She only does it to help; all her family had the gift, she just expected that she would have it too. When nothing happened, she just went with it anyway because it was a family business after all.
She doesn't charge much and she never says anything bad or upsetting. She never takes money from the old and frail, wanting only to make them happy. She gives them tea and biscuits and sympathy and she won't take a penny for it.
She works in the local mini mart for extra money or else she wouldn't even have enough to make a living. After all, whatever she has done, she still has to eat.
The monthly séances are the worst. She does this only to make enough money to pay her rent and to feed the cat that keeps coming by. She always gets the same few people, eccentric widows with long dead husbands, one lady who really misses her dog and the occasional stranger who, often, comes along out of curiosity.
That night, she has just settled her regulars down at the table with a pot of coffee and some sandwiches, when her doorbell rings and, apologising, she has to go and answer it.
On the doorstep is the tallest man she has ever seen, his head almost brushing her hanging basket, long dark hair hanging in his eyes, the coat he wears threadbare and worn, his jeans dirty, his boots full of holes. He raises his eyes once to look into hers and she sees the sorrow there, the emptiness. She is used to this of course, but not from one so young, it hurts to look at him and she has to turn away, even as she invites him in.
The room is dark, the air static with electricity and apprehension. Her regulars know to keep silent; their hands clasped together on top of the table, their breathing slow and steady. The young man sits to her left and she can hear his breath hitch, feel his hand trembling in hers. She wants to look at him, she wants to squeeze his hand a little to reassure, but she cannot and will not and she closes her eyes, ready for the performance.
"Hey," the voice in her ear is soft and close and she looks up to see who has spoken. The room is still, the people around her still in their positions, no one appeared to have moved, no one seemed to have spoken.
"Hey," the voice is male, deep, rough and impatient. She can hear it clearly and, along with it, she can smell something, something bitter and acrid, like motor oil and smoke. She clears her throats, making old Mrs Machin jump a little in her seat and the young man next to her move his head a little, so that he is staring at her, his bright eyes puzzled.
"Are you freakin' listening to me or are you just plain fudgin ignorant?" the voice barks, "some freakin medium you are, ignoring the freakin dead."
She swallows, turning her head and, to her surprise and horror, she sees the faint figure of a man standing in the corner of the room. He is barely distinct, flickering in and out like a broken light bulb or an old black and white movie. She can just about make out his brown leather jacket and white tee-shirt, which is stained with something that looks, sickeningly, like blood. He turns to look at her, straight in the eye and she jolts in her seat, her mouth opening and closing, fear shuddering down her spine.
"You aren't very good at this," he murmurs, moving a little closer. She wants to get up, to run from the room, to turn on all the lights and just escape, "I thought you were supposed to be used to all of this crappy supernatural stuff, shit, it is hard enough trying to stay fudgin corporeal without having to look at you gaping at me like a friggin fish."
"Who are you?" she realises that she has spoken aloud and her clientele turn and look at her as one, "who are you and what do you want?"
"Is it my Derrick?" Mrs Machin asks, voice wavering and the flickering figure purses his lips, rolling his eyes and mumbling,
"Give me a friggin break,"
"Who are you?" she says again, aware that she is squeezing the hand of the man next to her so hard that she has to be cutting off his circulation, "why are you here?"
"You summoned me you moron," the man sounds pissed off, "it isn't easy to move beyond the friggin veil you know, believe me, I've tried it and it fudgin hurts. And don't give me any – move into the light crap –either, there is no light ok – and even if there was, I'm not goin until I talk to Sammy."
"Sammy?" She says, louder this time and the young man beside her lets go of her hand and turns, his eyes on her face, bright in the darkness, searching and hopeful.
"Yeah?" His voice is hoarse, deep and throaty, as if he doesn't use it much anymore.
"He came cause he thought he was exposing a fraud," the man's voice is close to her ear again, "and you were, weren't you? Till now," he shakes his head, flickering a little less now, solidifying in the darkness, so that she can see how handsome he is – or was – and how young.
"Why now?" she is ignorant of everyone but him, "why me and why now?"
"Don't ask me," the man shook his head, "I've been trying to get through for over a year now and nothing. He won't let me go – stupid bastard – always was fudgin stubborn – saved my soul months ago – but refuses to get rid of the rotting corpse in case he can solve the puzzle on how to get me back in there again – not that I'd want that – freakin stinkin meat suit," he takes a breath, not that he has lungs to breath, but that is how it appears, "He has to let me go – ok – salt and burn the corpse – have a good cry – get stinkin drunk and go back to school," he grins and she has to smile back, despite her fear, "can you tell him all that,"
"What is your name?" she says, suddenly, aware that all eyes are on her, aware of the man next to her, shaking so hard that he is almost vibrating.
"It's Dean," he says, holding out an insubstantial hand, "Dean Winchester."
It takes a while to convince Sammy that his brother is in the room. Takes a while for him to stop shaking, to believe her when she tells him that his brother wants him to let him go, wants him to salt and burn his corpse, wants him to go back to school. She finds herself telling him tales of hunting strange and alien creatures, of monsters and demons, of hell and beyond.
The room is silent for a long time, Dean still there, flickering again now, his gaze hopeful. His brother is staring into the darkness, trying to see and she touches his wrist, feeling how thin it is, seeing, for the first time, how pale and ill the young man looks, almost like a wraith himself.
Finally, Sammy nods, swallowing hard. He presses his knuckles to his eyes and rubs hard and she sees water trickling beneath his fingertips, hears his hitched breathing.
"He's safe?" he says, finally, "his soul – it really – it really is safe?"
"He takes a lot of convincing, always was awkward – never took your word for it the first freakin ten times," Dean huffed, but he was smiling now and she could see his eyes for the first time, green and bright and hopeful.
"Yes," she said, softly, "you just have to let him go, Sammy, please, just let him go."
"He only lets me call him that," Dean interjected and she smiled her own throat closing. She repeated his words to his brother and watched as he almost fell apart, belief, real now, shining from his features.
"Tell him I'll do it tonight," he said, finally, "tell him to go find mom and dad too, Jess if he can."
She nods and turns back, but the figure has gone, vanished as quickly as it appeared, the room back to normal now, the old ladies sighing as she turned on the light.
Sam drinks several cups of hot, sweet tea before he is able to leave. She watches him drive away in a big, black muscle car that doesn't seem to belong with him and hopes that he keeps his promise.
She closes her business down the next day and sells up. She has other skills, other things she could be doing. She is glad now that she doesn't have the gift that she couldn't commune with spirits. Her regular clients are sad, disappointed and sorry to see her go. She is sad in a bitter sweet way, but she doesn't look back when she leaves.
She never sees Dean again and she is glad. She figures Sam kept his promise and that, maybe, just maybe, Dean went into the light.
She does a little research, when she has the time, spending hours in the college library, reading about the Winchester brothers, about their crimes sprees, about how they 'died' in a police cell during a raid, about their father and his lunatic crusade.
She believes a lot more now, but she doesn't believe a word of it.
The Winchesters were good men, she is sure of it and, when she lies in bed at night she hopes and she prays.
She prays that Dean went into the light and that he and Sam found peace.
She hopes that if there is a God, he is listening.
FIN