Sam
I awaken quite abruptly as my head dips to the right, slamming against the glass. Suddenly my head is throbbing again, and it's not just Dean's shitty music or because it just hit the car window. One of them might be a factor, though.
"Can you at least turn the volume down?" I barely hear myself holler over the loud thumping.
"Are you kidding? This is my favourite song!" Dean flashes a winning grin – the one that gets the girls' numbers – and turns the volume up a notch, just to annoy me.
"Where're we headed?" I say grumpily, staring at the bleak horizon stretched out in front. My stomach growls, as if on cue, but the music's too loud for Dean to notice. Not that I'd want him to.
"Dunno. Nowhere. Anywhere. Somewhere. There's a gas station half an hour ahead, though."
I sigh softly in relief, shifting my cramped legs uncomfortably. I let my eyes close again, resuming the fight to block all sound out. I can feel the car seat vibrating to the beat of the horrible noise Dean calls music. The pain in my head follows, a dull, ceaseless thumping gaining momentum. I breathe deeply, trying to catch some air, as my head spins involuntarily.
"Dean, turn that thing off or I swear I'm not gonna use a bag if I puke." I wait a couple of seconds for my threat to sink in, and the sound stops miraculously. I fight back a small smile.
"You okay?" The standard question. I've lost count of how many times I've heard and said those two words. I look at Dean, who looks back at me blankly with a frown planted on his face. I can almost see a look of concern behind it, but I know it's not visible to the naked eye. It never is.
"Peachy keen," I retort, trying and failing to stretch my legs. Dean shakes his head in mock incredulity, his eyes carefully trained on the road. He adjusts his grip on the wheel.
"I hear ladies can PMS once a month, but you?" He stops, looks at me then lets out a low whistle. "Every three miles."
I'm not stupid enough to reply. I'm kind of used to Dean referring to me as a girl. Fine. As long as I know I'm not, I'll live. I knock my head back into the headrest, willing the migraine to go away.
I know the silence is killing Dean. He licks his lips as though he's about to say something, but doesn't because he knows I want to rest. Not that he tells me this, but it doesn't take a genius to find out. Hell, I'm his brother. Where'd you think all the vulgarities came from? You try hanging out with him for a year and it'll rub off on you. Regardless of your status as a monk or Reverend.
"Can I turn the music back on, please?" Dean asks in a rush, as though he'd been dying to say it since he switched it off.
"Just don't make it too loud," I say, smiling inwardly at Dean's immaturity.
"It was never too loud, Sammy," he quips, but when the music comes on, it's an ear-friendly volume. I feel like thanking him, but I know how much he hates 'chick flick' moments.
"It's Sam," I correct for the umpteenth time. The first few times I did that, it was out of annoyance, but I can't help but feel assured when Dean calls me Sammy. I don't tell him that, though.
A short while later I'm being woken up: it was barely ten minutes of sleep, but I'm feeling a little better than before.
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," I hear my brother's familiar voice. I blink dazedly as light floods into my eyes.
"Bite me," I retort playfully. "No, kiss me."
"Good to have you back, Sammy." I hear an appreciative response as I swing the door outwards and step out, inhaling the revolting smell of gasoline. I hang around, tapping the roof of the Impala to a song stuck in my head as Dean fills the gas tank. Then we both head to the small kiosk, stretching our legs thankfully.
The store is empty except for a cashier leaning against the cash register, blowing pink bubblegum and letting it pop loudly. I know Dean's watching her as I head to the shelf of aspirin to restock our supply, grabbing a large box of band-aids on the way. Just as I lift a bottle from where it sits, I feel a sudden rush of lightheadedness. I drop the bottle back on the shelf with surprise, but a second later the feeling's gone. I sigh in relief: false alarm. I pick the bottle back up, listening to the pills rattle noisily within.
"You okay?" Dean's voice is right beside my ear, painfully emotionless. I wince. Are those the words of the day or what?
"I'm fine," I say forcefully, just to emphasise my point.
"You sure? 'Cause you kinda look like Snow White's grandson… I mean granddaughter." Trust Dean to come up with a lame joke like that. I'd laugh if I were feeling better.
"Shut up," I reply simply. Short and sweet, no fooling around. "If you ask me if I'm okay one more time I'm gonna – " I interrupt myself with a gasp of pain. There's a distant clatter of a bottle of pills dropping – is it the one I'm – or was – holding? I'm not too sure. Pressure builds in my head, so intense I think my head is going to explode. I press my palms to my temples in hope of relieving the pain somehow, my eyes screwed shut, and I sway unsteadily as a strong wave of nausea accompanies the intense headache as scenes flash before my eyes. I reach out my hand to grab something to keep me standing, and it closes on something both warm and hard. For a brief moment I wonder what I'm holding on to, but it's incredibly strong so I tighten my grip.
Then the vision's over and I black out.
Dean
I wince slightly as Sam's fingers clench my forearm tightly. Damn, that's gonna leave a mark. His fingernails dig viciously into my skin – when the hell'd he grow nails longer than Jo's? I curse silently. The cute cashier pops her gum in the background.
"Sam," I whisper, steadying him by gripping his shoulder and holding my arm as stiffly as possible, until the bone hurt. "Come on, Sammy, don't tell me you're having another freaking vision." He doesn't reply.
"Fuck," I mutter, tossing the fallen bottle and box of band-aids into a random shelf, slinging Sammy's arm across my shoulders, grumbling under my breath as my shoulders threaten to give and about how he just had to be taller than me. I head back to the Impala, wrench the door of the passenger seat and place Sammy in an upright position the best way I can, reclining the seat slightly. Then I pause, make sure he's out cold, and wipe the sweat away from his brow with the cuff of my jacket. I swear to God, if Sammy ever finds out I just did that, my reputation's bombed. Bigtime.
Natalia
I give my gun a final wipe then reach down, lifting my mattress and tucking it under. Then I tug my trusty memo pad from under a pen stand, pick up my pen in my left hand and scribble Gone running at 6.28am. I sit back to check the straightness of the sentence, then click my pen shut, rip out the page and lay it on my already made bed.
I pull on my grey-and-green running shoes, tighten the laces, then pull my hair into a high ponytail and slink out of the room. The back door swings shut with its usual bang as I step out into the cold early morning air, sandy gravel ground crunching faintly beneath my feet. The air is surprisingly still; the sky still has traces of indigo splashed across. I start running along the side of the road, kicking up the gravel on the way, picking up speed as I put a fair bit of distance between me and the Roadhouse.
I like to run, a lot. It gives me time to think, or daydream, or just blank out my mind. I used to be a sprinter in high school. I won a couple of golds, nothing too fancy. Then I stopped, and didn't go to college. I've been helping out at the Roadhouse ever since. The pay's not great, but Ellen makes sure I'm happy. I'm not sure if I am, just sitting around all day at the saloon. It's rewarding once in a while when I can help out in hunts. But that's a rare occasion.
My breathing starts to get slightly heavier as I break into a flat out run. The gravel is slippery from an earlier shower, and I feel the small bits of stone cut into my calves as they're kicked up. It's a nice feeling.
Dean
We've been driving for about three hours now. I'm still sleepy as hell, and it's bad enough to try to drive when you know your brother in the seat next to you is having a good lie-in. Next time, Sammy's doing the early morning drives, I decide.
But I know I'm just joking with myself. He's had a tough couple of days, headaches and all that shit, so I'm doing all I can to be a supportive brother. And not really succeeding.
The radio has also been off for three hours. It's funny how the silence always deafens me. I keep wanting to open my mouth and just say something to cover it up, but I don't want to wake Sammy up. I sigh as quietly as I can, blinking a few times to wake myself up a little more, and step down harder on the accelerator, watching the needle climb and hearing the engine crank up to a low roar. The only form of sound loud enough to block out the silence. Let's just hope Sam's a heavy sleeper.
"Speeding again?" Darn. He just had to wake up.
"It's 6 in the morning, Sammy boy. Nobody in the right mind would be up this early," I say in my most patient voice.
"You never know," he murmurs lethargically, gazing blearily ahead.
"Go back to sleep, Sam," I say firmly, and out of the corner of my eye I see him wince. I really need to learn how to adjust the crudeness of my voice. Someday. Maybe once I've wasted that motherfucking yellow-eyed demon once and for all.
There's silence once again. I let my thoughts stray to Jo and Ellen as I steadily increase the speed of the Impala, frowning in thought. Frowning at the fact that my dad, the ruthless hunter, had screwed up at the worst time possible, costing someone else's life. I find myself wondering vaguely how I'd deal if I screwed up and Sammy got killed, somehow. Or if I didn't save him and had to kill him. My breath catches as I remember Dad's last words. I bite my lip inwardly, my frown deepening as I fight off tears. Come on, Dean. It's wussy to cry.
I blink suddenly as I realise I'm going off the road, and swerve to the left quickly as I almost run into a girl running along the road. I floor the brakes instinctively, cringing as the tires squeal to a stop as the side of the car hits her none too gently as she tries to leap out of the way. Sam jolts awake.
"No. Tell me you didn't." He gives me a horrified, deadpanned look. I return it, swallowing, and reach out to open the door. At the side of the road was a girl lying on her side in an awkward position. She sat up slowly, wincing slightly, glaring at me at the same time.
"You oughta watch where you're going," she spat pointedly, getting to her feet shakily. I raise my eyebrows humourlessly as I check her out.
"Yeah, well, my bad," I reply, with a winning Dean Winchester grin. "I don't usually ignore chicks like you." I can feel Sam's eyes roll at my comment.
"Are you okay?" He asks. Ah, Sammy. The sympathetic one. The girl grimaces a little as her green eyes slide from me to Sam.
"I've been better." She brushes off some sand on her arm gently, shaking her hair out of her eyes. She's holding her right arm very stiffly, but I choose to ignore it, for some reason. There's a long silence as I look around at the bleak landscape, scuffing the road with the tip of my boot as Sam shuffles his feet apologetically.
"I'd better be going, then," the girl says uneasily, backing away a little.
"You need a ride?" I ask, maybe a little too eagerly. Sammy glares at me forebodingly. "What?" I ask innocently.
"No. Thanks." She starts to walk away, turning her back to us.
"I'm Dean!" I suddenly shout on impulse, smiling again. She stiffens, turns, and nods rigidly.
"Lee." She breaks into a run, leaving Sam and I alone again.
"Way to go, Dean," Sam says sarcastically. "Looks like your charm's wearing off."
I pretend to look wounded. "Just get in the goddamn car," I say finally, punching him playfully in the shoulder. And we're on the road again.
Natalia
I finally walk into the saloon, which is thankfully empty, and slump into the nearest chair. I was so stupid to get into that car accident. I let out a long, exhausted breath and tilt my head back.
"Tahlie! Where the hell have you been?" Leilah comes storming out of one of the backrooms. Oh, joy. Just what I need right now.
"Running," I say blithely. Not a complete lie.
"What's that?" My elder sister points to the long scratches on my arm, where the gravel had nicked at when I was hit by that car.
"I fell," I reply dispassionately. I look her in the eye, as though daring her to say more. Unfortunately, she does.
"Don't give me your trash talk, Natalia. What happened? Were you mugged? Who was it? I'm gonna beat that guy up sooo bad – "
"Leilah. Seriously. It's nothing." I smile weakly at her, knowing it probably looks like a grimace. She rolls her eyes at me and fixes me a blank look. "Okay, fine, I'm a sucker for pain. Is that such a big deal?" The long stare continues. I purse my lips defiantly. "Fine. I got knocked down by a car. See? No biggie."
Leilah's eyes widen in alarm. "You what?! Are you okay?"
"Alive and kicking, sis," I bite back sardonically. Leilah ignores my remark and bends over, examining my right arm. "Look, I'm fine. It's just a few scratches – OW!" I yank my arm away and glare at her reproachfully as she twists my wrist.
"It's sprained," she says plainly, rolling her eyes. "You got two choices. Number one: I fix it. Number two: I drag you to China for an acupuncture course."
I feign a look of shock and horror, momentarily genuinely terrified. "You wouldn't!" I say in a stage whisper.
"I would," Leilah replies firmly. "You stay right here. I'mma pull out the first-aid kit. Hang in there, Lee." She walks away and I breathe a sigh of relief. I really thought she was going to go all big-sisterly on me. Or big-half-sisterly. Whatever.
I'm still for awhile as Leilah wraps a bandage tightly on my wrist, jerking it firmly. "What're you trying to do, sprain it?" I yank my arm out of her light grip, scowling. She always forgets how much pain I can stand. Which isn't a lot, by the way.
"Keep still," Leilah threatens me. "Remember the acupuncture spa thing? I bet I could still sign you up." Now, that sure as hell silences me. I bite my lip and extend my arm again.
"That's just low," I complain. Leilah gives me a small smile as she soaks a lump of cotton with iodine.
"That's my style, honey," she says simply. "Now this is gonna sting." She drags the wet brown lump all along the outer side of my arm, which sports, oh, maybe only a few trillion scratches, and I find myself wishing it was salt instead. I open my mouth, a certain four-letter word on my tongue.
"Don't even think about it," Leilah says immediately. "No bad language for you."
"I'm twenty, Leilah, not two," I say scathingly. "I was legal two years ago. Fuck. And plus you say it all the time." I stick my tongue out at her mockingly.
"One," Leilah argues. "You're twenty this year. And your birthday isn't for another half year. I'm older, Natalia. Fuck." She lets the word roll in the air for a moment, satisfied.
"That makes me feel so much older, you know?" I laugh sardonically. Then I pause in a moment of serious thought. "D'you think Ellen'll let us hunt by ourselves this year?"
"You know she won't," Leilah replies bitterly. "And you ask the same question every year." She dabs off the excess drops of iodine.
"Ah, well," I say with false cheeriness. "Let's just hang around and rot for another year. There's still next year, right?" I sigh and shake my head. "Leilah, we're going to die stuck in this Roadhouse."
"We're not," Leilah says fiercely. "Don't be such a pessimist."
"Love you, too," I snipe back. She smiles a little at me.
LeilahThere's a smile ready to twitch out from the corners my mouth, and I let a little back at Natalia. Only God knows how fragile that girl is, slipping and sliding and falling left, right and center. Sometimes I think we weren't meant to be happy. We're a magnet for bad luck and unfortunate events, that's as sure as hell.
Zed suddenly slides into my memory, soberly flipping through the papers for a lawyer, and Mom, lying motionless, blood trickling slowly away. I shake my head to clear the painful jarring vision of Natalia sobbing away in the corner, but my skin remembers the feeling of her sticky tear-stained face as she ran and threw her arms around my neck.
Even though she's not really my sister, but hell, I love her. That's the only thing Mom left me. No last words. No hugs and certainly no kisses.
Just Natalia.
Whom I know will be my responsibility for the rest of my life.
Who is also right about the fact that we will die old spinsters in the Roadhouse.
God, it's stifling. Fuck, I need a life.
I can't just play big sister all the time. I want to see the world, you know? Fall in love. Let waves wash over my feet. Do things that I read about in books.
Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Ellen's out, so I naturally assume responsibility. It's the order of nature, ain't it? Power goes to the next in command. I can't fight nature.
Natalia jumps up to open the door. I know she's as eager as me to be freed, but she's my responsibility. God knows what's at the door.
I shove her aside gently and she gives an indignant frown. I ignore her and open the door. Damn, girl, it's for your own good.
SamI insist to Dean that we follow the girl home to wherever she lives and apologise formally. She's bound to have a guardian. Somehow I feel guilty for Dean's mistake. Somehow.
Dean, on the other hand, grins like an idiot. Finally, we're meeting a girl, he says. And then he proceeds to elaborate how difficult it is for a man with his job to get a girlfriend. I consider retorting back that I have a girlfriend, and Jessica's face hovers hazily before my eyes for a moment.
Wait. Jessica's gone. I feel hollow for a cold, lonely and chilly moment. Maybe Dean is right after all. Funny how he always is at the end of the day. I glance at my older brother, who is standing beside me on the porch of the girl's house.
He brushes his hair with his hand, dusts his jacket, and smiles cockily at me several times, as if to assure himself of his charm. I almost snigger, but I remember what we're here for.
Tentatively, I press the doorbell, which rings with a cheery ding-a-ling. There seems to be a brief scuffle at the door, and it is opened by a tall, slender girl dressed in jeans and tatty black button blouse. Oddly, I look down. Somehow I can't look into her eyes.
I notice she's wearing scuffed brown boots, which she drags the rubber insole on the wooden floor idly as she glances at us and says, "Yes, what do you want?"
Dean takes advantage of my momentary pause to cut in, and before I could stop him, he surges ahead and says brightly, "Oh, does Lee live here? We followed her home. I kinda knocked her down by accident."
From the cold look on the girl's face, I don't have to tell Dean that that was totally wrong thing to say.
"So what the hell are you doing here? Get the fuck out before I kick your asses," she half-snarls angrily.
But Dean is irrepressible. He spots Lee and waves. She comes over, and stands by the girl at the door. They must be sisters. That same strong jaw, high cheekbones and glassy green-grey eyes.
"We're sorry," I say. I finally force myself to look into at the girl face to face, but still averting her eyes and addresses her solemnly. "We just wanted to make sure that you were alright, and that nothing serious happened to your sister."
"Yeah. I'm sorry!" Dean grins brightly, flashing the razzle-dazzle smile. I swear I could feel it whoosh past me in its materialized form to the girl named Lee.
Lee sighs. "Okay, fine, I accept your apology. Do you want a drink or something? Then go, after that, before Lei murders you."
Lei begins to protest. "These men knock you down. And then you offer them a coffee. Fuck, Lee. When are you going to grow up?"
"I'm twenty," she protests. "And it really partly my fault. So let's be gracious for once. They don't look dangerous to me."
There's a slight whine in her voice, and Lei relents.
"Alright," she whispers softly, like the decision to let us in is a matter of life and death. "Alright." She backs up against the wall to let us in and as I walk past her I finally glance into her eyes. A strange sensation sends shivers up the small of my back as my eyes meet her marble-like ones.
I don't know where I've felt that before, but I seem to enjoy and dread that sensation at the same time.
Lei shuts the door, and it slams, filling the air with a sort of resolute finality.