Chapter Two

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As I crossed the lot, I noticed a young mother in a polka dot dress struggling with her crying infant. It made my stomach flip. Jessica and I had talked about kids. She wanted ten. I would have settled for one.

I stood in front of the newspaper vending machine and squeezed my eyes shut, the crying infant morphing into the screams of the young girl I couldn't save. I could still see splashes of red, could still smell the musky stench mixed in with the sweet scent of her cologne, could still hear her short cutoff scream as the troll's killer jaws clamped down on her throat, sloppily tearing away at flesh.

The hunt played in my head like snapshots. I concentrated hard, examining each photo. Picking it apart and hoping to make sense of it all. Nope…wasn't happening. There was no big mystery. No huge secret.

There was a monster.

I didn't properly identify it in my research.

We didn't have the proper weapons to kill it.

And now another young girl –about Jessica's age – was dead – 'cause of me.

The cruelness of it made me dizzy, and I stuttered sideways. Snapping my eyes open, I resisted the need to grab onto the vending machine for balance knowing Dean was still watching, feeling his eyes tracking my every breath.

Quick as I could, I dug out some change, grabbed a paper, and stepped into the diner.

I looked back over my shoulder through the glass door to watch as Dean finally pulled out of the parking lot, leaving behind a trail of dust.

I knew I was being a bitch. Driving Dean crazy and causing him more worry.

I felt bad about that. I did. But I couldn't seem to help it. All I could concentrate on was my screw up…and the fact Jessica was dead. That pushed and shoved and pried and picked apart at my insides. With each passing day the feeling only intensified. My only goal at this point…we had to find dad. It was the only thing driving me forward. I had to have answers first. Dad would have those answers.

I swallowed down hard, but that dry feeling in my mouth never would go away. Dean was right about one thing. I needed to stay in the saddle.

I waited until the Impala's dust settled. Then did as the sign said and proceeded to seat myself, making my way across the restaurant newspaper determinedly clutched in my hand. The sweet smell of honey and orange and robust coffee surprisingly made my stomach rumble with hunger for the first time in days.

It was a busy place, Sonny's. The exuberant sounds of dishes rattling and forks clinking and people enjoying one another's company filled the huge barn-like space. I sat down in an overstuffed booth in front of an overly large window that let the sunlight stream straight through. Everything about the place was big. Made up of solid wood. Wood walls, wood floors, a peaked nine-foot high beamed ceiling. Antique railroad lanterns hung from hooks, and the walls were decorated with an array of cowboy paraphernalia. There were paintings of bucking broncos, and wild stallions, ten gallon black cowboy hats, bullwhips, fake rifles, and a bleached bull skull with polished horns. I quickly looked away stifling the need to burn the thing.

It was like walking through time into the western frontier.

"Be right with you, darlin."

I spared a glance up at the well-built waitress with the Texan accent. She was wearing a short white skirt, pink plaid shirt, and pink bandana tie to match. She breezed past with a basket of fresh biscuits in one hand, and a pot of aromatic black-bold coffee in the other, her brown-leather cowgirl boots scuffing across the wooden floor almost in a dance.

"Dean's going to love this place." I blew out a breath, dragging a hand through my mud-crusted hair. I opened up the paper and spread it out, settling back against the leather seat.

Less than a minute later, a cup of steaming coffee, a basket of buttery biscuits, and a menu were placed in front of me.

"You look like a biscuits and coffee sort of fellow." She winked. "Be back in a jiff for your order," she said and then scuff-danced off again.

I didn't open the menu…knew what I wanted….and didn't take a sip of my coffee, though my dry mouth begged for it. Instead I zeroed in on the paper, right off seeing a car ad for a brand new Impala. I had to laugh at that. Dean would never trade in the Impala. Sure she was old… I physically bulked. I mean she was a true classic, I corrected knowing Dean would have hauled off and decked me one if I'd said that out loud in front of him.

I flipped to the next page of the paper and started reading an article about global warming and still thinking about the Impala. If I was being honest, that car was the non-craziest part of our lives. Sure she required a lot of maintenance, but Dean kept her going. Breaking out the tools if he even heard a tiny ping or she skipped a beat. It wasn't a money issue. It was a love issue.

And man, he loved that car. I loved her too. She really was home. But Dean…he was born to drive her. He had a knack for making her purr in a way dad, nor I, ever could.

Dad. Dad. Dad.

I flipped through a few more pages not finding anything of interest when a sudden bout of loud crying pulled my eyes up. Mine along with everyone else's in the restaurant that was.

The mom in the polka dot dress had just now made it into the diner. She struggled over to the table adjacent from me, the fussy baby bicycle pedaling and whaling louder as its mother tried to put it in its highchair.

She snuck a glance over at me, flashing apologetic pale-blue eyes as she shyly sat down.

I flashed a weak smile in response.

She quickly ducked behind the menu the glitzy waitress had just handed her, while at the same time trying to sooth the babies screams with soft cooing sounds.

I went back to my paper. The words blurring, or maybe it was the tears in my eyes that I was trying to desperately hold back. I felt dizzy and sick and out of it. Squinting hard, I tried to shake the feelings. Really focus; praying maybe the fuzzy newsprint might have some triumphant answers for me. The whys and why not's of this job, of Jessica's death, of why I couldn't save her– save anyone.

Suddenly the restaurant was a buzz, everyone jumping from their seats, panicked and running. Shocked looks and squeals of fear filled the air. I remained calm, an island in a sea of chaos and mayhem. The mother across from me was desperately trying to tug the still fussy baby from its highchair.

Time slowed to a practical standstill and I saw the big picture as if I was the staring actor in a slow-motion film.

Everything happened in increments.

The floor under my feet rumbled, working its way up my legs and curving around my belly and clenching tight. I braced my hands to the rattling table, and pushed to stand.

A hot breeze seemed to puff through the closed window, stirring the pages of the newspaper.

I turned my head to see the glass cracking – hair line fractures spreading out like a million roads reaching for some far off land.

Dishes and cups and flower vases shimmied and shook and slid off tables. One by one they shattered into pieces on the wooden floor.

A piercing whine sliced through my ears.

I craned my head to look out the window.

A huge shadowy form appeared outside - a tanker truck that had obviously lost control was inching closer and closer, closing the gap between it and the glass.

The yawning silver grill of a mouth seemed to open wide readying to swallow the restaurant whole.

Behind me, I could still hear the scatter of feet and the rattling of dishes and the screaming wail of the baby.

I turned back to see the mother still trying to yank the chubby child from the high chair, her polka-dotted dress ruffling in the hot breeze.

A mournful groan left my lips as I realized what was happening.

"Oh, God," I screamed. "Look out!"

In a synchronistic instant, I slipped out of the booth just as a thunderous thud hit the wall and steaming breath poured forth fogging up the air.

Lunging for the baby, I grabbed hold of its arms yanking it from the highchair and shoving it into the arms of its mother.

Her pale blue eyes were wide as saucers in shock and denial, her mouth open in a silent scream as she stared past me.

"Move!" I rammed her hard. My left shoulder to her right shoulder, hearing bones crack – hers, mine, maybe both as she launched out of sight, her startled cry of pain sickening me.

There came a mighty crunch, and I barely had time to suck in a deep gulp of air before fifty-three feet, and forty tons of heavy metal slammed me down to the floor.

Strangely, I was mindfully aware of being bodily dragged and twisted and pushed.

It felt like forever as I was plowed through tables and chairs, my clothes tearing, skin rubbed raw and picking up wood splinters. I skidded and bumped across the floor. I should have blacked out by now, but was still conscious when I was finally hedged into a corner and held tightly in check.

I sat there stunned not even trying to move. For how long I wasn't certain.

With eyes only open a fraction I looked around, struggling to breathe, struggling to gain my bearings. Dim lights flickered and a thick cloud of gray-dust whirled and hung suspended in the air, seeming to make it even harder to catch a breath or see anything. The entire interior of the restaurant had changed. From downhome, to downright unrecognizable.

My eyes opened and closed as I faded in and out with the flickering lights. Fighting not to go completely under, I slammed my head back, groaning when it hit a wall behind me a little too hard.

That at least got my attention.

I looked up. The high ceiling was a jungle of tangled frayed electrical wiring and broken, rotting beams. That would explain why a place - as big and solid looking as it seemed - had crumbled like a house of sticks. It'd probably been slowly rotting away for years due to water damage. Someone had obviously covered that up good. It was obviously outdated. Nobody used payphones anymore. I told Dean it was a graveyard barbeque. He never listens to me.

My brain unclouded a little more and I suddenly got the distinct eerie feeling someone was staring at me.

"Hello," I called weakly gulping in a mouthful of wet, mildewy air.

I looked down, then over to my right.

I saw a set of pale-blue dead eyes staring blankly back at me.

I reflexively jerked, my head once again banging against the wall behind me.

"No," I gagged not bothering to call out, knowing I wouldn't get a response. "Guh." I squeezed my eyes shut against the fine hair-raising-panic that practically wiped out my heartbeat. Certain it was the young mother with the baby.

I squirmed. I was going to be sick. I'd sworn I'd at least gotten them out of the truck's path. Why was it shit happened so damn fast? One minute I'd been reading the paper, the next I was trapped as effectively as a fly to sticky-paper, a mother and most likely her baby...dead.

I tried to quill the guilt and the sick, my eyes roaming through the haze of the wreckage, looking more carefully. Maybe the baby had at least survived. After all a set of blue eyes was all I could make out.

A small half-moan escaped me as I tried to shove away from the wall. I must have been really out of it. I hadn't realized until now. I wasn't going anywhere. I was cheese-pressed to the floor by a large ceiling beam lying across my lap and pushing against my abdomen. I went to grip the beam to try and shove it off of me, but only my right arm worked. My left arm was heavy and numb, my fingers not even able to wiggle. I tried and tried, one handedly, but the beam wouldn't move an inch. It was rock-solid. Just my luck. Probably one of the only crossbeams left in the restaurant that was. Maybe I could push up with my legs. That was if I couldn't find my legs. They were buried under a bunch of crap from the beam down. Only my upper body from just below my rib cage up visible. I tried to take a deep breath and move again, but I was completely imprisoned.

I needed help. That baby could still be alive, buried in all this crap. I clung to that thought.

Tried to yell out loudly for help, but all I ended up doing was coughing heavily and nearly passing out.

I was exhausted, my breaths coming in squeaky, weak puffs. Damn it, I was a Winchester. If I had to kick, crawl, dig, scratch, or turn the world upside down to save someone else…I would.

I wouldn't give up. I'd try again, but first I had to gather up more strength. Keep from passing out.

While I tried to suck in air, I listened for any sort of crying or whimpering sounds, doubting I could hear over the chug of the truck's engine that was still running hot. Everything felt like it slowed to a near halt. I could hear feet, however, crazily scrambling over the wood planks and glass – most likely survivors trying to get out.

I wasn't sure where I was, but figured by the looks of all the pipes and dripping water, and large appliances it might be the kitchen area.

I felt strangely detached, ice-covered cold and old-dog tired and on the edge of consciousness. I tried to keep my head up but it kept rolling to one side, and I'd blink-off for a minute or two or ten or longer. I'd lost track of time so fast, so easily.

In a more lucid moment, it dawned on me that I should be feeling deep, radiating pain through every limb. After all…that tanker had to weigh in at least forty tons and the beam in my lap, at least a few hundred. But I didn't feel a thing, was just a little fuzzy. It surprised me really.

Looking straight ahead, over the few feet of rubble separating us, I stared at the monster truck. It was flipped onto its side. The chrome grill releasing heavy steam and the sweet smell of antifreeze escaping the engine. Thing had acted like a trash compacter, crushing whatever was in its path up against a wall, me included.

Everything whirred in slow motion to a near halt. I could hear feet crazily scrambling about over the wood planks and glass, most likely survivors trying to get out. I hadn't heard any sirens, so help must not have arrived yet. The town was rinky-dink what little I saw of it driving through. Did they even have an ambulance? Maybe help had to come from a neighboring town.

With my right hand, I gingerly searched for my cell, but it was missing. I started to feel a heavy sleepiness weight me down and blood dripped into my eyes. I tried to blink it away. Tried to stay conscious. Tried not to go into panic mode. I wasn't afraid of much. Two things really. Thankfully there were no rodeo clowns here. Yet, I could feel the panic welling up in my gut. This was one tight, small space and I wasn't escaping anytime soon. I had to concentrate on something, and I didn't want it to be the dead mom and her baby.

I thought about the driver. What had caused him to lose control of his truck? Sleep deprivation? Alcohol? Heart attack? Neighborhood monster?

The truck was several yards away. A bunch of crap mounded up around it, and I had to crane my neck and squint hard to see through the gunked-up bloody glass. I could just make out the large bulky shape of a man. He wasn't moving. I tried to look harder. Searching for the telltale sign of life or threat to life, but I couldn't see anything except his unmoving outline. If he was a monster threat, he'd have been up and out of that rig by now and -

"Gah." I reflexively jerked, completely surprised to see a shadowy silhouette that had just dropped down inside the truck next to the driver and started shifting around.

I called out weakly, but I was fairly certain no one could hear my meow for help over the chug of that engine.

Then as if that someone had read my mind, the engine cut out.

Something about the way the figure moved gave me comfort and it slowly slipped into my fuzzy head just exactly who the person was.

D'n," I weakly begged for my brother.

TBC