1:08am – October 11th, 2009

Windom, Minnesota | Addison

Is this real? I stare at my reflection in the mirror, looking for anything that might show me otherwise. Nothing stands out. I look exactly the same as I did a week ago. Hell, I look the same as I did a lifetime ago.

I'm out of ideas. I've tried pinching myself, slapping my cheeks, and holding my breath – nothing changes. This is real.

Mom is dead. The realization washes over me, draining me of whatever energy I'd had left. She's dead. My knees buckle and only my white-knuckled grip on the sink keeps me from sinking to the floor. Even an extra lifetime's worth of memories can't distract me from this brutal truth.

A pressure builds behind my eyes and I can tell I'm about to have some sort of breakdown. I'm just about to give in to the feeling when a knock sounds, startling me out of it. "Addison? You okay in there?" It's the female police officer from before, Francine-something.

"I'm fine," I call through the door, voice cracking. "I'll just be a minute."

"Okay, just checking. Let me know if you need anything."

A sedative would be nice right about now. The thought comes unbidden and I frown at my reflection. No, Addie. No drugs, no alcohol – you know what that does to people like you.

I quickly wash my hands, then my face for good measure. All too soon I'm done patting myself dry, left with no other option than to leave the relative safety of the Porter's tiny bathroom.

"Feel any better?" My escort is leaning against the wall just outside the door, reading something on her phone. I shrug in response and she just nods before tucking her phone away and leading me back to the kitchen. We take our seats at the table with her middle-aged partner. Francine does all the talking. She gets my full name, my age, the school I attend, and all sorts of random, irrelevant information.

For my part, I answer robotically, feeling myself disassociate more the closer we get to talking about the actual attack. By the end, I'm actually a little uncertain if I've answered her at all. Still, she and her partner get up to go – assuring me that their fellow officers will be stationed on the street outside. They leave me in the care of my neighbors.

Liam Porter stays in the living room with his brother Chris, watching the doors and windows with his shotgun in his lap. His wife, Becky, gives me clothes to sleep in and helps me get ready for bed. She tells me to wake them if I need anything and begs me to try to rest. I just nod at her, unable to speak.

Sparing me one last worried look, she disappears down the hall.

To my surprise, sleep finds me easily. Not so surprisingly, I'm plagued with strange and uncomfortable dreams. I wake up gasping a grand total of six times, finally giving up altogether when the sky outside begins to lighten. Finally.

My relief is short-lived. Unbidden, memories from the night before begin to surface.

CRACK! The sound of splintering wood heralds the destruction of my bedroom door. My mom and I grip each other's hands and cower from the two figures responsible.

"Hello ladies." The hulking man in the doorway is smiling from beneath his matted hair while his companion glares over his shoulder. "Do you feel like dying?"

"St-Stay back!" My mother pushes me behind her and glares at the intruders. "We've already called the cops. They'll arrest you if you don't leave now!"

"Aw. Y'hear that? She thinks a couple of cops will scare us off." The man laughs heartily and grins at my mom. "Trust me, we're out of their league." He glances back at his companion, suddenly all business. "I'll get Winchester's bitch. You can have his spawn."

Without another word he lunges, knocking my mom to the floor. I shriek and take an aborted step towards her before the second man draws my attention. He's smiling – no, beaming – at me. Unlike the other one, he doesn't rush me. I chuck something at his head that he easily sidesteps. He's moving slowly, purposefully. "I think I'll start with your breasts," he says conversationally. "They're my favorite. All that fatty tissue… Mm." He continues to approach even as I scramble backwards over my bed. "You know, I haven't eaten live flesh in years," he confides. "Too afraid that damn hunter would hunt me down like he did my father."

At some point during his drawn-out approach my mother started shouting and screaming, but I can't tell what she's saying; I'm too preoccupied with the immediate threat this cannibal poses. He's made it around the bed now and he's still speaking. "-have to hold back any more. Eating you will both satisfy my hunger and provide the perfect opportunity to kill Winchester once and for all."

I've backed into the ironing board and have nowhere else to go. The freak in front of me is too close for comfort, only an arm's length away. He reaches out with a grimy hand and I lose my cool, turning away and grabbing the first thing I see–

"Addie!"

I'm pulled from the memory with an aborted scream lodged in my throat.

Gentle hands pull my fingers away from where they're digging into my upper arms. "Shh! Addie, it's alright! You're okay!"

"…Becky?" My voice is raspy and low. I look up to find my kindly neighbor worriedly checking me over. Suddenly, my confusion clears as I remember that I'm using her guest bedroom after the events of the night before.

"Oh sweetie," she sighs. "Why don't you take a hot shower? I'll bring you some clothes to change into."

"Okay," I whisper, feeling moisture gather in my eyes. I'm so relieved that she doesn't feel the need to ask if I'm okay. I'm not okay – I might not ever be okay.

Becky leads me to the bathroom and starts the water. Then she helps me undress before all but pushing me under the spray. "Wash up," she orders. "I'll put your clothes on the counter."

I mumble something affirmative and lose myself in the sensation of hot water pounding against my back. It's mind-numbing and very, very welcome. I go through the motions of cleaning up, not really paying attention to the actions (muscle memory is a wonderful thing).

The peace doesn't last.

Inevitably, my thoughts return to last night, though this time at least I'm not sucked into a flashback. Instead, my mind focuses on the sounds, on everything I'd heard and said. It's still awful, but the lack of immersion in the memory means my mind is capable of making associations with other, older memories… Memories I have no idea what to make of.

They'd been confusing enough in the aftermath of the attack, but what they're telling me now makes absolutely no sense. Why is it that I suddenly recall an entirely different lifetime? And why do my thoughts keep circling back to the John Winchester in that silly TV show? Surely it's just a coincidence that my biological dad shares a name with a fictional character from my first life!

…They'd called him a hunter, though.

"No," I say aloud. "It can't be real. I'm just delusional with grief." It's a good explanation; it makes sense. Unfortunately, I can't bring myself to accept it. Things start adding up.

One, my name is Addison Milligan – which isn't too far off Adam Milligan. Two, my biological father's name is John Winchester and he sometimes drives a Chevy Impala. Three, my mom was killed by a freakishly strong guy who ate people and said he had a grudge against my father for hunting down his father.

Other than my gender and the slight name change, everything matches a little too well.

Shit. I press my forehead against the cool tiles to my right and try to lose myself in the physical sensations of the shower. It helps me calm down enough to consider what this means.

I'm still in danger, obviously. One of those things is still after me and if it is some kind of monster there's no way the police will be able to help me. I need to find a way to hide from it or kill it. In order to do that, though, I'll need help.

Who? My mom's parents have been dead for years and I don't have any other family. Well, I have the number John left in case of an emergency, but if what I remember from the show is true, he's already dead.

Speaking of, I don't even know which part of the show I've landed in. In my past life, I'd only ever fully and chronologically watched the first two seasons. After that I'd only caught a few episodes here and there. I hadn't watched them in order and I'd certainly never made it past season four. In fact, I'm not even sure which season Adam shows up in! Is it season three? Four? Has Dean already gone to Hell? Or does he still have some time before the hellhounds come?

Damn. All I know for sure is that my canon counterpart was killed by the very same monsters that attacked me and my mom. It's not exactly a comforting thought.

Of course, there's always the chance that my gut instinct is wrong and the whole past-life-with-a-show-about-the-world-I'm-currently-living-in thing is a delusion. I doubt it, but I can't discard the possibility.

I need some way to know for sure – but how?

The question hangs over me and I spend more time than I need to rinsing off. I close my eyes and try to come up with a solution, but it's only once I've run out of hot water that an idea strikes.

I shut off the water and curse my obtuseness. It's obvious. In the show, the imposters called John's number – the one they stole from Adam – and got the Winchester brothers instead. All I have to do is call that same number and BAM! I've got two experienced hunters to get me out of this mess.

It's practically foolproof. Even if I'm wrong and the Supernatural stuff is all in my head, all I have to do is call the number. If John answers and I find out I'm not in a damned TV show, I'll still have someone who can help me.

Relieved to finally have something to do, I dress in the clothes Becky left out for me and hurry downstairs.

I need to find a phone.

Gas Station off of I-70 in Pennsylvania | Dean

Briiinng. Briiinng. Briii-

Dean flips the old phone open and presses it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Oh thank god," the voice on the other end breathes. "Please, John, I need help – they got my mom and I think the one that escaped is still after me! The police have no idea who they are and I-"

"Woah," Dean cuts the girl off. "Slow down a second. Who are you and how do you know John?"

There's a pause, then- "Damn it!" She curses. Dean hears a muffled noise (a sob?) on the other end of the line. "Is-" she clears her throat. "Is he around? Can you get ahold of him? It's an emergency." She doesn't wait for an answer. "I'm in some serious trouble – tell him it's Addison Milligan. He'll want to know."

Dean blinks a little in surprise. "Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but John's dead. Has been for over two years."

"Hey, isn't that Dad's old phone?" Sam asks, having just walked over with a bag of groceries.

"Shh!" Gesturing his brother closer and pressing the button to turn the speaker on, he waits for her answer.

"…He's dead?"

"Yeah," he answers cautiously.

"Fuck." The expletive is hissed with all sorts of feeling.

Dean exchanges a look with his brother. Their dad wouldn't have given his number without a damn good reason. "Look, give us your name and someplace to meet. My partner and I will try to help."