam. "You did enough. More than enough."

'No... They can't handle her. Whatever made her the way she is... She- She devours life force. Now with life force being... The Force, she's stronger than... ever. Fuck... This... Shitty family's... Luck.' With that final thought, darkness took him and he fell into slumber.

To be continued...

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(Author note: Yeah... Nothing can be simple with Winchesters. Their luck when it comes to to non mundane stuff is FUCKING SHIT.

Believe me- Dean nearly died, John sold his soul. Sam died. Dean sold his soul.

Dean went to Hell, Sam fell to the Dark Side, Dean came back with the help of angels, Sam started the apocalypse. Sam threw himself and Satan into Hell, was tortured for 5000 years at least there, etc.

This family is cursed to hell and back.

Well, I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)