I've been having far too many issues with my other fic so I'm scrapping it and writing this instead.
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Reviews are always appreciated,
Enjoy.
A couple driving down the interstate found her, a girl no older than twenty wandering down the shoulder of the road wearing a torn blue dress with a dirty jean jacket draped over her shoulders. She couldn't explain how she got there or where the two bright red handprints on her wrists came from. They later told police she had said only a few words and then stayed quiet for the rest of the trip into town.
"My name is Tempest Mathews," She said. "Prophet of the lord."
The two men stood in front of me, Agent Fogerty and Agent Fogerty, pretending as though they were only interested in why I was alive
"So, Tempest Mathews, born August 8, 1989, died March 25, 2009." The taller of the two slapped a case file onto the table in front of me. "And six months later, you're sitting here in front of us, care to explain?" The police had already accused me of faking my death, I was tired, hungry and all around done with people in general. The appearance of these two only served to tip the scales.
"So, Agent Fogerty, which one are you, John or Tom?" I threw the file off the table and onto the ground. The papers slipped out and I caught glimpses of autopsy reports, medical records, and a few dreadful highschool photographs. "Cut the crap, Winchesters. I know who you are and you know who I am. Don't act so surprised."
"Listen-"
"No, I'm not listening to you, I'm done listening to you. The last time I listened to you, I died. I'd rather not repeat that." I leaned back in my chair and surveyed the men in front of me with disinterest. Like a broken tape, flashes of memories flickered through my mind. The boys, the barn, watching the bruises spread over my abdomen as the demon tore its way out. It was all there but I couldn't combine it into one fluid clip, something was missing.
"We tried to save you-" Dean began. Always the hero.
"You promised to save me! You should've done a lot more than try." I picked at the sleeve of the jacket I was wearing. "This was yours wasn't it? How nice of you to cover me up before you left my body behind to rot in a barn."
"It wasn't our fault." It was Sam's turn to add his two cents.
"What every murderer says as he awaits his execution on death row." I rocked the chair back and forth, listening to the steady thump as the legs repeatedly hit the floor. "I'd appreciate it if you would just leave."
"We need to know what happened, why you came back." Dean persisted.
"I don't know, okay? I died, I was happy, then I woke up six feet under, trapped once more on this miserable planet." I said exasperatedly.
"The marks on your wrists though, how did you get those?"
"They were there when I clawed my way out of my grave. How am I supposed to know?" I shrugged and raised an eyebrow when Dean removed his suit jacket and undid the buttons on his shirt, exposing his left shoulder marked with a handprint identical to the ones on my wrists.
"Because this is what happened when I got pulled out of Hell. So you'd better start talking."