A/N: Standard disclaimer. Anything relating to Supernatural is not mine, I am simply borrowing it for a while. Except my OCs. They're mine. Enjoy :)

Claire sat on her bed, mind empty, a smoke-grey kitten curled on her lap. The familiar numbness of a depressive relapse spread through her limbs until they felt like lead. Even the pricking of tiny claws was almost imperceptible through the fog of depression. She was restless, but nothing would be able to ease the agitation – she'd learnt that the hard way through many years of living with depressive illnesses. The laptop lying unattended-to beside her made a pinging noise and she turned her head slowly to look at the message on the screen. What she saw made her blink hard and sit up straight, dislodging the kitten slightly. It was a message from an author she'd interviewed for a magazine a few months previously, someone she hadn't thought very much more about since he'd been elusive and not very forthcoming in the interview, which had resulted in her being fired.

"Chuck Shurley. What do you want?" Her tired voice seemed suddenly much more English as Chuck grimaced.

"I need to talk to you." He ran a hand through his muss of hair and frowned hard at her through the webcam. "You look awful." A smile flickered across her face.

"I could say much the same for you." She attempted to calm the tangle of curly brown hair which was pretending to be a cloud around her head. "What do you need to say, Chuck? You already lost me my job, what else can you do for me?" The sarcastic tone of her voice carried well over the poor internet connection, and Chuck winced.

"I didn't mean to lose you your job."

"I know, Chuck, but all that crap about Supernatural being real? That the characters in your books really exist?" The sarcasm increased, and Chuck winced. He took a deep breath.

"That's what I need to talk to you about…" he trailed off and looked around his surroundings for inspiration. Claire raised an eyebrow and waited. The kitten stretched and climbed up her top, coming to rest with its head on her shoulder. "Claire, those boys are real. The stuff I write is real, all of it. Every single fucking thing that's happened to the boys in the books happened to them, for real." Claire sighed heavily, sending the kitten sliding back down into her lap.

"Chuck, it's very nice that you believe-" Her tone was resigned rather than authoritative.

"It's not just believing, Claire! Tell me something I told you I had never told anyone about them." Claire's brow wrinkled as she thought back through the fog of the past few months to the details of the books.

"Their surname. You…you said you never mentioned their surname to anyone, never even wrote it down." Chuck nodded and gestured to someone – or someones – Claire couldn't see.

"Ok, boys, come and tell Claire what you told me." Two men, both tall and broad and completely overwhelming Chuck's presence in the room, came into view. They squatted next to Chuck and stared at Claire. One of the men – with floppy hair and dark eyes which seemed to hold similar pain to Claire's – opened his mouth and closed it again. The other – with short hair and green eyes which appeared shielded, as if he constantly maintained a façade to keep other people unsuspecting of what he was really like – did the same. Chuck growled. "For God's sake, stop staring at her and tell her what you told me! Dean?" The man to whom Chuck had appealed – the short-haired one – blinked and swallowed.

"I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam. Chuck's been writing our story since '05. Exactly as it happened, day in, day out. Everything exactly as it happened." Claire gave Chuck a disparaging look.

"So you just got two random men in off the street to make me believe that the story you wrote is, in fact, completely true. Despite the reams of evidence my editor found to the contrary before firing me. Chuck, this is low, even for you." She moved, the action clearly to cut the video call.

"No, no! Claire don't…don't close this call. Please. This isn't a joke and it isn't a trick. I promise you this is on the level. These boys really are Sam and Dean Winchester. And I need your help." Chuck's voice rose with desperation.

"Chuck, I'm an extremely depressed, highly anxious, very jobless journalist. I have no money and no will to go on, and most of this was caused by you. So do please tell me how exactly I can help you." Claire's accent was becoming more and more pronounced as she got riled. Middle-class English vowels slapped Chuck's ears as she drew herself up to her full seated height, shoulders back, jaw tight, eyes flashing. "And for God's sake will you tell those men to stop staring at me like I'm a zoo exhibit!"

"I've been writing their story, Claire. I've been writing the story of two living, breathing men. And an angel told me I'm a prophet of the Lord." Claire stifled a snort of laughter and took a moment to straighten her face.

"You're delusional, Chuck. Insane. Why on earth would I believe that you're a prophet?"

"Claire, I've started writing about you." She stopped laughing.

"You've been writing about me. What is this, some kind of sick fanfiction? Why in God's name would you write about me?" The man who had not spoken – Claire was going to assume he was Sam – stood up and wandered off, returning a few seconds later with three beers.

"I know it's been tough for you, Claire. Really I do. I've written everything you've experienced – everything, but mostly the things over the past few months – it's been all tangled up with the boys, but it's definitely you. You're the only person I can think of who it could be about." Claire gave him a resigned look and flopped against the wall behind her.

"Did you know these two before you started writing about them?" The lifeless quality which had left her voice returned.

"No, but-"

"Then why would you think you're writing about me?"

"Because I've written things only you would know about you. Things you hinted at while you were trying to get me to open up and talk to you during that interview. And I have no control over what I write…it's prophecy. It's not something I cause. It just happens. And someone wants me to write about you."

"What things, exactly, made you think it was me?"

"You never knew your real dad – your mom got pregnant when he was over from the States on a job, he left, but when she told him she was having you, he came back; just once, but he came back, and he gave you just one thing to remember him by…"

"His name…he insisted on me having his name on the birth certificate. Not that my mum ever showed me my birth certificate, or told me about my name or my father."

"Your mom died when you were six, and you were put into care under her name, not his. You never used his name until you left care when you were sixteen and went into a half-way house. That's when you found your original birth certificate with his name on it and your true surname. You began suffering with depression and anxiety when you were sixteen, and were diagnosed when you took an overdose. You were hospitalised and given psychiatric treatment, but nothing the hospital did could help you. Eventually, you were released from the ward, and you went back to school to take your GCSEs a year late. You passed them all with flying colours despite the fact that you were extremely depressed at the time. You went to sixth-form and took four A-levels – English, biology, psychology and history. You passed them all, exceeding in English and psychology. You went to Winchester University and studied journalism, and then you started writing for a newly-created fandom-based magazine for publication in the UK. And then I came into your life and screwed it all up." Claire had a look of shock on her face. The men with Chuck were watching her with pity and sadness.

"Ok…" Claire cleared her throat. "So you wrote my entire backstory in Supernatural. What do you want me for?"

There's…there's no easy way to say this." Chuck paused and took a deep breath. "Claire, your father was-"

"John Winchester. Widower. Native of Lawrence, Kansas."

"Take that, take what you know…you read the books before you interviewed me. Think about what I wrote…their father was John, they were from Lawrence, Kansas…" Claire's eyes fluttered closed and the three men watched her take a few deep breaths. She opened her eyes again.

"If you're trying to trick me into thinking those are my brothers, you have another think coming, Chuck. I'm not as stupid as I look!" Her raised voice caused the kitten to stir from its nest in her lap, and it let out a plaintive mew. "Don't meow at me, Bilbo, I'm trying to get my head straight." She scooped the kitten up and put it back on her shoulder, its green eyes staring curiously at the screen.

"I'm not lying to you, Claire. Your dad was John Winchester, of Lawrence, Kansas. Their dad was John Winchester, of Lawrence, Kansas. Your dad was a widower when you were born – in '92, right?" Claire nodded. "Yeah, and their dad was widowed in 1983."

"None of which proves I'm related to them."

"For God's sake, Claire!" Chuck was beginning to lose his cool. "I'm a prophet. I got told by God – admittedly via angels – that you're their sister."

"And you think I'm going to believe the ramblings of a delusional, failed writer?" Claire raised an eyebrow at Chuck, pointedly ignoring the fact that Sam was desperately trying to get their attention. "You're more of a moron than I thought."

"I'm not a moron. I'm a bad writer, and my books barely sold, and I sound like I've lost it – Hell, I feel like I've lost it most of the time – but I am not lying to you, Claire. Think about all the connections. Think about the blanks, the gaps that would be filled in." Chuck fell silent and she sat perfectly still for several minutes with her eyes tight shut.

"Claire." Sam's voice was significantly choked, and her eyes flickered open. "I would never have believed him, either. But I've seen him write. He knows everything. He's almost omniscient. He's written stuff about us…I don't want to go into it, to be honest. But he's definitely not lying to you. I swear." He gave her a pleading look.

"Tell me something true." Her voice was quiet.

"Something true?" Sam looked confused.

"Something not in the books. Something I haven't already read about you."

"Uhh. Ok, so one summer I read the entire English dictionary. Dean and dad were away hunting and I was home alone all summer. And I got bored, so I read the entire dictionary cover to cover, adding bits and crossing bits out…" Claire tilted her head to one side – the kitten pawed at her earlobe – and a look of sorrow crossed her face.

"You were alone in a motel room for a whole summer?" Dean looked uncomfortable and shifted where he was standing.

"Yeah. I was too young to go too. I would have been in the way." Sam cut himself off, as a bitterness seeped into his tone. Dean opened his mouth. "It's fine, Dean." Sam bumped shoulders with his brother and looked questioningly at Claire.

"One summer I read a thesaurus. It was the second summer I was in the care home. I'd hide in the attic all day, just me, a torch and this thesaurus, and each evening I'd go back down and pretend I'd been in my room all day playing with my one-legged dolly." Claire shook her head and gave a grim smile. "Dean?" He started at the sound of his name.

"I…"

"You hide what you feel. Good or bad, it gets locked away where no-one can use it against you." His eyes widened.

"Yeah…" Claire half-smiled.

"Chuck?" He had wandered off and was editing a few pages of manuscript, which he carried with him as he came back to the computer. "These men really are my brothers, aren't they?"

"Yes."

A few minutes of stunned silence passed, in which Claire found herself feeling extremely woozy, and the boys watched nervously, hoping she wouldn't pass out. She lifted the kitten from her shoulder, took a long drink of water and rubbed her eyes. She swallowed, pinched herself hard enough to bruise and opened her eyes.

"Ok, so this isn't another one of my bizarre dreams. I have family. Real family, not just the foster ones who let you down over little things like not knowing that being shouted at doesn't mean you're about to be forced to sit in a cupboard for hours, or that someone raising their hand in your direction doesn't mean they're about to hit you." Her tone had become musing. The look of pity and sadness on the boy's faces intensified, and Sam took a wobbly breath, which seemed to pull her out of her reverie. She shook her head. "Ok…so where do we go from here?" She looked like she was fighting an impulse to look hopeful. Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Chuck simply smiled.

"Claire, you and your brothers are destined to be together, the three musketeers of the apocalypse, if you will. I've booked them on a plane to England. They're leaving tomorrow from Chicago airport, arriving at Heathrow at about midnight." Dean and Sam glared at Chuck.

"That's a nine hour drive, jerk."

"It was the first flight I could find!"

"I'm sure I could have waited." Claire's eyes sparkled as she laughed at the boys. They looked at her. The smile changed her whole face. Her sea-green eyes lit up, the beginnings of crows' feet making their presence known. She reached behind her head and pulled her cloud of messy hair into a rough bun, and picked up a pair of glasses from the table beside her and put them on. "So, do you want me to pick you up?" The glasses magnified the sparkling of her eyes, and the boys couldn't help but smile at the mirth lighting her face. Dean squinted at her.

"Now that depends on the car." His tone was playful but the look on his face was verging on deadly serious. Claire giggled.

"You'll just have to wait and see, brother." She struggled to maintain a straight face. "Does my music choice have an effect too?" She gave in to the full-blown grin struggling across her face. The delight – in contrast to the misery the boys had seen previously – made the brothers smile.

"You know what, I think it might."

"Just as well I listen to everything then. 'Course, in my car it's my rules. Driver picks the music, passengers shut their cake holes." Sam and Dean grinned back at her. Chuck – who had been watching silently from the side-lines and smiling – suddenly chipped in.

"As much as I hate to break you three up, I really think Claire should sleep. What time is it over there?"

"Nearly 3am."

"Yeah, it's-"

"8pm for you in Missouri. It is definitely time for me to sleep." She yawned widely, almost catlike, and stretched.

"Ok, little cat." Chuck snickered. "You go to sleep. Just be at Heathrow for midnight. I'll call you to tell you which terminal." Claire nodded sleepily.

"Night, Chuck. I'll see you boys tomorrow." She smiled at them and stuck out her tongue. "It'll be an adventure." She closed the conversation and shut down her laptop. Her stomach was roiling with excitement and hope. She changed for bed, switched off the light, and curled up around a large stuffed dog. The kitten curled up beside her head on the pillow. As much as she tried to push down the happiness she felt, the excitement of meeting family, she couldn't keep the smile from her face or calm her mind enough to sleep.

Scenarios ran through her head, ways the first face-to-face meeting could go. She spent the remainder of the night twisting and turning restlessly, endlessly re-imagining how she would greet them, what they would say. Would they hug? Too soon? Would they need a lot of 'getting to know each other' time? The excitement was overwhelming, but not as overwhelming as the need to sleep, and eventually she drifted into a restless doze.