The Trailer's Reaction

Backstage hums with quiet chaos.

The low murmur of hundreds of voices builds beyond the doors. Fans piling in. Phones already out. Lanyards bouncing against chests. Someone shuffles a stack of branded postcards beside me while a tech crew adjusts the mic packs. I stand half-shadowed behind the curtain, pulse steady but heavy, eyes locked on the slow, inevitable filling of the convention hall.

Emily and Iris are already out there. Prime seats, dead center.

They made a haul earlier—Emily proudly showing off her new Samulet, fingers brushing over the little replica. Posters. Pins. A hoodie she claimed was overpriced but had to have.

Iris, meanwhile, was half-enjoying herself, half-working the floor—on her phone, fingers flying, trying to track down a way to get Emily’s abandoned Miami luggage shipped home before anyone at her firm realizes she’s gone completely rogue.

Emily’s phone’s still buzzing somewhere. Calls. Voicemails. Emails. The firm probably on the verge of panic.

She silenced it all. Her words were simple:

I’ll deal with that after.

God, I love her.

The cast is floating in and out backstage. Kim, Yadira, Katherine, Ramdeen, Briana—they’ve all been buzzing around, congratulating me on the trailer, ribbing me lightly for “joining the family” without having to survive fifteen seasons of Vancouver rain and night shoots.

None of them know what’s coming.

Not yet.

Except Kathryn. And Eric. And, of course, Iris.

Kathryn gave me that knowing smile earlier, squeezing my shoulder as if to say, It’s time. Eric’s been running logistics with production, but the grin plastered on his face says everything.

The room shifts as the last few fans squeeze into seats. The double doors close. The lights dip. The low hum explodes into applause as phones rise into the air.

Eric steps onto the stage.

The applause stretches as he raises his hands, the crowd quieting just enough for him to start.

“I can’t tell you what it means to me that the show we created over fifteen years ago is still here. That this fandom… is still here.”

The cheers erupt again. Eric lets them ride for a beat, eyes crinkling with real pride.

He keeps going. Talks about how disappointed they were when the network didn’t greenlight Wayward Sisters years back. The missed opportunity. The heartbreak. But also the loyalty—the petitions, the tweets, the fan art, the TikToks, the literal mountain of digital noise demanding more.

“I signed a few of those myself,” I mutter under my breath, a grin pulling at the corner of my mouth. Out of solidarity. But mostly because I meant it.

And then Eric drops it—the thing that flips the hall upside down.

“We heard you,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And with that… we’re excited to bring you Supernatural Legacy: Wayward Sisters.”

The room explodes.

The trailer hits the screen like a punch to the chest.

It plays perfectly. The hum of the tattoo needle. The reveal of Claire. The symbols. The eerie silence. The old scars brought new.

Kathryn’s shot with the little extra skin? The crowd eats it up—wolf whistles bouncing off the walls. The reveal of the full cast. The slow, quiet build of dread as the iconic farmhouse comes into view.

And then the line. My line.

“Sam’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

The place detonates. Cheers, shouts, the kind of sound that gets under your ribs and shakes you apart.

When the lights come back on, Eric’s smiling so wide it might hurt.

“And now,” he says, gesturing to the empty seat on stage with my name already printed in bold letters, “I’d like to bring out the director of that teaser. And… the tattoo artist... who helped bring it to life.” The crowd laughs. Eric’s grin sharpens. “An awesome creator. A professional photographer. A fan himself. Joe Delgado.”

My heart jackhammers as I step out, the ring box burning a hole in my chest pocket.

The cheers hit me like a wall. Hundreds of people. Strangers. But somehow? They see me. Or maybe… they just see someone who loves this world like they do.

I sit. Smile. Breathe through it.

Eric waits a beat, enjoying the noise, then drops the real bomb:

“Oh, and one more thing…”

The hall leans forward, the energy buzzing.

“This is just the beginning. Wayward Sisters isn’t just one film. It’s the first of three.” He lets that settle. “Feature-length. R-rated.” His grin sharpens. “We’re finally letting loose. The gore? The monsters? Buckle the hell up.”

The place goes nuclear.

My chest tightens. Not from nerves now.

From knowing.

Knowing I’m not just here as a fan. Not just as a director. Not even just as Gabriel Nativad.

I’m about to ask the love of my life to marry me.

And this? This is exactly where it was always supposed to happen.