PROLOGUE ♱ Battered Shield

𝕲uadalupe Guerrero had always been a mother long before she had the chance to be a child.

The mantle of the eldest daughter was her cross to bear, transforming her girlhood into womanhood far too soon, far too harshly, far too cruelly. A blooming rose amidst the weeds, she offered her petals selflessly to those in need until only the stem and sharp thorns remained. The thorns became her shield, forming her into a fierce protector of those she held dear. She was the light in their darkest hours, the unwavering hand that guided them through the storm.

All she knew was sacrifice, a holy devotion that defined her very existence.

Guadalupe learned from a very young age that protection equated to love. She saw it in the way her father, David, shielded her mother, Angela, from men who would approach and bother her at the bodega their family owned in the small town of Hurleyville, New York. Often, if they got too close to lay a finger on her, David would beat them to a bloody pulp. She saw it in the way him and his friends would stay outside, guns tucked in their waistbands, standing guard to ensure no one stole or robbed the store while her mother worked. She saw it in the little things too—the way he held her hand tightly when they crossed the street, the way he'd place his arm protectively in front of her whenever he braked too hard in his lowrider Impala on the way home from school, and the way he would give her stern lectures about staying away from trouble.

David Guerrero wasn't a perfect man. Raised in a tough neighborhood where life was a daily struggle, he became a product of his environment, joining a gang as a child and running the streets with his best friend, Sonny. Guadalupe never knew about that part of his life. David sheltered her from it as best he could. That is, until one day, when Guadalupe was merely five years old, the cops came raiding their home and took him away, where he would spend years of his life behind bars along with Sonny. David was a good man, despite what others thought—a devoted husband and a protective father who did everything in his power to provide for his family and keep them safe.

Despite his flaws, David's love was evident in every sacrifice he made, and Angela knew this. She was his ride or die, visiting him regularly, always taking Guadalupe with her. Those visits to the prison were etched into Guadalupe's memory—cold, gray walls, the hum of fluorescent lights, the clinking of metal doors. Even though she knew she shouldn't have, Guadalupe looked up to her father. He was a criminal in the eyes of the law, but to her, he was a hero, a protector, a man who loved fiercely and deeply. The little girl adored her father and would happily sit on a hard plastic chair, her feet barely touching the ground, listening intently to his every word. David would always start with a sweet smile, taking her small hands in his calloused ones, and speak to her in a voice that was both gentle and firm.

"Sometimes we have to make hard choices to protect the ones we love," he'd say, his eyes full of tender sincerity as he looked at his daughter. "We named you after Our Lady of Guadalupe for a reason. God blessed you. God is good."

For a long time, she believed him. She clung to his words as if they were scripture, letting them shape her understanding, her purpose.

When David was finally released from prison, he and Sonny were determined to turn their lives around. They had dreams of creating a boys' home, a place of refuge and rehabilitation, at Sonny's farmhouse. They wanted to leave their pasts behind and build something positive, something that would make up for their mistakes, something that they wish they had when they were younger. However, the past always has a way of coming back. It's a tale as old as time. One day, while Angela was at work in town and Guadalupe was left in charge of the twins, a rival gang carried out a hit meant for Sonny. Despite being only eight at the time, Guadalupe remembered that day so clearly. She was outside sitting in the tall grass with the twins, watching David and Sonny work on the front porch when the car drove by and shots rang out. She remembered seeing David push Sonny out of the way, the bullets piercing his chest instead, blood pooling around him. She remembered the sound his body made when he fell to the ground, how Sonny crawled to his dying friend, howling and cradling his head. She remembered the scream that tore from her throat, how raw and primal it felt. She remembered the twins' wails beside her, their cries mingling with hers and Sonny's in a harrowing harmony of anguish.

She doesn't remember the funeral.

The aftermath is what sticks with her. Angela had completely shut down, an empty shell of the woman she used to be. Guadalupe thinks her mother died with her father that day. They had loved each other wholly and unconditionally; it was almost biblical. She was nothing without him, a believer with no god. The last words Angela spoke to Guadalupe were during a moment when Guadalupe was bathing her mother in the tub, running a washcloth down her back with care. Angela's eyes were hollow as they stared at the wall, but her voice was directed to her daughter.

"You'll fall in love one day, you'll lose him too."

Guadalupe was angry, a helpless fury burning within her at the injustice of it all. How could life be so cruel, so evil? How could it take her father and leave her mother in this broken state? The woman who had once been the backbone of their family, the one who would wake up every morning and work from dusk to dawn and still manage to put food on the table, the one who would keep the household running, the one who would show up to church every Sunday and pray for her children and husband, the one who would always take care of her family, was now reduced to a shadow of her former self.

Her father had lied.

God was not good. God was cruel. God was mean. God was ruthless. God was selfish. God was a liar.

Perhaps all men were.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of her. She felt abandoned, not just by her father, but by the very faith that had once been her salvation. The God she had prayed to, the God her father had believed in so fervently, had betrayed them all. As she continued to bathe her mother, she scrubbed harder, as if trying to cleanse not just her mother's body but the pain that had taken root like weeds in both their hearts. She wanted to scream, to cry out at the grievance, but she held it in. It was more than Guadalupe could bear, but she let it rot inside her.

She couldn't afford to break.

She had to be strong, for her mother, for the twins, for herself.

During the first year without her father, Guadalupe would bathe Angela when she didn't even have the strength to get out of bed, cook meals and feed her mother when the woman would refuse to eat, clean the house, go out to town to buy groceries, change the twins' diapers, make their bottles, and put them to sleep. Every task she took on was a reminder of the childhood she had lost, a reminder of the life she could never reclaim. Her hands, once small and tender, had grown rough with the labor of keeping her family together. Her eyes, once bright with the innocence of youth, had hardened with the need to survive. The laughter that once filled her home was now a distant memory, replaced by the heavy silence of grief and duty.

Home had become a grave.

(Here lie a son and a daughter, infant twins who never had the chance to get to know their father, an eldest daughter who bore the weight of a fractured family like an iron shield until it shattered her very bones, and a mother who lost her soul to sorrow.)

Angela's once hollow eyes seemed to grow colder, filled with an intense, burning hatred. Something had shifted inside her, like a switch being flipped. Guadalupe would catch her mother staring at the twins in their crib, her hand gripping the railing tightly until her knuckles turned white, her eyes piercing and menacing. But nothing compared to the way her mother began to look at her. For as long as she could remember, Angela would tell Guadalupe she looked exactly like her father. They had the same smile, eyes, cheekbones. Some would say they had the same heart too. A part of Guadalupe thinks that's why Angela started laying her hands on her. Guadalupe never cried when it happened. Instead, she absorbed the pain. The bruises and scrapes were like dents and scratches on a battered shield from battle. Each blow, each slap, was met with silence. Guadalupe would stand there, her face stinging, her body aching, but she never shed a tear—big girls don't cry.

That's how it started.

This is how it ends: Guadalupe had just put the twins to rest and was about to fall asleep in her bed beside them when she heard the door creak open. In the darkness, she saw it was Angela, in her nightgown, holding a knife in her hand. Guadalupe froze underneath her covers, watching her mother approach the crib and place the knife by the nightstand near Guadalupe's bed. Angela began whispering in tongues as she clawed at the blanket in the crib, slowly placing it above the twins' faces. Guadalupe's heart pounded in her chest, wild and desperate. Fear gripped her, cold and paralyzing, but beneath it was a fierce, protective instinct. She knew she had to protect Isabela and Daniel at any cost.

Her decision was made on impulse.

The knife felt foreign and heavy in her hand, but there was no time to hesitate. She had to act, and she had to act now. She moved quietly, every muscle in her body tensed, ready to spring. With a silent prayer, not to the god who had failed her but to the strength within herself, she gripped the knife tightly, stepped forward, and raised it, her hands steady despite the fear coursing through her veins. This was her family, her responsibility, and she would not let them be taken from her.

Guadalupe didn't mean to hurt her mother. It had all happened so fast. Angela lunged at Guadalupe, and the knife pierced Angela in her side, blood staining Guadalupe's hands. She let go of the blade just as quickly as it had happened and grabbed the crying twins from their crib, ran out of the house, and never looked back. Guadalupe ran miles to Sonny's farmhouse, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her legs burning with the effort, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. When she finally reached Sonny's farmhouse, her strength gave out, and she collapsed on the front porch, the twins still held securely in her arms. She pounded on the door with what little energy she had left, praying that Sonny was home, that he would open the door and save them.

The door swung open, and Sonny stood there, his eyes wide with shock and concern. "Guadalupe? What happened?" he asked as he knelt beside her, gently taking the weeping twins from her trembling arms.

"She... she tried to..." Guadalupe's voice broke, the words catching in her throat, hands bloody and shaking. "I had to stop her. I didn't mean to..."

"I'll take care of it," was all he said, and he stuck true to his word for the next sixteen years.

Angela survived and was admitted to the psychiatric hospital, and Sonny took Guadalupe and the twins under his wing, becoming their legal guardian. Sonny felt as if he owed it to his friend to look after his children, vowing to care for them and give them the best possible life they could have. Sonny would never replace her father, but God, did he come close. Despite his rugged appearance, Sonny was the epitome of gentleness. He had an innate ability to make people feel safe and valued. He approached every situation with patience and understanding, never raising his voice or his hand in anger. Instead, he used his strength to protect and nurture those in his care. He didn't have children of his own, but one thing was certain: Sonny was meant to be a father.

From the moment he took Guadalupe and the twins in, Sonny treated them as his own. He was there for every scraped knee, every nightmare, and every triumph, big or small. He taught the boys at the farmhouse how to fix things, from broken fences to broken hearts, instilling in them a sense of responsibility and the importance of helping others. He was always ready with a comforting hug, a word of encouragement, or a story to make them laugh.

Sonny's farmhouse became a sanctuary, a place where the nightmares of the past began to fade. Guadalupe threw herself into her new life, set on creating a safe and loving home for Isabela and Daniel. As the twins grew, so did the number of boys who found refuge at Sonny's farmhouse. It wasn't long before Guadalupe's role as protector and caregiver extended beyond her siblings to these boys, each of them carrying their own burdens and scars. The farmhouse, once quiet and solemn, now echoed with the sounds of laughter, shouts, and playful banter. Guadalupe fit right in with the boys who came to stay at the farmhouse, seamlessly integrating into their lives. She wasn't just an older sister to the twins; she became a maternal figure to the boys as well. Her nurturing instincts, sharpened by years of looking after her family, made her a natural caretaker. She cooked meals, tended to scrapes and bruises, helped with homework, and provided a listening ear whenever one of them needed to talk.

The boys adored her, and soon they began calling her Wendy Darling, a fitting nickname that captured the essence of her role in their lives. Just as Wendy cared for the Lost Boys in Neverland, Guadalupe cared for these lost and wayward souls who had found their way to Sonny's farmhouse. She provided them with structure, love, and a sense of belonging they had never known before.

Guadalupe remembered all the boys that had come and gone, but no one left as much of an impact as Dean Winchester.

Dean was different from the others—older, tougher, and carrying a weight of responsibility that seemed far beyond his years. In the spring of 1995, he arrived at the farmhouse with a chip on his shoulder and a guarded heart, paired with a set of handcuffs all thanks to the deputy who had brought him there. He was caught trying to steal peanut butter and bread at the local corner store. It was clear Dean was starved.

Dean Winchester was born hungry.

Perhaps that's why he consumed Guadalupe whole. It didn't happen all at once, no; Dean savored her, slowly, gradually. It began with a morsel of sweetness. Guadalupe had helped him get settled in, showing him around the farmhouse, making sure he had everything he needed. She offered him a smile that was warm and genuine, a rare sight for someone like Dean, who was used to suspicion and distrust. He took it cautiously, like a starving man offered a feast, afraid it might be taken away at any moment.

In the beginning, their interactions were brief, almost clinical. She provided, and he received. But every small act of kindness from her chipped away at the walls he had built around himself. A hot meal after a long day, a clean set of clothes laid out on his bed, a gentle reminder that he wasn't alone. These small gestures were foreign to him, but they were the crumbs that led him to her. As days turned into weeks, Dean began to open up, just a little.

He had gotten a taste of her and wanted to come back for seconds.

He would linger in the kitchen after dinner, helping her clean up without being asked. He fixed things around the farmhouse—the crooked door to her bedroom, the broken fence in the yard where the twins liked to play, the broken toilet in the bathroom that the boys always complained about. He sat with her in the evenings when she'd read while smoking from a pack of Marlboros that Sonny kept hidden in his pickup truck, sharing a quiet understanding between a cigarette. It became a ritual of sorts, even when school began again, and Guadalupe helped Dean enroll.

They started talking then, having real conversations instead of the silent nods and brief acknowledgments that had initially defined their interactions. They soon discovered they couldn't stop. Dean began to consume more pieces of Guadalupe—her favorite books and songs, the dreams she harbored about exploring the world, and the fears and traumas that haunted her. He devoured every detail for the simple, sole reason that he wanted to. For Guadalupe, that was something so new, so different. All her life, people had needed her, relied on her, but Dean wanted her for who she was, bones and all. She found herself opening up to him in ways she had never done before, sharing the darkest parts of her life she kept hidden in the back of her mind, the ones that made her feel tainted and unworthy like a rotten bruised apple. But Dean saw her differently. Guadalupe learned that Dean had witnessed a lot of ugly, horrid things in his life—monsters who preyed on the innocent that he and his father, John, hunted, the brutal deaths of those they tried to save, and the constant fear of losing his little brother, Sam.

He knew what real rot looked like, and she wasn't it.

To him, she was sweet as apple pie, and he craved her.

There wasn't a day that went by when they weren't together. From dusk to dawn, the two became inseparable. They would sit incredibly close, far too close for the friends that they were, sharing a blanket on the couch as they talked late into the night. One of those nights, Guadalupe offered him the world in her hands. She told him he could stay there forever and that Sam could join them too, that they didn't have to fight anymore, and he didn't have to be part of that life. Her words were a plea, a desperate hope that he would choose her, choose them. Dean's response was immediate. He kissed her then, as if sealing the deal, the promise. It was bruising and messy and uncoordinated and desperate. It was downright holy, as she found herself on her knees, clinging to him like a beaded rosary during prayer. In that moment, Dean was the only religion she had ever known. She found a newfound faith in him, her salvation. She wanted him to swallow all her sins, eat her rot away.

She didn't need God; she needed Dean Winchester.

Dean was good. Dean was tender. Dean was caring. Dean was generous. Dean was selfless. Dean was a straight shooter.

Perhaps he was the only exception.

"All I want is you, Lupe," he had told her, his voice raw and sincere.

She believed him.

"All I need is you, Dean," she had replied, her heart in her throat.

And he believed her.

Love, she believed, was a fragile thing, easily shattered and painful when it broke. She thought of what her mother had told her. "You'll fall in love one day, you'll lose him too." But Dean was different. Dean made her believe that maybe, just maybe, love could be something beautiful, something lasting. She gave him her heart, and he had the stomach to take it. But nothing could ever change the fact that Guadalupe Guerrero believed herself to be a rotten girl. Deep down, she feared that eventually, Dean would chew her up and spit her out.

That fear became a reality on the night of prom.

Dean had asked her to prom in his own endearing way, slipping a note into her locker that read, "Be my date to prom? I'll even wear a tie." Guadalupe was thrilled; she had never been to a school dance before, never had a boyfriend, never experienced something so normal, so sweet. It was a sliver of girlhood she thought she had lost long ago. She could tell he was excited too, as it was a chance for him to experience a slice of normalcy he rarely got to taste—boyhood was always out of reach for Dean. As cliché as it was, prom was going to be a night to remember.

That turned out to be true, just not in the way she had envisioned. Guadalupe will always remember that night, walking down the staircase of the farmhouse all dressed up and beaming, feeling oh so pretty. She couldn't wait to see Dean, to run up to him, wrap him in her arms, kiss him and breathe him in. But when she reached the bottom of the stairs, Dean was nowhere to be seen.

He was gone.

Sonny gently broke the news to her: Dean had left with his father and little brother. He was gone. He had left without a goodbye, without an explanation. He was gone. She cried, a gut-wrenching sob that echoed through the empty halls. He was gone. She ached just like a woman, but she broke just like a little girl. He was gone. All the pain she had kept bottled up for years came flooding out. He was gone. She couldn't hold it in any longer. He was gone. Every moment of swallowed grief, every ounce of hidden sorrow burst forth in excruciating agony. He was gone. Her tears overflowed, filling her lungs; she couldn't breathe. He was gone. Guadalupe needed Dean like she needed air, but he was gone.

He left her.

A void opened in Guadalupe's heart, a chasm of emptiness and abandonment. If she couldn't be wanted, she would be needed. Guadalupe threw herself into taking care of everyone around her, pouring all her energy into her siblings, into Sonny, into the boys at the farm, and into her studies. She became indispensable, the one everyone relied on. She excelled in school, always at the top of her class, always the first to volunteer for anything and everything. She never stopped, not even when she graduated high school and earned a full ride to NYU. College became an escape. She took on a full course load toward her archaeology degree, worked a part-time job to help pay for rent and send money to Sonny while he looked after the twins when she was away, joined every internship program she could find, and went to all the late-night parties where she'd find fleeting encounters, seeking solace in the arms of strangers who needed her, even if just for a night. She gravitated toward those with green eyes, a subconscious pull toward the shade that reminded her of Dean. She liked the way they looked at her, like they wanted to devour her, even if only for a moment.

But they never looked at her the way Dean did.

No one ever would.

Dean had been her first in so many ways—her first kiss, her first time, her first love, her first heartbreak. He had been the one to make her believe in the possibility of a future beyond the pain and suffering she had known. And now, he was the ghost that haunted her every step, the shadow that lingered at the edge of her consciousness. She wanted to bury him in the back of her mind with the rest of the ghosts of her past, but Dean Winchester never stayed dead. Resentment festered within her, a bitter seed that took root in the hollow of her heart. She resented him for leaving without a word, for breaking her when she had been so whole with him. She resented the way he still lingered in her mind, the way his memory could still paralyze her with a single thought. She resented herself for still loving him despite it all, for holding on to the hope that one day he might come back and make everything right again.

But hope was a dangerous thing for a woman like Guadalupe to have—she knew better than to trust it.

So she buried herself beneath layers of duty and distraction. She built a life for herself, one that was successful and outwardly fulfilling. She graduated from NYU with honors and landed a prestigious job in her field. She bought herself a brand new shiny car, a jet black 1965 Ford Mustang Fastback, and found a nice new apartment in Brooklyn, big enough for the twins to move into once they graduated high school. And for a while, Guadalupe felt a semblance of peace. The apartment had quickly become a home for the Guerrero siblings, sparking an entirely new chapter for them, one where they had never been closer. Guadalupe worked tirelessly, not just for herself, but to give Isabela and Daniel every opportunity she never had. As they grew under her care, she couldn't help but feel immense pride.

It was everything she had fought for, all she ever wanted—a life they deserved.

Then came the day they had to bury their mother six feet under.

Angela's passing was quiet and uneventful, much like her presence in their lives had been. The doctors couldn't determine the cause of death, labeling it a mystery. There were no signs of foul play, no illness that could be detected. It was as if she had simply faded away, her life extinguished by some unseen force. No tears were shed at her funeral. The twins stood beside Guadalupe, stoic and composed, as the coffin was lowered into the ground. They didn't know the woman being buried, not really. To them, she was a stranger, more of a haunting presence than a parental one. Guadalupe was the only mother they had ever known. Angela was buried right beside David, their father. The crosses etched into the headstones seemed to watch over them.

The priest's voice had cut through the silence, "May her soul and the souls of all the faithfully departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace."

A part of Guadalupe had given up on her faith in God a long time ago, but she prayed silently as the priest spoke. She prayed she could let go of her past for good and move on with her life with the twins. She prayed for strength, for peace, for the ability to protect her siblings from the shadows that seemed to constantly loom over their family. After the funeral, Sonny helped Guadalupe collect her mother's belongings from the psychiatric hospital. It was a painful task, sifting through the remnants of a life marked by madness and sorrow. When Sonny asked her what she wanted to do with all of it, Guadalupe had simply told him, "Burn it." And so they did, in the back of the farmhouse, under the watchful eyes of the stars. She had only held onto a few items, convinced by Sonny: Angela's gold crucifix necklace, her wedding ring, and her diaries. The crucifix necklace and wedding ring were tucked away in a small box where she had kept some of her father's belongings. The diaries—filled with her mother's crazed words and fears and perhaps answers to the questions that still haunted her—were tucked away in a drawer.

Life slowly returned to its new normal.

The days were filled with the familiar routines of work, school, and home life. A month went by, but strange occurrences began to happen all around them. It started small—a mirror cracking on its own, lightbulbs flickering incessantly, the feeling of being watched. Guadalupe tried to brush it off as her being stressed, her mind playing tricks on her. But as the days passed, the incidents became more frequent and unsettling. One morning, Isabela's laptop suddenly short-circuited, almost catching fire. Daniel narrowly avoided being hit by a falling sign while walking home. Guadalupe herself wasn't spared; she narrowly escaped a serious accident when her car's brakes failed on the highway, a near miss that left her shaken to her core. The unsettling events piled up, each one more bizarre and inexplicable than the last. It was as if some malevolent force was targeting them, creeping ever closer, like they were pieces on a game board being methodically moved into place. Guadalupe found herself growing increasingly paranoid, double-checking locks, and keeping a closer eye on the twins. She couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was looming, an ominous shadow that hung over their lives like a dark cloud.

After an exhausting day at work, Guadalupe returned home to find the apartment eerily quiet. The usual sounds of the twins were absent. Her heart sank as she called out for them, her voice echoing through the empty rooms. Panic set in when there was no response. She checked every room, her anxiety mounting with each empty space she encountered. Their bedrooms were untouched, beds neatly made, belongings in place. But there was no sign of Isabela or Daniel. It was as if they had vanished into thin air. Desperation clawed at her throat as she frantically searched the apartment, hoping to find some clue, some indication, but they were gone. When the police finally arrived and conducted their investigation, they eventually deemed it a runaway case. Guadalupe refused to believe it. Isabela and Daniel wouldn't just leave without a word. She knew them too well.

Something was terribly wrong.

Desperate with the twins missing and the ominous events of the past month weighing heavily on her mind, Guadalupe turned to the only place she thought might hold the key—her mother's diaries. It was there in the pages, yellowed and brittle with age, that she found her answer among Angela's frenzied scrawl, prayers, and pleas to a God that seemed to have turned a deaf ear. The passage was underlined harshly, the ink so dark and bold it had torn through the fragile paper: "The curse of our bloodline will be the end of us all."

The words echoed in her mind, confirming the fear she had always carried but never voiced. Guadalupe's heart pounded as she read the entries, each one filled with despair and doom. The strange occurrences and whispered warnings converged into one terrifying truth: the curse was real, and it had taken Isabela and Daniel. Guadalupe had always been a shield, battered, bruised, and scarred from years of protecting those she loved. She had fought for them all her life and would not stop now. As long as she stood, she would fight. For Isabela, for Daniel, and to break the cycle of darkness that plagued their family.

The curse may have been their legacy, but Guadalupe was ready to end it, no matter the cost.

♱ WORD COUNT: 5.3k
♱ AUTHOR'S NOTE: i honestly don't know how to feel about this prologue. i feel like i couldn't get the rhythm down and the flow of the whole thing. but alas, here it is! i really tried my best to get the whole groundwork laid out in this part just to get the backstory all nice and neatly packaged into one piece. i hope it was at least easy to understand guadalupe's upbringing! please let me know your thoughts!

            much love,
LUNA