{Chapter One}

Fall

The two men begin asking questions as soon as the heavy car doors slam shut behind us. Normally I wouldn't just leave work like this but I don't typically get into cars with strangers either. Even so, I slide into the wide back seat and buckle myself in. Never taking my eyes off the two sitting up front. I haven't even gotten names yet. The one with the mark is driving while his tall shaggy haired companion is busy typing my address into his phone.

"It's not bringing anything up." He sighs. "I must've put it in wrong."

"Nah, you put it in right." I answer, my voice sounding nasally as I continue pressing the now soaked bandanna against my still bleeding nose. Hoping that the pressure will stop it or at least stem the flow a bit. "The house is set a ways back on the property. It never shows up in google maps.

"Well, lets hope you're good with directions." The one driving replies mildly sarcastic.

"Just stay on the highway till you hit County Line Road. Then it's just a few miles and a right on Ellis drive." I barely finish my sentence when I notice that my left forearm is blanketed in thick streams of blood. Long red legs that have inched their way down to my elbow. Supposedly you can lose a pint of blood before you begin to feel the side effects.

"You alright?" The taller one asks, leaning over his seat to glance at me. His eyes instantly widen with concern. It's obvious he wasn't expecting me to be in such a state when he asked.

"Do I look alright?" I mumble.

Yanking off my apron with my free hand I wrap it around the other. Hoping to soak up the blood. Now I've ruined all of my uniform. Another thirty bucks down the drain. Work policy states all waitress must have two uniforms in their possession at all times. One for work, one for home. That way if some screaming child with oblivious parents runs into you full speed and splays table three's dessert all over your uniform you'll always have a spare. Also, it removes the chance for the excuse of 'I have to go home and change'. The first two uniforms are supplied but after that it's out of pocket or out of paycheck. This is new work policy. We're also suppose to wear those godawful no slip shoes but as long as we swear to never sue the bossman looks the other way.

Gotta love upper management.

"Lean your head back!" The one driving exclaims. Glancing in the rear view mirror to look back at me. His thoughts filled more with anxiety over the possibility of me dirtying up his car than my bleeding like a stuck pig.

"If I lean my head back anymore I'll drown!" I reply equally as insensitive.

After that no one speaks. It's a welcome change. One thing I particularly hate is useless conversation. People with that weird subconscious need to fill the silence. Me, I love it. Perhaps because I so rarely get to enjoy it. As we all settle into our seats the only noises that reach us come from the cool air blowing through their open windows. The engine of the classic steel beauty roaring beneath us. There's no music. Nothing to look at. No real distraction for me to focus my attention on. The sad fact is that it probably wouldn't make much of a difference anyway.

Disconnecting myself as best as I can is proving a much larger obstacle. If I had been jumping hurdles before I was suddenly rock climbing. My mind feels like a radio suddenly tuned into the correct frequency. Volume cranked to the max. No kill switch. I wish my body would just go into some sort of sensory overload and shut itself down. A sort of crazy telepathic built in natural instinct. Sadly I'm not that lucky. There is only open space; yet, somehow tangible. As if I can feel every inch just by thinking of it.

Unbuckling myself I scoot to the other side of the large back seat that is suddenly far too confining. It's not safe but given the current circumstance I honestly don't care. With my one free hand I quickly roll down the driver's side window and lean my head against the cool metal frame. Hoping the fresh air might level me out or at least provide a distraction. Anything to keep me from dwelling on how quickly my world has again been altered. How something as simple as a single accidental touch between two complete strangers managed to make things in my life even more troublesome than I thought possible.

Gradually we pull off the highway and the open fields are quickly replaced by a sea of houses. The majority are old but well kept. This far inland we don't have to worry about hurricanes as much as the coastal region. The worst thing that usually happens is we lose power for a few days or people's basements flood. The latter of which I can't bring myself to feel too terribly bad for. I mean honestly, who builds a basement in a state that's almost completely under sea level? We essentially live in a massive geographical punch bowl.

Regardless of such truths most everyone who lives here does so because they were born here. For such a small town, such a random spot on a map, Lafayette Hollow still has an odd sort of charm to it. It's rural, and almost always humid no matter the season. Festive decorations hang from every street light and store shop window as we pass through downtown. On nearly every corner stands some quaint family owned business. Bakeries, boutiques, and hardware stores. It's a bit like living inside an edition of the Saturday Evening Post but the community is tight nit and the vast majority are truly good people. Strangers wave to each other politely. Rather it be at the super market or to that one kind soul that lets you over in heavy traffic. Just one of many odd southern idiosyncrasies. Like stopping for passing funeral processions or adding a ridiculous amount of sugar to already sweet tea.

Most every home we pass has their Halloween decorations out. Pumpkins sit atop porches. Already carved. Preparing for the coming weekend. School children hop happily from buses in full costume. Running into the arms of parents who stand patiently waiting for their return. Bags already full from the town's after school version of trick or treat. Normally they would simply do it on the night of Halloween but seeing as it falls on a Sunday this year it was decided by the city to celebrate it early. This deep in the south people still take the Sabbath seriously. One child, a light haired boy, dashes out from the bus we're stuck behind. On his back he wears a Star Wars backpack almost identical to the one I had as a child. Watching with a curious sort of fixation from the car's window as the boy's father scoops him up off the sidewalk to lift over his shoulders. The son's laughter drifts in through the open windows and fills every inch of the large vehicle.

My heart swells and shatters all at once.

Twenty five years. Twenty five years of living in my home town, attending every family occasion, and I've never experienced such an open display of love from my father. Not even close to what I saw from this stranger while he tightly hugs his son. Sitting the little boy back down the father turns on his heal. Happy to race him up the front steps and into their happy home. The stop sign attached to the side of the school bus pulls itself against its siding before turning and I feel the car accelerate beneath me. The weight of such a completely incidental moment doesn't fade. It lingers thick in the air. All of us had seen and it brought the same thought to all of our minds.

Our fathers.

It's always been considered such an pivotal role in a child's up bringing. Having their father around. Someone to teach you how to play catch. Give you piggy back rides. All the usual cliche dad character tropes.

Now, you can blame almost anything on daddy issues.

People crack jokes about it. It's a stereotype, but I suppose the same can be said about the truth. In each of the strangers minds they think of their father as the old man. An identical image appears in each of their thoughts. They must be brothers. Regardless of their chosen nickname judging by their thoughts the old man hadn't even lived into his mid fifties. He's been gone for years now but it's obvious that both of his sons shared a heavy sense of loss. Each knew their father had been far from perfect; none the less,, they share a profound mutual respect for him.

He had done his best.

On the other hand, my father is very much alive and we'll speak to each other a handful of times in a year. That had been when I was still living in Charlotte. Now, well I doubt that I'll ever hear from him again. Most people would be upset over such a loss but at the core of it I knew that for some strange unknown reason my father intensely disliked me. Perhaps because I hadn't turned out like my older brothers. To be honest, I can't even see a resemblance. I was better off, all things considered, in my father's absence.

Settling back into my seat I begin to feel a tad better; even so, I can hear most everything on the two strangers minds. If I were ever so inclined to sit down and write a list as to the top things that make life as a telapath difficult:number one, would be how much you can learn about someone before you even know their names.

"Left or right?" The one driving asks somewhat impatiently.

Looking up to the faded street sign I feel a sudden rush of hope. Realizing just how close we are to home. How close we are to the one place I feel comfortable and safe these days. Aunt Myrtle will know some way to fix this. Surely she will. She's a self proclaimed expert on what it is we are.

"Right." I answer. "You'll be able to see the chimney from the street."

The next few minutes pass in an uneasy silence. Even so, I can sense their thoughts racing. Trying to figure out just what it is they've stumbled upon. Considering all the endless possibilities of how this could turn out. What they might be forced to do.

What if this was all just an elaborate trap and something was waiting for them once we reached our destination?

Would I go full on crazy dark side and jump them?

Was I a monster, something to be 'handled'?

All these thoughts so loud and clear and for some reason I can't block out a single one. No filter whatsoever. It's torture having to hear exactly what people think of you. Behind the thin layer of politeness always lies a certain degree of harsh judgment. All of the rude things people think of, but would never dare to actually say out loud...

I hear them.

Granted, I've put in the time training myself to block it out. To some degree at least. After what had happened though. What I had seen. It's as if the entire wall I had spent so much time erecting in my head crumbled in a matter a seconds. My defenses gone. A wounded solider stuck out in no mans land. Praying that some brave soul would come risk their own hide to drag me to safety but instead I lie there. Completely exposed. Slowly bleeding out.

Finally we reach the pale yellow house with its bits of chipped vinyl and assortment of hanging plants. I must be at or nearing a pint of blood lost because I can't even manage the stairs. The shorter one leads me by the elbow. Making sure to cautiously keep the thick fabric of our jackets between us. The taller ones hand hasn't even reached the bright red front door to knock before it swings open. My aunt Myrtle with her mess of ginger curls and bare feet is on me quicker than you can slap a tick. Her welcoming arms wrap themselves tightly around me. Draping me momentarily in one of her lacy shawls. Ever so slowly, her aging hands delicately remove the now soaked bandanna from my pale grasp. Giving me a solemn once over. The deep sigh that escapes her lips and the somber look in her eyes causes my heart to sink even further into my stomach.

"Y'all best come on in." She states softly "We need to have us a talk."

Before I can reply aunt Myrtle has turned her back to rush inside. Feet pitter pattering atop the old hardwood floors. The creaks echoing though out the old house with every step. I'm not sure how but I find myself following her inside. Waving the two strangers behind me to do the same. After all, this concerns them as well.

Shaking off my jacket I hang it on the coat rack nailed to the wall behind the front door and make my way into the small kitchen. The walls are painted an almost identical shade of yellow as the outside. The floors checkered with large black and white squares and nearly all the counter top appliances are red. Even though my aunt Myrtle never really leaves the house she goes shopping on a fairly regular basis. She adores the home shopping network channel and once I introduced her to amazon it was over. When my grandparents passed she had inherited a hefty chunk of cash. Coupled with her disability checks that come in each month, allow her to live from the comfort of her own home. Which is exactly what she intends to do. Even I had brought a few things along with me. Small things. A handful of lamps and paintings. The house isn't much but at least after nearly a year it's beginning to feel like home.

Taking a seat at the table I wait and watch as Myrtle begins brewing a pot of coffee.

We never drink coffee this late in the day.

While the coffee maker hums away aunt Myrtle dashes about the kitchen, grabbing a handful of cookies and pouring a tall glass of juice. Sitting them both in front of me she remains silent. Motioning for me to eat. I have absolutely no appetite but I do remember the nurses in college giving out cookies and juice to the volunteers at the blood drive. As someone with type O blood it was always expected of me to donate.

I always did, and I always passed out.

Reaching forward I begin sipping the sweet orange juice while struggling to hold my bleeding nose. Not a second later Myrtle hands me a fresh dish rag and a straw. Tossing the soaked bandanna into the sink behind her. The cookies come next and after the second one I'm beginning to feel noticeably better. By the time she begins handing out cups of hot coffee to the strangers I can clearly see her hands trembling. Sending tiny drops of the hot liquid onto the table cloth and her petite, jewel covered fingers. She's trying to hide it as she sits a cup next to me, still motioning for me to finish up my juice and cookies first.

For a moment I try peering inside her thoughts but am met with only a thick wall. She's blocking me out.

This is bad.

All I can think about is the day I found out undoubtedly that I could read peoples minds. How I had been kicked out of school a semester shy of getting my degree. How my mother and father had all but disowned me as a result. The fear of that happening again makes me want to cry into my coffee rather than add sugar to it.

Once we all have our mix matched cups, sitting in our mix matched chairs, aunt Myrtle finally takes a seat next to me at the small oak table. Ivory laced table cloth draped atop its cool surface. In one hand she balances a half full cup of dark coffee and in the other she holds a book. It's old and weathered. Its pages aged with time, obvious even from this distance.

"This suga," She begins as she lays what I hope is merely an old journal atop the table. "Has everything I, or any of our kin, has ever known about our conditions."

Passing the book to me gently Myrtle turns her attention to the two strangers. Neither of them seem comfortable enough to drink they're coffee and peering inside their minds I find a fear that perhaps it's been somehow tampered with. Reaching forward I quickly pour creamer and sugar into my own and begin stirring it with a spoon. It's still incredibly hot from having just been brewed but I blow away the steam before taking a sip. Relishing the way it instantly warms me up. People either love coffee or they hate it. For me, it was like a warm security blanket in a cup. A few seconds later and the strangers follow suit. Each relaxing slightly as they exchange the two table top containers between themselves.

"Normally I would ask for an introduction seeing as down here in the south we're supposedly known for our hospitality, but in times like this it just seems silly." Myrtle chuckles with her overly southern draw "You're John's boys aren't you?"

If the feeling in the room was tense before it just became about a dozen times more so. I've never heard Myrtle mention this John man before but I can see his face clearly in each of their thoughts. The same man from before. Their father. The moment in the car earlier comes to mind and I sit back again. Allowing this moment to play itself out. Sometimes the best way to get answers is by staying quiet and simply listening.

"You knew our dad?" The shorter of the two asks instantly, putting aside his coffee and leaning over the table. Nearly knocking my cup over with his elbow.

"We met a couple times, helped him on a few cases in the surrounding counties." Sipping her coffee Myrtle takes her time looking at the two strangers over the top of her red rimmed glasses. "You must be Sam." She adds, nonchalantly pointing at the taller one before slowly turning her eyes to the other. "And you must be Dean."

The one who I had touched, this Dean. Whose horrible past, future, or whatever it was I had seen, nods while picking up his cup with a odd sort of smirk. An emotion I can't quite put my finger on. At least he isn't a complete stranger anymore. He has a name. Something I can remember him by other than all those terrible images. Sitting there, watching the conversation completely from a by standers perspective I'm powerless to stop myself from opening that door. Down in my mind where I don't care to go and for a moment it's as if I can see everything through his hazel eyes.

How strange this all seems. How ridiculous the odds of finding someone like me by picking a place to eat for the simple fact that it shared his name. I can sense him struggling. Wanting to turn his attention to me. Desperate for some sort of reassurance. As if I hold the answers to all the questions he has and my god they're so many. Dozens of them racing around in his head. Shouted all at once from every corner of his mind yet still somehow laudable. Unfortunately I don't have the answers he seeks. There is one thing though... One horrible truth.

"He's going to keep killin'." I mutter softly. Catching them all off guard, having remained quiet for so long while the three were busy talking about how Myrtle had met their father years ago. "Cain, he's not going to stop."

The entire room falls silent, even the fan above us stops its creaking with every rotation. Letting go of the rag and gently brushing the top of my lip I can tell that the bleeding had blessedly came to an end. The two men, Sam and Dean, sit stunned while aunt Myrtle merely puts down her cup with a long sigh.

"It's his bloodline." I continued, stirring my coffee for a second before letting go and watching as the spoon continues to spin before gradually coming to a stop. "He's trying to eradicate it."

"How do you know this?" Dean asks gruffly, his voice like gravel and whine all mixed as one.

"Because my dears," My aunt Myrtle interjects. Gently opening the old worn book that sits in front of me. Delicately turning through its pages. "Our sweet Penelope isn't just a mere telepath like yours truly."

And that's when it hits me. What she had said before...'conditions' not condition.

"Than what am I?" I stammer. Panic hiding underneath my accent. Mentally I berate myself for not doing a better job of holding it together. Scooting her chair closer aunt Myrtle leans forward and turns the book towards me. Carefully flipping through the pages before finally stopping at a particular one. On it, tapped in finely by its corners lays a photo of a woman I could have sworn I knew. There was something so familiar about her.

Like an acquaintance from school whose face I recognize but can't match to a name.

"You sweet child," Myrtle beems, turning away from the book in her hands and reaching out to untuck a strand of hair from behind my ears. "Are a clairvoyant."

Every bit of air in my lungs is gone in an instant.

Explosive decompression at a thirty five thousand feet except no oxygen masks drop from the ceiling to help me catch my breath. Instead I sit there, silent as the grave as the truth I discovered begins disintegrating around me. Engines stalled. Nose down. Catching speed as I plummet towards the inevitable.

I was, never, ever going to be normal again.

"Do you mean psychokinetic?" Sam asks.

"It's comparable." Myrtle answers before turning her attention back to me. "See," She smiles while softly tapping the small handwritten print beneath the photo. "Your great grandmother Broomhilda was one as well."

The more she talks about our family's history the more excited aunt Myrtle's voice becomes. It's not often that we can be so open with strangers. I suppose these two men, these 'Hunters' are exceptions.

"The light hair is a dead give away, and those eyes sweetheart." Grabbing my chin gently in her hands she tilts my head back. Peering down at me as if I just climbed out of those worn pages rather than having slept across the hall for nearly a year. "All trademarks."

That's when it hits me like a splash of cold water to the face. If my aunt had known about this book, then my mother undoubtedly did too. Which would mean that she knew what I was most likely going to turn out to be. Maybe not entirely, but buried deep like a ghost at the back of a closet some part of her knew what I was.

Or at least what I could be.

And she had said fucking nothing.

"Why?" I ask, sucking the air in between my teeth. An invisible rope tightening around my throat. If I weren't on dry land I'd swear I was drowning. Grabbing Myrtle by the wrist I lightly shove her hand away. I don't want to be touched by anyone. "Why didn't anyone say something to me about this if it was all so obvious?"

Standing up from the table I make my way to the opposite side of the kitchen.

"What are you-" Myrtle begins but I silence her by holding up my bloody index finger. Pulling open the cabinet above the fridge I glance at the selection of liquor to choose from. Grabbing the nearest one I twist of the top.

"Oh honey!" Myrtle exclaims. "Tequila is no good with..."

Looking her in the eye I wrap my lips around the rim and gulp it down until my throat burns.

"...coffee."

"Okay I'm going to polish this off." I take another large swig and make my way back to the table. "And you," I point at Myrtle as I slide back into my chair. "you're going to tell me everything you know about what I am. No lies, no withholding, no sugar coating alright?"

Sighing Myrtle nods and takes a larger gulp of her bitter coffee. Honestly I have know idea how a woman so tiny and delicate looking as her can chug back cup after cup of black coffee and not end up in the ER or climbing the walls. Just goes to show that you can never judge a book by its cover. Especially when it comes to us girls. My aunt my look dainty but she was anything but.

"Lets start with the most obvious question." I begin, pulling the rag from my nose to expose the stain of blood on my skin. "Why is my nose on its period Myrtle?"

After that it was just one long history lesson. Everything my family has documented about the clairvoyants in our bloodline. I was only the third in a span of nearly two hundred years. Apparently we're rare yet thankfully enough my great grandmother Broomhilda was quite the writer and filled nearly a half dozen pages herself. The blood is apparently a claiming of sorts. A sort of symbolic affirmation of the gift of clairvoyance. Gift is the last word I would use to describe what I was going through. Broomhilda had also written about crippling headaches. Premonitions in the form of dreams and nightmares. Even the use of telekinesis on an occasion while under tremendous stress. The list goes on an on. When we at last reach the final entry I can sense the frustration inside me turning to anger. All of those questions I had asked Myrtle and the answers were here the whole time.

"Why did you keep this from me?" I demand. My hands begin trembling and I have to ball them into fist to keep them still.

"Suga bae I didn't want to go worrin' you till I knew for sure." Myrtle reaches for my hands again but I wrap them both around the bottle and continue drinking. Alcohol is a depressant but I'll take what little relief I can get.

"I mean look at your cousin Amy," Myrtle continues, "She's practically a carbon copy of your great grandmother and the best thing she's done with her life is graduate high school without having a baby."

"That's because Brody wasn't due till July!" I shout a tad bit too loudly. The color rushing to my cheeks while shaking my head at how stupidly far off the subject we had gotten.

Beside me I can hear Dean chuckle lightly. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Sam nudging his brother in the side. A disapproving glance aimed his way. It was a small comfort that at least I wasn't the only person taking this whole mess seriously. Crossing my arms I do my best to control the anger boiling up inside me. I had heard that exact same excuse before, minus the bit about my cousin Amy.

"You know." I sigh, struggling to voice the words myself. They were harsh. Mostly unwarranted. I already knew that, but this was suppose to be a home built on honesty. Not secrets. That hasn't kept my aunt, who I've grown to trust and love, from withholding all of this from me. "You sound just like mother."

Slamming the journal closed I shove it away from me. Nearly knocking over my chair as I spring up from the table and hurry out the screen door. I don't bother grabbing a coat. The thermometer outside says the temperature has dropped ten degrees but I can't feel it. I've read articles about people under extreme stress becoming numb to pain. Soldiers at war who have been shot and don't even realize it because of the adrenaline pumping through their veins. Mothers who will run through fire to save their children. In this instance it's more than likely just the alcohol but with the way today has been going it wouldn't surprise me much either way. This was getting down to basic instincts here.

Fight or flight.

I know what I had said must have hurt my already fragile aunt. That it had cut deep, but people such as myself...we're like wounded animals. Backed into a corner but still unwilling to give in.

If it comes down to it, we will tear you to shreds.

The cool air raises goosebumps as I hurry outside and around to the opposite end of the wrap around porch. Shivers soon follow. Only now does it occur to me that I haven't even changed out of my uniform. Worrying about such a trivial thing manages to make me feel even worse about myself as I settle atop the first step that leads down to the massive back yard. Wrapping my arms around myself I begin rocking gently. Partly to keep warm but mostly as a sad attempt to stop the knots twisting inside my stomach. Behind me I hear the screen door open. I don't have to look up to know it isn't Myrtle. The steps are too heavy to be her's and I don't recognize the thought signature.

Every mind has one, like a finger print. No two are the same. The more time I spend around people the more familiar I become with them. On most days I can pick up on my aunt's before even turning down the long driveway that leads to her house.

Knowing it had to be one of the two men from earlier I quickly wipe away the tears gathering in my eyes and straightened my posture. I hate crying under any circumstance. Whenever I feel that lump rising in the back of my throat I force it down. Never allowing myself to give in. Crying in front of a close friend is one thing, almost tolerable. Crying in front of someone I've just met is beyond ridiculous. I never want anyone seeing me like that.

"I'll go apologize in a sec," I mutter, glancing back to see the taller of the two men looking down at me. Brow furrowed. "I just need some fresh air."

The old porch floorboards begin to creak again as he moves to sit on the opposite side of the top step. His long legs nearly reaching the sidewalk. For awhile he says nothing. Instead keeping to himself quietly. Allowing me to sit in the silence. Broken only by the sound of leaves rustling and the last of the cicadas singing faintly in the distance. In a week they'll be none left. The entire yard will be a foot deep in dead leaves.

I suppose its just that time of year when most everything dies.

"You're Sam right?" I ask, finally breaking the silence. Smiling slightly, he simply nods before pushing his hair out of his face. "I'm sorry I dropped your garden salad on the ground." I mutter as I began ringing my hands. Another nervous habit that's resurfaced yet again.

"Seriously, don't even worry about it." He chortles slightly. "Dropped salads are the least of our worries."

"That is a vast understatement."

Again the silence creeps its way back in. Neither of us knowing how to address the obvious issue sitting inside the kitchen. Currently devouring a slice of my aunt's homemade caramel apple pie.

"I know this is going to sound corny but I actually kind of know what you're going through." Sam says. His hands held together atop his bent knees as he gazes out into the open dark night. The house was built on only a few acres; yet, the trees with their thick coats of swaying moss offer a semblance of privacy. Enough to feel the disconnect from the suburbs of the inner city.

"So one day you suddenly discovered you had psychic abilities and your whole life went to shit?" I counter, highly doubting the likelihood of my being correct. Then I see it. Just for a second, like peeking through a cracked doorway.

My insides twisted with guilt as he turns to face me.

"Yea pretty much." He laments, his voice no where near as gruff as his brothers.

"You're telling the truth." It isn't a question. I know he's being honest with me. Even so he nods. "Damn...but you're not anymore are you?"

"Nope." He replies, turning his attention again to swaying trees in the distance. I don't pry any further. Whatever had happened it was clearly a sore subject.

Behind us the screen door again creaks open and a few seconds later I'm met with the warmth of my jacket being laid atop my shoulders. Turning around I find Dean now leaning against the wooden railing. The tequila I left inside now in his right hand.

"Can I get another belt of that?" I ask, pushing myself off the step. I stumble and have to grip onto the faded white post for support as the left side of my face collides with it. "Shit fire!" I hiss.

"Um I think maybe you've had enough." He replies, trying and failing to hide the laughter in his voice. As I continue to struggle with my balance I realize that he's right.

"The mark, can I see it?" I request. Fear surging through my veins as I push my cheek off the side of the wooden post. I'm sure I'll have a slight bruise tomorrow but I could care less. Every time I drink I wake up with at least three mysterious bruises. Not a word is said. He merely shrugs off one side of his jacket and rolls up his sleeve. The sight of it makes my stomach leap up into my chest and then quickly back down. The feeling of realizing you want to get off the roller coaster right as it starts.

Complete hopelessness.

"You have to get rid of it." I utter, tearing my eyes away from it and instead connecting with his. "And you've got to stop Cain." I add, carefully reaching forward and slowly unrolling his sleeve. Being extra diligent not to make any sort of physical contact. Afraid that I might somehow see something dreadful yet again.

"We're way a head of you sweetheart." Dean remarks, grinning confidently before taking a swig. It's so painfully transparent. Such an obvious attempt to cover up the very real truth that Cain is in the wind. Everyday slipping further and further from the weak grasp the two brothers had convinced themselves they had on the situation. Sliding his arm back into his jacket as Sam stands and walks to over to us. It affords Dean a reason to keep his eyes adverted from mine. The fact that I can simply read his thoughts clearly making him more than just a little bit uncomfortable.

It isn't in my nature to pry yet I don't mind keeping that bit of personal knowledge from him for the time being. I can; however, feel aunt Myrtle listening in on the other side of the screen door. I want to agree with him. To encourage them that what I had seen wasn't all that bad. That this was all just an over reaction but I that would be lying. There is already enough of that going around. I'm not going to be just another hypocrite.

"No," I admit. Immediately his eyes meet mine. All the confidence drained from his face in an instant. "You're not."

The two brothers share yet another worried glance. Their faces down cast. The realization that a complete stranger could see through their lie was now thrust right in their faces. It doesn't take being a so called 'clairvoyant' to see the doubt in their eyes or hear it in their voices whenever the subject came up. It's an emotion so recognizable that it couldn't be mistaken for anything else. It's fear. Neither of them are willing to admit it but they were both scared.

At that moment I had a sort of epiphany.

Maybe I could do some good with this condition of mine. My aunt has always called it a gift. Personally, I consider it as more of a curse. A disability. Something that would always keep me right on the cusp of my hopes while holding me back just the same. Perhaps it was both. Two sides of the same coin. Just a matter of perspective.

"That's okay," I assure them. Crossing my arms and trying to sound brave. "Because I'm going to help you."

Sorry about the wait. As always thanks again for all the favs, follows, and reviews.

-Mary