Rick watched Susan and Tifa walk away through the open door. The late afternoon light cast restless shadows across the living room floor — as if the day itself was trying to hide what had happened there.
He let out a low chuckle. "Man, that was intense."
A tired smile crept onto his face. "Who knew Tifa had that... wild side?"
The memories were still fresh. It had all happened that morning — fast, intense, almost surreal.
They'd shown up with simple excuses, eyes that spoke louder than words. And they left a mark he was still trying to understand.
Susan, usually aggressive, had turned strangely submissive, obedient. Tifa, on the other hand, had fought for attention — intense, unpredictable, almost feral.
Rick closed the door slowly, the smile still hanging on his lips. His body was relaxed, muscles sore, but his mind was spinning with vivid memories.
"Definitely not how I expected to start the day," he murmured, almost laughing.
His hair was still damp from the shower, messy strands falling across his forehead. The water had dried, but the heat of his body kept each strand alive — like the moment was still clinging to him.
He ran a distracted hand through his hair, spreading the scent of soap mixed with sweat and memory.
He turned on his heels, still buzzing with post-hookup energy, and began picking up the pillows scattered on the floor, straightening the blanket on the couch, stacking cups by the sink.
The house was a mess — but a mess that felt earned.
As he cleaned, he hummed a tune still echoing in his head.
"Now this is living. That's what I'm talking about."
The sound of footsteps, their scent, their touch — it was all still there, clinging to his skin.
The battle had started in the bedroom, with whispers and muffled laughter. But by midmorning, it had spread through the house like a slow fire — pillows tossed, cups forgotten, clothes in improbable places.
When he reached behind the couch to grab a fallen pillow, Rick froze. There, half-hidden, was a black lace thong — small, with a red detail on the side.
He picked it up with two fingers, like holding a living memory. "Susan..." he murmured, with a crooked smile.
For a moment, the morning's energy returned. But only for a moment.
He folded the piece carefully and placed it on the back of the couch. The gesture was almost ritualistic — like he was trying to preserve something already fading.
"Easy, man..." Rick muttered, looking down. "You just woke up."
He was talking to his friend — the one who barely slept, but now seemed fully awake. Again.
Even though he was good at his job, Rick couldn't help but notice: "You're definitely more energetic today. Like... like you've got endless energy."
He paused, frowning slightly.
Even though he was still mentally shaken from the coma, something had shifted physically — his stamina rebounded unnaturally fast. It was like exhaustion didn't stick anymore.
It wasn't just adrenaline. There was something else — something unnatural pulsing beneath the surface.
Rick tilted his head, studying himself like a stranger. Where was this sudden surge coming from?
He hadn't slept well. He hadn't eaten much. And yet... he felt charged. Buzzing.
The thought came slowly, like a shadow slipping under the door.
What if it wasn't his energy? What if it belonged to something — or someone — else?
Maybe it was because of the ghost. The ghost he'd consumed.
He tried to shake the thought away, but couldn't resist the sarcasm.
"If that's really it... maybe I should think about eating another one." He laughed to himself, the sound dry and nervous, echoing through the room.
Something inside him pulsed. Not physical — deeper. Like a hunger that didn't come from his stomach. A silent voice, buried in some dark corner of his mind, whispered: Devour another, and you'll get more. Something greater.
Rick shook his head hard, trying to banish the thought. "No. Stop it."
But the impulse didn't fade. It felt planted — and now it was starting to grow. Devour.
As he walked through the living room, something made him stop. The TV was off, just like he remembered. But something was out of place.
It was gone.
Rick frowned. Looked around. Checked behind the TV, under the stand, even inside the drawers.
Nothing.
"I swear it was here."
"The mojo bag... the little black pouch..."
"Nothing. Nothing. Nothing."
The mojo bag— the black pouch that had been right there, on the rack next to the TV — was gone.
"Shit..." Rick growled through clenched teeth, rubbing his face hard.
The feeling was clear now: something was wrong. Not just the missing mojo — the house felt different. Like it had been invaded. Like every object had been touched by hands that weren't his.
He scanned the room urgently. The pillows, the cups, even the thong on the couch — everything looked... placed. Like it had been left there with purpose.
Rick shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought.
"Cut it out, man. Stop being paranoid." He said it out loud, as if trying to convince himself.
After everything he'd been through, Rick knew his mind wasn't always reliable.
Sometimes, he couldn't tell if he was remembering or imagining. And that made every detail — every absence — feel suspicious.
Maybe it was better that way. One less paranormal thing in his life. One less reminder.
But the feeling didn't leave room for relief.
It mattered.
Tessa had paid attention to the mojo. And Tessa wasn't just anyone — she was a reaper.
If it caught the attention of someone like her, it wasn't just a weird charm. It was a sign. A warning. Maybe even a seal.
Definitely a clue.
Rick stood still for a moment, as if the silence in the house was trying to tell him something.
The discomfort that had once been subtle now had a name. And it was growing.
It wasn't just the mojo that had vanished. It was the certainty that something had been tampered with.
That things wouldn't go back to normal.
He turned slowly, eyes scanning the room like he was seeing it for the first time. The living room, once a stage for pleasure, now felt... staged. Every gesture from the girls, every word, every look — it all started to feel rehearsed.
Rick raised a hand to his head, a wave of dizziness hitting him. Like something inside was coming loose. Like he was waking up from a dream he didn't know he was dreaming.
He stumbled to the couch, sat down, and stared at the floor. The mojo was gone. But what he felt...
"Damn."
The word slipped out like a reflex — dry and bitter. It wasn't just the object that had disappeared. It was the feeling that something inside him was being pulled — like invisible threads unraveling, one by one.
Rick ran a hand over his face, trying to organize his thoughts. But everything felt scrambled. The memories from the morning, the girls' gestures, their looks...
Now it all felt like part of a play. A play staged for him.
Rick couldn't tell — was it real, or just paranoia?
Was something suspicious going on... or not?
He stood up slowly, as if the floor had lost its firmness. The silence in the house was no longer comforting.
And then, again — that feeling. Like invisible eyes were glued to the back of his neck.
---
A strange place. Dark, but not empty.
Black candles burned in imperfect circles. The air vibrated with something ancient.
Sara stood, impatient. Her voice was sharp — cutting.
"Was it done?"
She stared at Susan and Tifa, who had just arrived.
"You went early. Spent the whole morning at his house. That wasn't part of the plan." Her voice hissed, venomous.
Tifa lowered her eyes, but Susan smiled — that smile that never told the whole story.
"We found something... interesting." She stepped forward, provocative without being direct.
"Would've been a shame not to try it before... well..."
She let the sentence fade into the air, like smoke.
Sara narrowed her eyes.
"You did more than you were supposed to."
Susan lifted her chin, still smiling.
"We did. And it was amazing."
She let out a low laugh, teasing.
"Unforgettable."
Sara raised an eyebrow.
"Unforgettable?"
Susan repeated the word, savoring it — as if it wasn't enough.
"It was better than anything I expected. Better than anything I've ever had."
For a moment, Susan's smile faltered — as if she were reliving every experience she'd ever had.
Sara moved like a blade — fast, silent, sharp. Her eyes burned with something deeper than anger.
"You think this is funny? Think I'm jealous?"
Susan, mockingly: "Something tells me you are..."
She tilted her head, a wicked smile on her lips. "But you shouldn't be looking at me like that."
Then she glanced at Tifa — feigned surprise, theatrical.
"Actually... Tifa seemed to enjoy herself the most." Her tone was light, but laced with poison.
"She was ravenous... didn't let up for a second." Susan gave a nervous giggle. "I'm almost embarrassed by the things she did."
Tifa lowered her eyes, but didn't deny it.
Susan turned back to Sara, her eyes gleaming with provocation. "I even doubt she's only been with toys." "How can someone know that much kink... just from toys... just from playing alone?"
Sara, coldly:
"You think you're provoking me. That you're making me jealous..."
She stepped forward, her gaze firm and icy.
"But this has nothing to do with me."
Then she spoke in a low, shadowed tone:
"SHE won't be pleased. And if this breaks the bond..."
Her voice dropped, almost reverent.
"If this breaks the bond... you'll wish you'd never laid a finger on him."
The air seemed to vibrate at the mention. Susan and Tifa exchanged glances, but said nothing.
Susan shifted, almost imperceptibly. A step back. Tense shoulders. Her smile vanished for a moment. She looked away — as if the mere mention of the patron had stirred something she preferred buried.
That presence — even unspoken — seemed to weigh heavier on her than on Tifa. As if she'd remembered that, no matter how bold she was, she was still just a servant.
Tifa stepped forward, trying to appear strong, even if she felt small. Her voice came out barely more than a muffled sob.
"Is it ready?"
Sara didn't answer right away. Her eyes drifted to the open book at the center of the altar, between the candles. The pages seemed to breathe.
"Almost," she said, in a low tone — as if speaking to the void itself.
The candle flames flickered. The air grew heavier.
And something — invisible, but present — seemed to lean over them. Watching. Waiting.
---
The rumble of the Impala's engine filled the silence of the road. The sky was gray — as if the world itself was in mourning.
Sam jolted awake in the passenger seat. His breathing was fast. Eyes wide.
Jess. The ceiling in flames. A scream caught in his throat.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to erase the image. He said nothing.
Dean glanced over, keeping his hands steady on the wheel.
"Nightmare?"
Sam turned his gaze to the side, eyes locked on the window. His jaw was tight. Fists clenched.
Dean didn't press.
After a few minutes, Sam broke the silence.
"We're really going back to Jericho, Dean?" His voice was dry, almost accusatory. "We already know Dad's not there. What's the point?"
Dean kept his eyes on the road. "We need to check out whatever that thing was. After that, we keep looking for him."
Sam looked away, his eyes darkened by something he didn't say. He didn't want to hunt — not that thing, at least.
Dean shot him a quick glance, sensing the tension. "I know what you want, Sam. But we do this the right way."
Sam didn't respond. But his silence said everything.
-
The room was cold, sterile, with the metallic scent of disinfectant clinging to the walls.
Dean and Sam walked in with fake badges and serious expressions.
The coroner — a thin, middle-aged man with deep-set dark circles — greeted them with suspicion.
"You said you're from the Jericho Times?" His voice carried fatigue and doubt.
Dean smiled — that smile that always worked.
"We just want to understand the case better. The guy who... you know, died and then somehow came back."
Sam opened his notebook, pretending to review the notes.
"Rick Vexley. Twenty-one. Worked with his grandfather at a local bookstore."
He flipped a page, as if checking facts.
"He was found dead in his car. No visible injuries, but covered in blood. Hours later, at the morgue, a nurse went to check the body — Routine body check."
Sam looked up. "She saw the sheet move. Thought it was a reflex. But when she checked his pulse... he was alive."
The coroner crossed his arms, visibly uncomfortable.
"Look, I did the exam. He was dead. No pulse. No brain activity. He was already stiff — full rigor mortis."
He shook his head, still trying to make sense of it.
"Everything pointed to death. There was no room for error."
Dean leaned in slightly. "Anything strange about the body? Cold air? Sudden temperature changes? Flickering lights?"
The coroner frowned.
"No. None of that."
He hesitated.
"But..."
Sam looked up.
"But?"
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought.
"Probably nothing."
Dean leaned in, offering a soft smile.
"Still, tell us. Might be useful for the article." He winked, giving the man an easy out.
The coroner sighed.
"The next day, when they moved Rick to a hospital room... I was on shift here."
He glanced around, as if trying to convey how strange it had been.
"The morgue... stank. Bad. Like rotten eggs."
He hesitated again.
"It was just weird. The smell didn't come from any body. And it vanished after a few hours."
Dean and Sam exchanged looks.
"Maybe it's nothing," the coroner added, trying to laugh.
"But I've never smelled anything like it. And there hadn't been a single new body that day."
-
Dean and Sam left the morgue in silence, their footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.
Outside, the cold wind cut through the late afternoon.
"Rotten eggs..." Dean muttered, locking eyes with Sam. "You know what that means."
Sam nodded, his gaze darkening. "Sulfur."
The word hung in the air like a sentence.
They stopped beside the Impala.
Sam spoke — more a confirmation than a question — but the word came out laced with disgust.
"Demon..."
The silence between them was heavy. Something was wrong. Rick Vexley's return wasn't a miracle — not even close.
-
The table was covered in old books, grimoires, newspaper clippings, and hastily scribbled notes. Dean flipped through a leather-bound volume, eyes locked on a marked page.
"Here." He pointed. "Crossroads demon. Specializes in deals. Health, wealth, love... even resurrection. But the price is always the same: a soul."
Dean looked up at Sam. "Always the same price."
Sam frowned. "That would explain the rigor mortis. He was dead."
Dean nodded. "And the sulfur smell in the morgue. Classic."
Sam pulled another book and started cross-referencing.
"Rick has no history. No ties to the occult. Just worked with his grandfather in a bookstore."
Dean paused, thinking.
"Maybe it was the grandfather. Guy loses his grandson, can't take the grief, makes a deal. Demon brings Rick back — in exchange for his soul."
Sam murmured, almost to himself: "How did we miss this?"
Dean closed the book and leaned back in his chair.
"So what do we do now?"
Sam stayed quiet for a moment, eyes still scanning the notes.
"We talk to his grandfather. See if he did something he shouldn't have."
Dean nodded, though his expression was more reserved.
"I'm not judging the old man."
-
The house was simple, lined with shelves full of old books and the scent of aged paper hanging in the air. Alfred Vexley, a kind-looking older man with tired eyes, greeted them with a warm smile.
"You're from the Jericho Times, right? I'm glad someone's paying attention to my grandson."
Dean smiled, keeping up the cover. "We're just trying to understand what happened. Rick seems like a special kid."
Alfred nodded, visibly moved. "He is. Always has been. Smart, curious... loved books. We've worked together at the shop since he was little."
Sam jotted down notes, keeping his tone friendly.
"And the day he was... well, found — do you remember anything unusual?"
Alfred hesitated, his smile fading. "It was a horrible day. I... lost him. Thought I'd never see him again."
Dean leaned in slightly. "Did you reach out to anyone? Ask for help?"
Alfred frowned, uncomfortable — sensing something in Dean's tone.
"Doctors. The priest. God, of course." He said it defensively, like he'd answered that question too many times before.
Sam offered a calming smile and nodded.
"Of course. What my friend meant was... did anything strange happen?" He kept his tone light, almost casual.
"Like the air suddenly going cold. A weird smell — like rotten eggs. Or maybe someone offering a way out. A way to bring Rick back."
Alfred went quiet. The smile that had lit his face now seemed forced. He glanced toward a nearby shelf, as if searching for something to hold onto.
"No... nothing like that."
But the pause before his answer lasted too long.
Alfred stood slowly and walked to the shelf.
"Rick came back. That's what matters."
He said it without looking at the brothers.
Dean watched silently. Sam stood as well, keeping his tone gentle.
"Of course. We're just trying to understand how. It's an incredible story. And incredible stories deserve to be told right."
Alfred stopped in front of the shelf, his fingers brushing the spine of an old book. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought.
"Sometimes... things don't have explanations." He said it in a whisper.
"You just give thanks. And trust. I prayed. I begged God. With everything I had."
He turned slowly, his eyes darker than before.
"And He heard me."
Dean stepped closer, his gaze steady.
"But sometimes, the explanation is what saves others."
Alfred hesitated. His eyes drifted across the shelf, as if seeking permission from the books.
"There was one thing..."
His voice came out low, almost unwilling.
"Sara. Rick's ex-girlfriend. Sweet girl — shame they didn't work out. She said she knew someone who could help."
Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, alert.
"I said no. It felt... wrong. That kind of thing isn't from God."
Alfred gripped the book spine tighter, as if grounding himself.
Sam leaned in slightly, notebook forgotten. Dean's eyes narrowed, his body tense.
"Help how?" Dean asked, voice still gentle — but firmer now.
"She talked about a blessing... something shamanic. A charm, maybe. I don't know — felt more like superstition than faith."
Sam added quietly: "She did something, didn't she?"
Alfred didn't answer right away.
"She went on her own. A few days later, she showed up at the hospital with... it." He swallowed hard.
"It was small. A dark cloth pouch. Smelled strange. She said it would help."
He turned, finally meeting their eyes. "And not long after... Rick opened his eyes. Came out of the coma."
The silence that followed was heavier than any word. Alfred didn't blink. Dean didn't smile. Sam just kept writing, slowly.
Dean stepped forward, voice low but firm.
"Do you know where we can find Sara?"