"Renowned Warrior"

Hello, again! Welcome to this new story. It's a little sister fic but I like to think I'm going to be taking it in a little bit of a different direction then most...but maybe I'm just delusional.

This story came to me about two this afternoon and I started typing and didn't stop until it got to the point where I *HAVE* to go to bed. No editing has been even attempted. Don't judge me, I'm lazy.

I don't own Supernatural!

My eyes squint in an ultimately useless attempt at keeping them open, trying to stay in the present. I'm leaning across an over sized text book, my sandy brown hair covering notes scattered across the table top in front of my face in a disorganized fashion. Though they truthfully didn't teach me anything, I felt better from having at least put some form of effort into studying.

I let out a yawn that risked breaking my jaw during a good stretch, trying to work up the energy to pick up my belongings and toss them into my bag. It's truly been the very definition of a long day. Each hour seemed to take entire months to pass by when, in fact, time moved at the rate it normally did.

Rational thought tried to pointlessly inform the mischievous, ill mannered side of my consciousness that time never changed in its measurements. It's a constant, a stable variable that the weak human mind barely registered the concept of.

Time does not move any faster or slower just because of one person willing it to do so. The passage of time to an individual was perceived as a change when impatience, anxiety, anger, or general lack of entertainment caused a chemical reaction in the brain, resulting in increased heart rate, sweat production, and adrenaline levels.

The thought brings a smile to my face. I basically just assured myself I would be passing the State Paramedic Exam in the morning...if I could just get some sleep.

On my way out the door, bag slung over my shoulder, the night guard and friendly intern that was busy stuffing books into a shelf waved at me. I slowly waved back, making my best attempt to seem friendly through the exhaustion, as the memory of my first visit here flooded my sleep deprived mind.

The building seemed much taller then, however I was only six at the time and clinging to my mother's leg for fear of someone expecting me to speak. The sight of the thousands of books over flowing the outrageous amount of space the seven floors of storage offered seemed so colorful and wondrous that I actually let go of my mother's extremity and walked out in the open air independently for the first time.

The library was a place of quiet, my refuge when I did not wish to speak, for I knew then that I would not be expected to form words in this place. It was the safest I had ever felt and the smile that spread across my little cheeks was bright and indomitable. A feeling that one only could expect to genuinely feel a limited number of times in their short life span.

I remember being glad at the rareness of the feeling, because it made the joy I felt that much more beautiful.

Much to my relief, the air outside was not nearly as humid now that the sun had set. Even though anyone could still see the steam coming off the concrete of the library steps, it was a dramatic difference from the heat that plagued surrounding areas during the day.

Sometimes, when trying to accomplish a task requiring concentration, the heat made me irritable and frustrated enough that I often found myself seized by an intimidating anger that scared even me. It was not uncommon that I fantasized about reaching over and ripping the jugular clean out of someone's throat with just my bare hands. One should not consider these thoughts, though, so my concentration is forced every time to return to the task at hand.

Honestly, I don't know where the violent images came from. My past self was never one to react so violently or harbor ill will towards anyone...Unless it was hot. Or the subject of my father came up.

My facial expression was the only thing that would ever betray my feelings towards that man, however infuriating he might be. And he definitely was.

John Winchester was not a man you could simply tolerate. Either you loved him or you thought he was an ass of epic proportions. He was a former marine and generally carried their stiff, unrelenting attitude towards everything. If the man deemed a quality or object weak, he showed no hesitation in expressing his displeasure. Should someone find him to be their superior, he would make one hell of an effort to sweat it out of you. Literally.

The image of impromptu obstacle courses replaced the pleasant thoughts I previously entertained of the library. My teeth had already started to grit against one another, the pressure that held them together making my jaw hurt. It wasn't like he helped my mother in any way financially, so I often found her instance of my spending a few weeks a year with him ridiculous.

When I was smaller, he would randomly appear on our front stoop to take me to a baseball game or drag me to a restaurant for a dinner filled with an awkward silence that sometimes seemed to be my only friend. John had a way about him that seemed off, like he was only pretending when in my presence. Even as a little girl I sensed this and distinctly remember not liking the man. No matter how much effort he placed into his short bursts of fatherhood and especially when he decided to make me "more athletic" through training.

Once, I over heard a conversation between my mother and John in which he stated that I should not bear his last name. "Allie, we both know it won't do any good for Louisa to have any connection to the Winchester name." I didn't stick around to hear the rest of the conversation or his reasoning, choosing instead to creep silently to my small back yard before leaping the half-rotting fence at the back of the property.

Mid-escape, the angry thoughts screamed loudly inside my head as my internal temperature escalated to a dangerous level. He didn't want anyone to know he had a shameful, stubborn daughter that couldn't complete his stupid courses in ten minutes? Well, I thought as my slim and tall body ran across the neighbors yard, he could promptly go fuck himself. It was a childish thought, this I knew even at the naive age of eleven, but that didn't stop me from angrily whispering it to myself. The words had actually surprised me at that time. I hadn't the slightest urge to speak a single word in the years since...I paused to ponder on why exactly I never spoke. It was a mystery, a dusty shadow of a memory from some forgotten trauma I'd sustained.

That couldn't be right, I remember thinking. I hadn't experienced any trauma and my mother never mentioned anything bad having happened to us. My mother was an upper-middle classed woman hailing from a large French family that supported the two of us whenever we should possibly need a thing. They wouldn't have let anything happen to us, either.

We lived in a safe neighborhood. None of my teachers were pedophiles. Gang activity was virtually non existent in our small town. Back then, I could not imagine what could've possibly been so awful that I had stopped speaking.

I still can't, honestly, though I do speak now. Hearing John's obvious distaste for any proof of our shared blood awakened something in me that made me stand a little taller, my demeanor more unafraid. "Brave" was the word my mother usually used when I stood up to something or someone I didn't agree with, and was almost always followed by "stupid" and "dangerous".

Truthfully, some of the things I did were reckless. I admit I felt an edge of regret after the fact, a dark edge that weighed on my emotional well being. Mostly the actions were a result of the sick sense of pleasure I took from the disapproval of an authority figure.

The fact that my mother had actually brought up the subject of changing my last name to me, even if she did disguise her intentions as simply wanting me to match her own, made an anger bud deep inside my chest for her. One that was planted firmly next to the one specifically for John; their roots spread wide enough to grasp through my entire upper body.

I have never been outright disrespectful to my mother, instead I listen to her lectures, her instructions and then acknowledge that I heard her clearly with a "yes ma'am". It took her quite some time to realize I was not agreeing with her, simply affirming that what she expected of me was understood. In most cases, she threw her hands upward in disbelief when my actions came to her attention, a warning that she was angry or disappointed with her only daughter.

My father was often regarded with a glare and not much else. The man was not worthy of my getting punished for the responses that came to mind when he spoke to me. One would think a hint would be received from my continued silence towards him, especially when informed of my sudden willingness to speak.

The visits, thankfully, grew fewer as I got older.

In the last few years, he has only made appearances near the time of my birthdays (one of which happened to coincide with my graduation from high school).

The thought of college actually brightened my thoughts.

A few days from now, I'll be a state licensed Paramedic and finally twenty one. The fact that my birthday and the exam are on the same day could only be described as perfection. After the dreaded exam I plan on being as drunk as one could possibly get, only intending to stop drinking when the state stamped my papers.

I took another swig of the burning liquid as I lifted the phone to my ear, finally deciding to stop the shrill ringing coming from my phone. "Hello?"

Not quite sure how I managed to make the single word sound like an exclamation from a drunkard, I frowned and swayed from my standing position into that of a seated one. The fact that the seat was, in fact, the kitchen floor made no difference to me. I had passed the point of feeling the temperature of anything hours ago. "Still celebrating your birthday?"

My mother's disapproving tone was too loud, prompting me to briefly lift the phone away from my ear and take another large "swig" from the clear bottle in my left hand. "Yes, Mother. It's a grand spectacle, indeed." I must be further gone than I had previously realized. That was as close to back-talk as I've ever come in regards to Allie.

The thought of my calling my mother by her first name makes me giggle to myself in a slightly hysterical manner that I don't register in my inebriated state. "Stop drinking. Right now, I mean it. Do you understand, Louisa?"

"Yes, Ma'am." The response is automatic. So is my immediately doing the exact opposite of what she says. I wonder for a few moments if I'll have any throat tissue left after this binder but, as a drunks thoughts often do, it's forgotten the second I'm distracted.

"Have you seen or heard from your father yet?"

The thought of my father almost sours my mood, though it's quickly replaced by the joy of not having seen him yet. "No. I'm still blissfully John-less."

Even though I did not hear my mother's exact response to the matter (I placed the phone on the counter to grab a bag of chips from the pantry) they were, most assuredly, very scornful. "Yes ma'am," I say as I pick the phone back up and place it to my ear.

After I finally stopped trying to give myself alcohol poisoning in the name of celebration, I had possibly the worst hangover in the history of all hedonism. I felt worse than if Amy Winehouse, Courtney Love, and Lindsay Lohan were fused together into some Uber Addict that had just done a line of blow and got hit by a truck with steel points on its' grill. Much worse.

It was three days before I could even manage my migraine well enough to get into a much needed shower and get dressed into something that would hopefully make myself look half-way like a human being. The only pleasant thoughts I had been able to muster were that I was glad I hadn't picked up any shifts this week from the private ambulance company I worked for as an EMT Basic while in school.

I was asking myself why the government hadn't produced a drug that felt like this hangover did to punish rapist and murderers when someone knocked on my door.

Why did I still not have a peep hole? I ask myself as I opened the door and prayed it wasn't a Jehovah's Witness on the other side. If it were, he would be meeting Jehovah today.

The door opened and two men in leather jackets stood side-by-side on the landing, a few feet from the wooden steps I fantasized about pushing them down. "I already know the story of Jesus Christ, thank you," I close the door and am startled by the second round of knocking.

"How can I help you gentlemen?" I try to keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice by gritting my teeth and remaining calm as I know that the strangers are undeserving of the anger I felt towards them. They'd done nothing wrong. Perhaps they were not serial killers, Jehovah's Witnesses, or vacuum cleaner salesmen.

I mean, it's unlikely, but it could happen.

The door is once again opened fully and, this time, I lean again its' wooden surface hoping to chase off the impatient attitude from the forefront of my mind. My eyes finally analyze the two men in front of me. One is quite tall with shaggy brown hair that wears an expression of gentleness that honestly made me want to hug him and punch him at the same time.

I noticed the other man is still tall, too, just dwarfed in comparison to the giant man at his side. He's wearing an impatient look, his jaw working from side to side not unlike my own. The sunlight filtered through his sandy brown hair down to his strong features, noticing the familiar color of his eyes.

"Yes," the giant speaks first, his tone gentle. "Are you Louisa?"

My left eyebrow unconsciously lifts like it always does when I'm feeling extraordinarily bitchy. "I am. What do you boys need?"

"A women named Allie called our dad's cell phone the other day and left a message. She said he was supposed to visiting you and left your address. May we come in?"

"Your father?" My jaw opens in disbelief. The man had managed to con some other poor woman into having his children? "Is John Winchester?" I confirm in a tone I rarely heard myself use. They both nod and I finally let them in, stepping aside. My eyes go momentarily unseeing as my thoughts tangle up in a knot that I doubted I would ever unravel. "Fuck."

The two men sat awkwardly on my couch, both far too tall to be comfortable sitting on something that close to the ground. "Either of you want something to drink?" Even as I say it, I know I only have water and beer. And vodka.

I swallow back to vomit at the thought of the vile drink and focus on the boys. "No, thank you."

They're both looking at each other, as if in a silent argument. When the giant one visibly works his jaw and jerks his head in my direction, I decide I can't take the silence anymore. "What are your names? And why are you here?"

The green eyed man cleared his throat, his skin of his chin tightening slightly. "I'm Dean, and this is my brother Sam. We're here because our Dad has gone missing and we're trying to find him. Now, if you'll do us a favor and tell us how you know our him, that'd be just peachy." He grunts and makes an exasperated face towards Sam when he elbows him in the ribs.

"I'm Louisa Winchester. John was my mother's sperm donor." Sam's face is clearly shocked and, while Dean's is too, his face shows clearly the disgust he found in my statement.

"Dad donated to a sperm bank?" Dean's obviously not the brightest crayon in a box of one crayon.

I finally plop down on my reading chair next to the television and across from the couch, my arms folded over my chest. The urge to roll my eyes is pretty tempting, but I resist. "They used a turkey baster," my sarcastic tone is dripping with venom. "Do you have an extra chromosome? They obviously had sex."

Sam finally steps away from his shock to nod his head in my direction, even though his eyes focused on some invisible spot on my tan carpet. "She definitely has the Winchester gene." His long intake of breath makes his nostrils flare. Sam's voice is still annoyingly calm, despite the situation.

Dean's eyebrow, which had raised at my words, twitched as well as the skin around his eye. "Shut up, Sam."

"However unfortunate it is that he's missing, I can't help you. He only shows up to see me once a year."

Sam scooted forward in his seat, "Is that why the woman, Allie, called his phone? Because he was supposed to meet with you?"

"My mother, yeah." I unfold my arms and grip the padded rests of my chair, crossing my legs in an unladylike manner. "She has this strange idea that we're supposed to know each other even though he's an ass. I didn't know that she'd called him. When he didn't show this year, I thought he'd finally given up trying to know someone who didn't like him."

Dean shot up to a standing position, moving to pace behind my sofa. "Hey, watch it. You may have daddy issues or sperm donor issues or whatever you want to call it, but that's my father you're talking about."

"Oh? Was he actually a father to you? Because he wasn't to me. When he did try, it was usually to make me run laps or complete an obstacle course or just plain be rude. I'm sorry to inform you of this, but he's not a nice man. At least not to me." The old, long established shame filled me once again, bringing with it the thoughts that used to plague my young mind when John treated me like a failure; something undeserving of the Winchester name, something he didn't even feel worthy of introducing his other kids to.

"Look," Sam had his body turned to the side so that he could face either of us with a simple shift of his head, arms held out in either direction like a referee. "Can we try to get along? Dean, you find out you have a sister and the first thing you do is get all hostile with her? What happened to family coming first?"

Dean and I speak over each other with our responses:

"DNA doesn't make a family."

"She is not family, Sam."

Even though are responses are the same, Dean still glares over at me, which I promptly return. The man obviously wanted nothing to do with me. Just like his father. Why should I make myself vulnerable to this asshole when he will just cast me aside? I'm not about to make myself a target again. If he wanted a to act like a pompous thunder-cunt, then I could be a bigger one.

After Dean stormed out of my apartment, Sam stayed. He seemed pretty genuine, like he was actually a nice guy and was open to having a relationship with me, the sister he never knew. "I'm sorry about him. He has an attitude when it comes to our Dad."

"He has a right to be angry; I certainly am." I take in what is supposed to be a calming breath. "I'm just not about to have him argue that John Winchester is a good dad. And I'm most defiantly not about to let him have the last word."

Sam chuckled before wiping a hand over his face and leaning back against the sofa. "You're already so alike." I uncross my legs so that I can bring my calves up into the seat to tuck under my thighs. "I don't even want to think about that. How old are you and your brother?"

"Dean's twenty seven, and I just turned twenty three."

"Ah," I opened my mouth. "I hope your mother wasn't with him around 1984 because I just turned twenty one." I inserted my foot.

The look that crossed Sam's face was filled with pain and I immediately hated myself for ever speaking the English language. "Did I strike a nerve?" Truthfully, I hoped I hadn't messed this up too bad. Sam seemed nice, an older brother I wouldn't mind seeing every Christmas or something like that, but I may have just ruined it by being an awkward, ill mannered, hung over brat.

"Not exactly." He hesitated for a few moments, his hair falling over his eyes as he looked at the floor. "Our mother died in 1983."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." I can't help it. It's in my loving, caring nature to take other people's feelings into consideration.

Actually, not at all unless they're sick, but never-the-less, I cross the short distance to where my new brother sat and embraced him in a tight hug. "I'm sorry." I can't think of another thing to say, and if there was something, it wouldn't take away his grief of growing up without a mother. It was something that affects every aspect of growing up when a person lack's a mother. I know John, I knew how uncaring he could be, so growing up with that and knowing that you didn't have the kind, gentle spirit a mother figure would've been was awful. Truly something to mourn over.

While John wasn't a great father by any means, I had my mother. A somewhat decent advocate for me that I could turn to as a small child, someone to hug and kiss away any scrapes I might've accumulated during play time. It wasn't until I was entering my teen years that I decided to think ill of her and, now, it made me kind of sad that I harbored such ill-will towards her when she tried her hardest to love me and raise me right.

The boys stayed for a few days, hanging out and getting to know me while still drilling me to make sure I didn't know anything about their dad I hadn't told them. It was on their last day in town that I met up with them to have dinner after my seven to seven shift on the ambulance (which, of course, ended at nine-not seven).

I was late so I didn't go home to change, driving straight to the diner instead.

As I pulled back my chair from the table I notice the strange look Dean was giving me. "Sorry I'm late, my shift ran over." My uniform remained tucked in. If I had to go out in public with it on after my shift then I would maintain the integrity of the company by not making them look sloppy and unprofessional.

"What exactly do you do?" Dean, who had begrudgingly behaved and actually started warming up to me, was still looking over my uniform. It was a blue button up shirt with a collar, commonly referred to as "class A's", that had the logo of the company I worked for and National Registry EMS patches on the arms. The shirt was tucked into a pair of dark blue military pants known as BDU's that came up far too high for my liking. Combat boots and a wide, work-man's belt completed the masculine attire.

"I'm a Paramedic." I was almost excited to say it. The license had posted on the state's website yesterday morning and I was placed on an Advanced Life Support (ALS) shift yesterday afternoon and again this morning.

The shifts were amazing, mostly because the work load was generally lighter (we had to be available for emergencies and ALS hospital to hospital transfers while the Basic crew members did things like dialysis transports, hospital discharges, and doctors appointments) and we avoiding getting the stubbed toe calls which were handed to the Basic's so they couldn't complain about a lack of emergency calls. In short, it sucked to be a Basic (which I was for three years) and it sucked less to be a Paramedic. Not to mention the difference in pay.

Dean just narrows his eyes as a response, choosing to return to his burger rather than continuing his conversation with me.

Sam and I had bonded quite a bit more than I would've imagined, mostly because he was a nice guy. He didn't have an attitude that would clash with my own. It would've been nice to grow up with him, I think as steals one of my fries and laughs.

I smile at his antics, not able to help myself. He's teasing me and his laugh is infectious. So much so that I find myself laughing at him when he steals another one, only to drop it in his soup. The color is in my cheeks, I can see it in my reflection in the glass behind Sam's head.

My back is to the rest of the diner and I don't think too much of it as I stop laughing and stab Dean's hand with a fork for trying to touch my food. I'm off the clock and I'm not constantly glancing out the window to make sure my ambulance hadn't been stolen or listening for my unit number on the radio. Having them is nice. It's calming. It's relaxing.

It's short lived.

I frown as I see a man through the glass, he's walking up to the window outside with an expression akin to fury. When I see him raise a gun I can't help the scream that escapes, my arms reaching out to pull Sam to the floor with me, throwing my body and his to the floor.

The shot was aimed right for his head, but missed its' mark after he's moved out of the way, shattering the glass instead. The chaos had already started, the inhabitants of the diner scattering and screaming so loudly that I can hardly hear when it's combined with the gun shots and glass raining down to the floor.

"Dean!" I hear Sam yell out from beside me, but I don't pause in my crawling along the half wall, under the now empty tables. "Louisa?" Panic is running through me. It's urging me to get away, to survive, but it's also afraid of losing the brothers I had only just met. "Are you okay?"

The sound of more gun shots ring out as the shooter steps over the half wall, crunching glass under his dress shoes as he takes steps towards the front of the diner.

At this point, I'm trying not to piss myself as I quietly continue to crawl under the tables to the left of the shooter and I've already decided that if he gets shot back, I sure as hell won't be the one holding pressure on that.

He seemed to be aiming at Sam and Dean, I came to realize. Was this a random act of this man's insanity or was it focused on the Winchester boys for a reason?

Finally, I reach the open end of the counter serving as a bar that ran the length of the place, assessing the situation as best I could. I'm five foot, eight inches tall. If I stood the man would notice me immediately. Quickly, I sprinted from under the last table to behind the bar, my body folded at the waist so that the shooter hopefully wouldn't see me.

Just as I'm finishing crawling into a door leading to the kitchen I hear a new scream. The screaming before was mostly feminine and gone by now, having either been shot or fled from the eating establishment this hell was taking place in. This new scream...it was that of a man, the kind that was only made when painfully dying. It was also followed by a cease fire.

It didn't matter to me, however, as I ran to the back exit. When I opened the door, the fire alarm went off but I was out and still running. Hopefully, the fire alarm would alert 911 that something was going down here at the very least, if someone hadn't already called about the shooting-it would be better than nothing.

I ran towards the grouping of people, assessing injuries quickly, explaining that I was a Paramedic, scanning the crowd for my brothers, and trying to convince people that they needed to move further away from the building incase the crazed man inside decided to follow us all out.

So far, the boys hadn't come out and there were too many gun shot wounds I was trying to tend to at once to actually do anything about the boy but worry.

The uninjured people in the group were helping by holding pressure and doing what I directed so that I could continue on through the group when several police cars swarmed the area. I could hear the sirens of several ambulances but couldn't see them yet.

Someone from our group explained to the officers that the shooter was still inside, and I allowed myself to be proud of the citizens of my town for being so helpful for a fraction of a moment before standing to go to the man laying next to the one I just saw with a shot to his wrist.

This new man was breathing but I could see each rise of the chest was getting more and more shallow as I approached. He was about to die, his gun shot wound was to the thigh, about where the femoral artery rests and, judging from the bright pink globs of blood on the concrete, I'd say it'd had been hit directly. "Shit!" The word I would normally never allow myself to say at work escapes my mouth in a rush. I quickly scan the area to see how many patients are left before I started in on the man in front of me.

It sounded like an awful thing, to abandon a man you could help, but if there were more people to be treated then I couldn't waste too much time one someone that was already dead. Fortunately, there were no others. I'd seen everyone else already and therefore I could spend the time necessary to perform CPR on the man in front of me.

The entire process of scanning and deciding took just under one second, but it was still time one didn't want to waste when it comes to CPR.

After a few rounds of pumping on his chest, the man opens his eyes and takes a gasping breath...only to once again go pulse-less. The man was probably dead no matter what I did, I realize as I see the light leave his eyes, but I keep pumping and counting the beats over and over until a paramedic I knew from work and his partner take over.

It's a relief to stop pumping, my arms are exhausted but I still reach out to get the bandages the new comers had carried over while I see the Paramedic hooking up an IV so that he could get fluid into the man's system as well as drugs to start his heart. I go back to my task, satisfied that my friend was delivering the correct medications as per protocol, and rip open gauze packages recklessly. Putting at least five on the wound to his thigh and using one hand to deliver pressure, my other brings more of the white packages up to my mouth so that I can open them with my teeth.

As I'm placing a new set of bandages on the wounds, the others already soaked all the way through in the ten seconds they were held there, the fire fighters bring over a long spine board, transferring the man over with a log roll that only pauses the CPR process for a few seconds.

Before I can blink, the man is in the back of the ambulance and is actually breathing again. There is a fire fighter sitting in the captain's chair that's pumping the Bag Valve Mask every six seconds and leaning over the hold the bandage in place at the same time. The man has a pulse, the bleeding is controlled and the Paramedic has two large bore IV's established in both arms.

I smile for a half second as I close the back doors so that the partner, now covered in blood, can run uninterrupted up to the driver's door.

The police cannot find my brothers. All the victims, including the stabbed and unconscious shooter, were either at the hospital or almost to the hospital. The police men are investigating the scene, their guns firmly holstered.

I don't understand when they say this to me. They weren't outside. They weren't inside. Where could they have gone? If they were dead or injured, they'd be in one or the other, but they simply...weren't there.

Worry is at the forefront of my mind, eating at me, now that I didn't have any other task to complete. I gave my statement to three different officers before I am finally made to get checked out by a Basic crew left over from the armada that had been dispatched to the scene.

I let Jason, also a friend of mine, bandage up a cut to my arm and another to my face as I am lost in my thoughts. Where could those boys be? "Louisa?" The tone Jason takes with me indicates this is not the first time he's called my name. "Your phone is ringing."

I pull the forgotten object from my back pocket with the arm Jason wasn't currently wrapping roller gauze around. The screen has a picture of my phone's back ground and above it, Sam's name in flashing green font. "Hello? Sam? Where are you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I can hear his breathing through the speaker of my phone. "We're fine. Dean and I just made it back to your apartment. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" I exclaimed, my face growing hot as Jason wiped the cut on my forehead with an alcohol pad. "You walked all the way back to my apartment? That's one hell of an adrenaline rush. I'm so glad you're both okay! I've got to go but I'll be home soon. We have to talk about some things," I bring the phone closer to my mouth and turn my face away from Jason who is standing in the back of the ambulance while I sit on the bumper. "Like why that man was aiming for you specifically."

Oh, my. This is almost 6,000 words! My fingers are stiff from all the typing but it feels good to have this out.

The name "Louisa" is both French and German for a woman who was a "renowned warrior".

EVERYONE HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY!

Or night. Dream of Winchesters!.

Love,

Emme.