Reborn as Sam Winchester in Supernatural TV

Missoula, Montana -- 1998

Six disappearances in three weeks. The Coalition's whispers led us here - subtle warnings about old magic, about power being gathered. Without their network, we'd never have noticed. On the surface, it looks like regular missing persons cases.

But I know better. The signs are there if you know where to look.

"Might be our kind of case," I suggest carefully over breakfast, watching Dad read the local paper. "Those missing people in Montana."

Dean looks up from cleaning his sword. Since Columbus, he's been eager for more supernatural challenges. "What makes you think it's our thing?"

I shrug, playing it casual. "Just a feeling. Maybe we should call Bobby, see if he's heard anything?"

The call to Bobby was already arranged through Coalition channels. He'll have "coincidentally" found some information about Celtic magic signatures in the area.

"Bobby's sending information," Dad confirms an hour later, spreading papers across the motel table. "Says there might be witch activity. Something old. Really old."

Dean's sword hums softly from its position by the wall. Since learning it could kill demons, blessed steel versus ancient magic would make an interesting test.

"These energy readings Bobby's contact picked up," Dad continues, "they're not just regular witch stuff. Someone's gathering power. Carefully."

I study the reports, recognizing the artistry behind the magic. Whoever this witch is, they're skilled. Professional. Nothing left to chance, nothing that would normally attract hunter attention.

"Could be worth checking out," I suggest, maintaining my role as the research-oriented brother.

Dean nods, already excited about the prospect. "Been a while since we handled a witch."

I say nothing about the unease growing in my darkness. Something about this witch's power signature feels... significant. Like we're about to step into something bigger than a regular hunt.

"Sam?" Dad's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "You getting anything else from the research?"

"Just that they're careful," I reply truthfully. "Professional. Whatever they're doing, they don't want attention."

Too bad for them the Coalition's network is better at detecting power gatherings than they anticipated.

Something in Montana is quietly building power.

And we're about to complicate their plans.

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

The drive to Missoula gives me time to analyze the Coalition's warnings. Their messages have been unusually cryptic about this one - warnings about power gathering, yes, but also hints of something else. Like they're both worried about and impressed by whoever's doing this.

"Bobby says his contact tracked the magical signature," Dad explains as we cross the Montana border. "All six disappearances happened on the night of a waxing moon. Next one's in three days."

Dean's sword hums from the trunk, its sacred energy seeming eager for the challenge. Since Columbus, its power has grown with each supernatural encounter. Part of me wonders how it will react to magic this ancient.

"The victims," I flip through the files, maintaining my researcher role. "No connection except location?"

"None we can find," Dad confirms. "Different ages, different backgrounds. Four locals, two tourists."

But there is a pattern. One the Coalition's messages helped me spot. Each victim had some form of latent magical talent. Nothing major, just traces - the kind of power most people never even notice they have.

Someone's collecting power. Methodically. Professionally.

"Latest victim was Karen Mitchell," Dean reads from the newspaper. "Disappeared from outside Palmer's Bar downtown. No signs of struggle, no witnesses."

Of course not. Whoever this witch is, they're too skilled for messy abductions.

"We should check the bar first," Dad decides. "Talk to the staff, see if-"

"Actually," I interrupt carefully, "maybe we should look at the magical traces first? Before they fade?"

Dad considers this. Since Columbus, since Dean proved supernatural forces could be permanently destroyed, he's been more open to magical investigation.

"Bobby's contact said the traces are strongest near Miller Creek," I add, knowing the Coalition's information is steering us exactly where we need to go.

What I don't say is how my darkness has been growing more restless the closer we get to Missoula. Something about this witch's power makes my darkness resonate. It feels... familiar. Like I should recognize it, but can't quite place why.

The Impala roars toward Montana's gathering dusk, carrying us toward something far more interesting than a regular witch hunt.

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

Miller Creek at night thrums with power, subtle but deep. Whoever this witch is, they chose their location perfectly - natural ley lines cross here, amplifying any spellwork.

"Spread out," Dad orders, though not too far. Even he can sense something's different about this hunt. "Look for ritual signs."

Dean moves with his sword unwrapped, the blessed steel resonating with the ambient magic in ways that make my darkness stir uneasily.

I pretend to search while actually reading the magical traces. The spellwork is... beautiful. Centuries of experience woven into each careful pattern. Nothing wasted, nothing flashy.

"Over here," Dean calls softly from a clearing where moonlight pools unnaturally. "These markings..."

Celtic in origin, but modified with Mesopotamian elements. This witch isn't just powerful - they're educated. A scholar as well as a practitioner.

"Bobby's notes mentioned this," Dad studies the ground. "Pre-dates most recorded grimoires."

The symbols shift when you're not looking directly at them, writing themselves into reality's fabric. This isn't spellwork - it's artistry.

My darkness reaches out cautiously, testing the magical boundaries. The power here responds like it's amused, as if whoever set these spells is playing with forces they mastered long ago.

"Sam?" Dad's voice breaks my concentration. "You sensing something?"

"Just... these markings feel different."

Dean's sword pulses in agreement, its sacred energy dancing with the ambient magic like old friends meeting unexpectedly.

That's when I hear it - just on the edge of perception. Someone humming an ancient Scottish lullaby, the sound carrying power older than the hills themselves.

We're not just dealing with a witch.

We're dealing with a true artist.

The humming stops abruptly, replaced by absolute silence. Even the night creatures have gone quiet, as if nature itself is holding its breath.

I scan the treeline while pretending to study more markings. Now I understand why the Coalition's warnings were so cryptic. This witch isn't here randomly - they're seeking something specific. The missing people, their latent power... 

The magical signatures suggest a ritual building toward something significant. Not just power gathering for its own sake - this is calculated, precise. Like someone testing the waters of modern supernatural America, measuring its defenses and potential.

"Dean," Dad's voice is tense. "Three o'clock."

A figure moves through the trees, too graceful to be human. Dean's sword hums in anticipation, but something tells me this confrontation won't be solved with blessed steel.

The witch is watching, evaluating. The Coalition's warnings, our arrival - they're probably all part of their assessment. After all, what better way to understand current supernatural politics than to draw the attention of the hunters who can kill demons?

"We're being played," I mutter, though too quietly for Dad or Dean to hear.

The figure disappears into the darkness, leaving behind only the faintest trace of ancient power and the lingering notes of that Scottish lullaby.

Our quarry's presence lingers in subtle ways - a shimmer of power here, a whispered spell there. Like breadcrumbs leading us deeper into the woods.

"Trail's fresh," Dad murmurs, tracking signs I know are deliberately left. "Heading east."

Dean follows, sword at ready. 

My darkness picks up traces of curiosity in the witch's magical signature. Not fear or aggression - just genuine interest. Whoever they are, they're studying us as much as we're hunting them.

A twig snaps to our left. Too obvious. Too staged.

"It's herding us," I say before I can stop myself.

Dad pauses. "What makes you say that?"

"The signs... they're too clear. Like-"

Magic flares suddenly, bright and ancient. A barrier springs up between us and Dean, who'd moved slightly ahead.

"Dean!" Dad rushes forward but stops short of the shimmering wall.

"I'm fine," Dean calls back, sword blazing against the spell. "Can't get through, but..."

His voice trails off as music fills the air - that Scottish lullaby again, but closer now. Much closer.

Through the barrier, I see a shadow approach my brother. The sword hums in response, its sacred power meeting ancient magic in a dance of light and energy.

We're about to meet our witch.

And somehow, I don't think this is going to go the way any of us expected.

"My, my," a voice lilts through the darkness, accent thick with centuries of Scottish highlands. "What an interesting blade you have there, boy."

Dean stands his ground, sword raised. Through the barrier, I catch glimpses of our quarry - a petite figure whose true power belies their size.

"Let him go," Dad demands, testing the barrier's strength.

A soft laugh answers. "Go? He's perfectly safe where he is. I merely wish to... observe."

The sword's energy pulses brighter, drawing an appreciative hum from our witch. Magic swirls around Dean - not attacking, just... testing. Measuring.

"Fascinating," the voice continues. "Sacred steel that kills demons. Haven't seen its like in... ever."

My darkness shifts uneasily. This witch's power feels vast, like an ocean hiding its true depth. The Coalition's warnings suddenly make more sense - this isn't someone to be fought.

This is someone taking stock of America's supernatural landscape.

"What do you want?" Dean's voice stays steady, the sword responding to his resolve.

Another laugh, musical and powerful. "Want? I'm simply satisfying my curiosity. It's not every day one finds such... potential."

The barrier flickers, then vanishes as suddenly as it appeared. But our witch is already gone, leaving behind only the fading notes of that lullaby and a whispered:

"Until we meet again, dear boy."

Dean's sword dims slowly, like it's reluctant to let the magical encounter end.

"What the hell was that?" Dad's already checking Dean for injuries, tension clear in his voice.

"I'm fine," Dean insists, though his hands shake slightly as he rewraps the sword. "But that witch... that power..."

They're both rattled, and with good reason. Few supernatural encounters leave John Winchester speechless, fewer still walk away on their own terms.

Though as both Dad and Dean are wary and even fearful of the situation we were just in, I can't help but grin, no matter how much I attempt to hold it in.

God, my luck!

I actually found her.

Rowena.