The memories ticked the edge of her unconscious mind, dancing with each other and slipping through her fingertips just when she felt like she got a solid image. She knew that if she really desired it, she could view them. It would be easy, and then all the information would be hers. Yet, she did not look at them, or even try. She didn't know if it was because something in her was stopping her, that she knew she wasn't ready, or if she just didn't want the stress and heartbreak she knew they would bring. So instead, she joined them in their dance, grazing the edges but never delving in deeper. Recognizing feelings, emotions, maybe a name or two, but never anything more than a fleeting sensation.
And that was okay, because she had fun dancing with the memories. They comforted her. We'll always be here, they said, with or without acknowledgment, we will be here. And they were. She never once thought of them as odd or strange, they were simply a part of her being, as much as her brain or heart was. She never questioned them, and she was content to live her life and simply exist with them. That was, of course, before her destiny called to her.
With a thump and a groan, Lang found herself on the floor of her bed room, tangled up in a pile of blankets.
"Damn," she cursed. This seemed to be her wake up call too often, and it was starting to give her a sore back. Maybe she should invest in some railings for her bed.
It was frustrating, but eventually she untangled herself from the mass of fabric and carelessly threw on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, forgoing a bra. It wasn't that she was tired, she just didn't feel like it. Was it lazy? Probably, but she shrugged off those thoughts whenever they made their presence known.
She yawned and stretched, plopping down in the chair at her desk and opening her laptop.
"Let's see… 'I think my husband's cheating,' well, he probably is; 'my son is smoking,' I can't really blame him, you seem like a real piece of work; 'I have a weird growth,' for the last time, I am not a freaking doctor."
She went through the entries to her blog one by one, answering each post. Some of them may be idiotic, but she still smacked some common sense into every one of the commenters, as was her job.
When she was finished, she checked the clock to find it already at 1:00. Lang was momentarily confused before she remembered that she woke up at 11:00.
"Crap, I have a reading today," she sighed, contemplating just canceling it, before she caught the stack of unpaid bills from the corner of her eye.
Pursing her lips, Lang walked into her living room, which was appropriately decked out in what you would expect from a 'psychic's' house. Flowers, beads, weird symbols. Lang knew she wasn't a psychic, but she still had talent and she put it to use by exploiting others for money.
Her client was right on time, an elderly lady who gave an odd glance at Lang's casual attire, but Lang threw her off her scent by spouting some line about being able to read vibes better if she was more comfortable.
They sat down at Lang's circular dining table that had a pentagram table cloth and joined hands. It was completely unnecessary, but for some reason her clients liked it, so even if Lang didn't like to be touched she pushed down her discomfort.
"I sense an imbalance in you, Marcy," Lang began. It was true, the old lady's emotions were unstable. Well, unstable for an old lady's. Lang couldn't read people's emotions 24/7, but if she focused it came easy.
"Oh, yes! I've been dating a new gentleman, but he just brings so much drama into my life! What should I do?"
It was a typical question she got, both on her advice blog and during readings. Although usually people that bothered to pay for a reading wanted something a little deeper, like 'why have I felt so uneasy lately?,' 'Why do I have this chronic pain?,' 'I think I was attacked by a vampire,' and, her favorite, 'What's wrong with my dog?' Lang could do healings, but that was troublesome and she didn't want too much attention. Miracles tended to attract suspicion.
Back to the situation at hand, Lang could see that if Marcy continued with her new elevated stress levels, she would die 5 years earlier than she would have. No man is worth 5 years.
She told Marcy as much, who looked very spooked by her assessment and promptly paid her and left in a huff. Lang still failed to see how stuff like that got her clients so worked up, they were only the facts.
The rest of the day was spent lazing around, eating microwaved pizza and browsing channels. Other than her blog and doing readings, Lang's days were pretty monotonous. She secretly harbored the hope that something exciting would happen, but somehow, deep in her bones, she knew she was going to get her wish fulfilled very soon.
Dean Winchester is saved.
Her very being was buzzing with excitement and pent up energy. It had started not too long before that sentence had rang through her head, and although the feeling was exhilarating it was also driving her crazy.
She had felt something break, something very important, but she couldn't help but thinking it was a good thing that it broke. It's only a matter of time now, her mind said. Matter of time until what? She shrugged it off.
With all her extra energy she had went for a run, and came back with no change. She was still bouncing with excitement and, dare she think it, happiness. The true kind of happiness that she didn't think she had ever felt before. It was a good feeling, and she liked it, so she pushed away her lingering questions of who Dean Winchester was, why she should care that he was saved, and where all this happiness came from in the first place. Strange things happened around her all the time.