Chapter 2: It's Actually Kind of a Gray Area To Pick Up Girls In a Graveyard
A groan rolls from my lips. I hear the clatter of people bumbling around, and masculine voices. Everything is muffled and distant though, like I'm under several feet of water. My eyes snap open and I toss and turn wildly, trying to get a grip on my surroundings. Where the fuck am I? I open my mouth, trying to say something to the incoherent voices, but all that comes out is a loud groan. Great! First my memory, now my means of communication. Just fucking peachy. Not to mention the wicked dry mouth and throat. It feels like someone stuffed a cup of pure cinnamon down my throat.
"Hey hey hey," the dark haired man from the graveyard rushes to my side, "Don't try and move."
All that leaves my mouth is a groan. God, this is gonna get annoying real quick. Water, I need water. The man wraps his arms around my torso and helps slide me into a semi-upright position. Better. The thick distant feeling over my senses abates a little.
Enough that I can croak out, "Wa-ter."
"Dean," the dark haired one orders, "Get some water."
My eyes follow the direction he started talking. The shorter guy, Dean, gives the dark haired one a clearly unhappy look before pushing himself off the wall he was leaning against and stalking away. God, what bug is up his ass? I shift my attention back to the one who's actually being helpful.
"What's your name?" the dark haired one asks. His face is oddly gentle, like he's used to this sort of thing, picking up girls in graveyards.
"Wa-ter," I croak out again. So he knows I'm not really in a position to answer his questions and I'm not just being a bitch.
"Of course," he says, "I'm Sam. That was my brother, Dean."
There are so many questions I have and all of them will have to wait. Plus, it just seems like a bad idea to bombard these guys with questions. I'm not sure I really want all the answers I'm asking for. Dean stalks back into the room, clearly shooting me a filthy look as he hands Sam a big glass of water before taking up his position leaning against the wall. What a fucking dog. He's acting like some macho guard dog with his muscular arms crossed over his chest, eyeing me with obvious distrust.
Sam raises the glass of water to my lips. I want to take the glass and swat his hands away, but this is probably best. I don't know how my muscles would handle it. I'd probably dump the glass on myself. That would be just my fucking luck. I gulp down the glass of water in seconds.
"My name is Elvira Castle," I say, my voice still hoarse. Though it's distinguishable now.
"Who are you?' Dean growls. What a brooding mess. There's something about him though, maybe it's the dead look to his eyes, the look of someone so lost, so broken, there's no hope of ever being healed. It pulls at my heartstrings. That doesn't give him the right to be an ass though.
My head whips to face him, "I just fucking told you, jackass."
"I think, well, what he meant was what were you doing in the graveyard?" Sam asks, his voice gentle. "We just want to know what happened."
I look back at Sam, "I – I don't know. I was – well, it was like a massive filing cabinet that went on forever. Then I met this woman. Dark hair, dark skin. She had this weird white ring on her finger. And she touched me. And …" I trail off as those endless eyes flash before me and that voice reverberates in my mind, paralyzing me … daughter. The whatever-it-was leaves in an instant and I stammer out, "I – something happened. Then she said she was going to leave me to fate. She touched my forehead. And all of a sudden I was in the graveyard. Speaking of which …do you guys just do that?"
Sam looks confused, "Do what?"
"Pick up random girls in graveyards?" I ask, "I mean, isn't that a little … dubious?"
"Not usually," Sam says with a little smile, "And it's actually kind of a grey area."
Dean ignores our little exchange and jumps in, "You met Death?"
Okay … how high are these two? Or insane. Insane seems like a viable option. Dean seems a little unhinged. They talk about death like it's some animate conscious thing. I look between the two brothers, trying to catch a hint of a laugh, or the twitch of facial muscle, anything to tell me they're screwing with me. Please, let them be screwing with me. Something tells me these two are serious as a heart attack.
"Uh … what are you talking about?" I say, and try as I might to keep it steady and firm, my voice quakes a bit.
"Capital D, Death," Dean growls out, "Big Mama Grim Reaper. That's who that woman was."
I look at him and say dryly, "Clearly you're not mentally stable."
Dean shrugs, "Okay, don't believe us. It's your ass on the line."
I push myself out of Sam's arms and onto rickety legs. The dark-haired brother shoots to his feet, prepared to catch me if need be. But I'm angry now. I stalk over towards Dean – well, in my head I stalk, what I actually do is probably a lot more like stumbling – until I'm almost chest to chest with him. He doesn't move an inch or even bat an eyelash. That only infuriates me more, cocky stuck-up son of bitch.
"You sir," I bite out right into his face, "Are a grade-A, asshole."
He leans forward until we're almost nose to nose, "Right back at ya, sweetheart."
I whirl to face Sam, "I'm hungry. Do you have any food in this God forsaken place?" Anything to get away from Dean and his salty ass attitude.
Sam frowns, "Not right now. We actually need to do a supply run. Dean and I will go get food, and you can wait here."
There's a special tick in Dean's jaw that tells me he's not thrilled to leave me wherever here is. And I, for my part, get a special kind of satisfaction out of that. I have a feeling that pissing him off is going to be a new favorite pastime of mine. That is, if they let me stay. For some reason the idea of them turning me loose, alone, with no idea who I am, or what to do, makes my pulse race. My breathing starts to quicken as I watch the two men exit the room. They're gone before I can say or do anything. I drop onto the bed. A wave of emotions washes over me. I feel helpless and lost. It hits me like sucker-punch to the gut how little control I have over my life right now.
Slowly, I heave myself off the bed, determined not to waste into my own fears. I decide to explore this place. The bedroom is sparse with only a desk, a dresser, and a bed made up with military green blankets and pillows. There are two old guns, classic pistols that hang on the wall behind the bed. The floor is wooden, probably oak or something, very worn and cold beneath my feet. One of the brothers, probably Sam because God knows Dean wouldn't help, took off my socks and shoes. They now sit neatly beside the door.
I leave the room. I decide this is an abandoned military building, as I peek around in rooms. Everything is sparse, sharp, and utterly utilitarian. Weapons of varying degrees hang from the walls. When I reach the huge main room, I realize my guess is utterly correct. At the end of the room, or rather the beginning, there's a staircase leading to a platform with two tea chair and a table, and on the other side of the platform a big metal door. Somehow, I know that the door leads outside. There's a large table in the middle of the room inlaid with a light up map of the world. On the wall there's a bigger, more detailed map of America, set with all sorts of pins and pictures. Not to mention the cold-war era computers set into the walls beneath the America map, and against the opposite wall.
Spread open on the table are old books. I lean over them. There's some shit about Nephilim, angel-human hybrids. Just what the fuck are these two into? Did I stumble into some weirdo religious cult? Oh, I hope to God not. I would have to nope the fuck out of here real quick. I don't do Jesus. Some of the books are written in languages I don't understand. But the Latin and Ancient Greek, those I read as easily as English. Okay. I know that's not normal. Like, at all. Both are dead languages.
Just then, there's a loud bang above me. I look towards the platform and see Sam and Dean shouldering their way in, each carrying two full grocery bags, three in Sam's case. The dark haired brother shuts the door behind him with his foot. I would offer to help, but I figure they look like they've got it under control.
"Just fucking great," I hear Dean growl when he sees me.
"Right back at ya, big boy," I shout as he's coming down the staircase, throwing an exaggerated wink in for good measure. Gotta do my due diligence in pissing him off, right?
Sam says nothing, opting to make a beeline for a different room. I decide to follow him. Him I like. His brother, not as much. We wind up in a full scale industrial culinary kitchen, like full-blown restaurant. It's a big space, complete with locking fridges and freezers, a table, an open pantry, and all the pots, pans, dishes, utensils, and cutlery a chef could possibly need. My eyebrows raise and I whistle in appreciation.
"Nice set up, you got here," I say, hopping up onto one of the counters, swinging my feet as Sam begins to unpack the grocery bag, "So, uh, where is this place exactly?"
"Lebanon, Kansas," he says, "Where are you from?"
Question for a question. I can respect that quid pro quo. Where am I from? Where am I– a blinding stabbing pain fills my head. Like someone took a white hot poker and drove it through my temple. I scream, throwing my arms up to my head trying to protect it from this pain, and end up falling off the counter. Sam – bless him – rushes to my side, and tries to sit me up. I hear thundering footsteps, what sounds like the cocking of a gun. I can't see through the blinding pain and tears pooling in my eyes. I feel Sam pull me against his chest, pressing his hand against my head, holding it steady. A gasp escapes my lips, as the pain abates suddenly, like someone injected me with morphine. I feel my body shudder. I can't stop the lo keening whines spilling from my lips, no matter how hard I clamp them together.
"What the hell happened?" Dean growls.
"I – I don't know," Sam stammers out (same bud, same), "I just asked her where she's from."
The pain in my head has let up enough for me to get some words out, "This … happens when I … I try to remember."
"Remember what?" Dean asks. For once there's no malice in his voice. Congratu-fucking-lations, he CAN be nice. Lemme just get him a gold fucking star.
I twist in Sam's arms to face Dean. He's still holding his gun, but limply at his side.
"Anything," I say quietly, "Anything but my name. I – I know nothing about myself."
Sam and Dean exchange glances. I hate it when they do that, like they know something I don't.
Dean strides over to me and tosses a couple things into my lap. What looks like an iPod with a pair of headphones and a wallet. My hands are shaky as I take them, and open the wallet. There's a driver's license, and a picture of me. My name Elvira A. Castle. My birthday, November 16, 1991; that makes me … what … 26. And an address for Seattle. Apparently, I'm an organ doner too. Besides the ID, there's two cards, a credit card and a debit card. There's a couple hundred dollars in cash. The last thing I find is a faded polaroid of me and a boy. He's got big brown eyes, a sharp strong jawline, high slanted cheekbones, and a faint smirk. He's got his arm wrapped around my shoulders. I flip it over. Written in chicken scratch is 'El and Ry 4ever 2016'. I can't explain the emptiness I feel seeing this photograph. I just know I don't want it anymore. I hold it out to Dean.
"Can you get rid of this?"
He takes it from me, "Do you recognize that cuck?"
I shake my head, "I just – I know I don't want it. I don't know why."
"Your choice," Dean says with shrug. He gets rid of the picture.
"You alright?" Sam asks.
"I'm okay," I say. But I'm not. I have no idea who I am.
I disentangle myself from Sam's arms and stand on still-weak knees. I wait before moving, until my feet feel solid beneath me. Then, I leave the kitchen. Sam calls out my name, but I can't bring myself to respond. My fist is curled around the wallet and iPod like they're some sort of like line. In a way, I guess they are. Carrying me through the bunker, my feet move of their own volition. Somehow I end up in a garage of sorts. Three or four old time-y cars sit collecting dust as well as a couple motorcycles.
My eyes rove over the different cars before finally settling on a black Chevrolet Impala. It's the only car in here that seems relatively dust free. Something deep inside me pulls me over to that car. I walk over to it, open the driver's side, and collapse into the seat. It's almost like I'm on autopilot. I shut the door. For a long while, I stare at the iPod in my hands. I'm not sure if I'm having too many emotions to process or if I just don't feel anything at all. A deep breath seizes my lungs. Right now, I feel like I am not my own.
My fingers unwrap the earbuds from the iPod and slip both nubs in each ear. Instantly, any minute noises I hear, fade into a muffled sort of faded silence. My hand slides to the top of the iPod where the on button is. I turn the device on. The screen lights up, featuring the apple with the bite out of it. An album cover pops up. There's two little kids sitting in a booth at a really old looking McDonalds. It says the song is Time After Time by Iron and Wine. For some reason, I hesitate. My thumb hovers over the white play symbol. Another deep breath seizes my lungs with no directive from me and my thumb collides with the screen.
/Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you/Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new/Flashback, warm nights almost left behind/Suitcases of memories, time after.../
The music hits me like a sucker punch to my kidneys. At the same time though, I also feel like I'm surfacing after drowning, my lungs greedily filling with air. His voice, the guitar. It all feels so real. It's the first thing that has felt real to me in ages. The music swells into the chorus. My hands find the leather of the steering wheel and I lean towards it. Maybe I'm clinging to the material so that I know I'm real, that this is real, that this isn't some dream that's gone way out of control. My forehead drops and rests on the top of the steering wheel. And I stay like that.
Distantly, through the tidal wave of music and emotions, I hear the car door open. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sam get in the car just as the music fades away. Then it begins anew. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there. And I just sit there, unable to move, unable to speak. The plays again. And then a third time. And a fourth time, before I finally pull the earbuds out of my ears.
"This must be really difficult for you," Sam's voice is gentle.
No shit Sherlock.
"Yes," the word is dry from my dry throat and dry lungs.
"Whatever happens, we'll help you through this," Sam says, "It will be okay, Elvira. We're not just going to throw you out."
My chest lightens a little and I smile, "Thank you."
He puts a hand on my knee. And we stay like that. We stay like that for awhile. It feels good to have someone next to me. I appreciate the human warmth. Eventually though, Sam withdraws his hand. He gives me a warm smile.
"Dean was making burgers for dinner," Sam says, "Come on, they're probably done. Plus, uh, if he finds you in his car, he might kill ya."
He gets out of the car. I follow him. Because what else can I do?