Sam Winchester

"Sam. Sam. SAMMY!"

My eyes snapped open. Damn it, had I fallen asleep again? Sleep really seemed to be evading me at the moment. Dean was waving a newspaper in my face. "Good time to come to Oregon, huh?" His voice was triumphant as he tapped the headline with his finger. "Looks like we got a job."

My eyes focused, reading the bold print. 'FREAK ACCIDENT IN LOCAL PARK.'

In what was an ordinary game of basketball, a shocking turn of events transpired yesterday that resulted in the death of a young woman, Darcy Matthews.

A harmless match became a bloodbath when another girl, Ayla Jennings, threw the ball, hitting Miss Matthews in the stomach forcefully enough that her internal organs ruptured. She was pronounced dead on arrival at the Oregon State Hospital. When questioned, both the Chief of Police and Miss Jennings' mother, DA Renée Jennings, stated that she had been taken into custody and was unavailable for comment.

I looked up. "What are you thinking? Possession?"

"I don't know. Whatever it is, it was strong enough to kill a girl with a basketball. I say we go check it out." We were half an hour's drive away from Portland. Dean picked up the keys. "Pack your crap. We're going to the City of Roses."

Ayla Jennings

"Mom, please talk to me." She wouldn't even look at me. Not a glance. She was far away, thinking, worrying, the cigarette in her mouth a burning speck in the half-light. "Mom. Please."

"How the hell are we going to get you out of this, Ayla?" she whispered. I swallowed.

"I just threw it-"

"And you killed a girl! You're lucky they're letting you stay here until the psych evaluation, house arrest or not!" Her hazel eyes filled with tears. "I tried to get your case, but it's a conflict of interest. It's not like I could explain what happened anyway. This just doesn't happen. It can't happen."

The silence in our little kitchen hung as heavy as a bucket of rocks. I pulled my knees up to my chest, the chair uncomfortably hard, and let out a sigh. Fuck, how was I supposed to explain all this, let alone my mother? I didn't have a clue what the hell was going on with me. All I knew was that after what happened, I was going to need long and intensive therapy. God, I could see it in my head…the frenzied shouts and squeals around me, telling me to throw the ball. What could I do but throw it? And then…it hitting Darcy Matthews in the stomach. Her mouth fountaining blood. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image just wouldn't go away. It was as if it was tattooed behind my eyelids. Darcy was nice. Kind. Never had a bad thing to say about anybody. And I'd killed her. Tears formed in my eyes. "Don't you think I know that?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "I'm trying to figure it out myself, Mom."

She blew out a cloud of smoke, her eyes distant again. "I know, baby. I know."

TTTB TTTB TTTB TTTB TTTB TTTB

Sleep and I weren't close friends, for obvious reasons. I'd never really been the best of sleepers anyway, but now I could maybe expect one restless, fitful hour.

Getting out of my bed, I padded over to the window, my fluffy socks slipping a little on the varnished wooden floor. It was raining again. It had been for a couple of days, ranging from light drizzle to thunder and lightning. I loved the rain. I hated to think that I might not see it for much longer…second degree manslaughter could put me in juvenile detention moving onto jail for six years. Six years, and if I went into a mental hospital, even longer. I didn't question that I deserved it, but I was still scared to hell about going to prison if the psych evaluation and trial put me there. I'd only turned sixteen a couple of weeks ago. I sat down on the chair next to the square of delicate glass, hugging myself, my stomach in a highwayman's hitch and my head full of cotton wool. What was happening to me? No-one could throw anything that hard. No-one. Let alone me, with my addiction to candy, tiny frame and tendency to spend my weekends on the couch when baseball season was over. Added to the hallucinations…I shook my head. People with faces like something out of the monster chapters of a mythology textbook. I was going insane. Had to be.

I stood up, heading to the bathroom, my gait sluggish and weak. I had some sleeping pills that I kept when I really needed to rest…I wouldn't make it through the next day if I didn't get some shuteye. The cabinet mirror reflected an exhausted little girl back at me-thick, honey blonde, shoulder-length hair with front bangs, ghostly pale skin, golden brown eyes with dark shadows beneath them. I was only five feet two inches and maybe ninety five pounds dripping wet-short for my age, and skinny with it. I couldn't gain weight if my life depended on it, which was no joke. The doctor said I could possibly have an overactive thyroid, but I was pretty sure I just had a fast metabolism. Don't get me wrong-anorexia was never a problem. I ate like a horse. But I remained as small and lean as ever. Kind of like the tough, tasteless steak you get specifically for stir fry.

Swallowing a pill with a gulp of tap water, I leaned back against the freezing tiled wall. The medication wouldn't kick in for another hour.