MY REALITY

CHAPTER 3

A/N: We own nothing Supernatural. Libby is the creation of Hailstorm3. This chapter is courtesy of Happygoddess2003. Reviews are always welcome! Thanks for reading.

I lay facing the wall for hours, an equal combination furious, frustrated, and afraid. I had nobody. I was stuck here in this bunker (Who uses the word bunker anymore? What really IS a bunker?) with two grown men who did nothing but confuse the crap outta me. Everything hurt. My heart is breaking. I'm homesick for a place these two are trying to convince me has only existed in my mind. (No. They want me to believe that so I will give up. That makes no sense, though. They don't know me. They haven't hurt me, either, at least not on purpose. I don't want to believe them. I want my fantasy if that truly is what it was. At least I would be happy.) My body is torn apart and I have a pain inside that I can't pinpoint. I feel sick. Hot. Tears continue to run down the sides of my face into my ears. I'm miserable, and now I can't hear very well, either.

As if to prove that, I feel a hand on my forehead before I register that someone is even in my room (I've been here a day and a half and this is MY room? WOW – I really have moved around a lot. I'm so… adaptable. I don't want to be.)

It's Sam – I can tell by the size of his hand. I don't try to jerk away. I don't try to anything. I just lay there staring at the white wall with waterlogged ears.

Sam pulls his hand back quickly and turns on the light. "Lib…Libby…turn around here and face me", he said with urgency in his voice. I tried to exert some sass and flip over, but instead floundered onto my back, a sob betraying my effort to be cool and aloof.

I hear him call for Dean as he lifts me up so I can sit again. As soon as I am upright, he moves to the bathroom and brings back a wet washcloth and lays it across my forehead.

"Libby, you're burning up with fever. Why didn't you call us?" he asks with concern. I hear Dean enter the room wearing a question mark on his face.

"Dean, she may have Djinn poisoning. She threw most of the antidote up so I have to go make a new batch. Stay with her and try to get her to drink as much water as you can. Here – take her temp, too," he says as an afterthought, tossing him the thermometer.

Dean looks comically out of place holding the thermometer and looking at me. He sits next to me and pulls the now warm washcloth off my head.

"Ok, kid, open up – let's see what number you pull."

I decide that maybe I have a little sass left in me still. I place my hands in my lap and stare, forgetting my tear-streaked face and swollen eyes. I send him a look that tells him what he can do with that thermometer.

He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? As soon as Sammy leaves the room I get attitude? You listen up, we need to know how much poison you have in you still, so you will open your mouth or I will open it for you. Easy or hard – your choice," he says with finality. He stands beside me.

"Okay, this is what I'm gonna do. I'm going to get you a cool cloth over there in your bathroom, and when get back over here you better open that mouth so I can take your temp." I watch him disappear/reappear with a cool cloth and he lays it on my head. (OMG this feels so good. But I can't let you win, sorry Dean). He looks at me with anticipation and I look back at him with spite. He stands up and starts trying to push it through my pursed lips when Sam re-enters the room holding another God-awful medicine cup.

"Shit, Dean she's like, twelve years old. How can you not have taken her temp yet?" he asks incredulously.

"Well, she…she won't open her damn mouth Sam! I even tried the trusting approach…"

Sam sidesteps him and gently pinches my nose shut. My mouth pops open and he sticks the thermometer in. "Close, and keep it closed until I say," he orders with a glare at me and sends a triumphant look at his brother. "Libby, I don't want to be harsh with you, but you have to make an effort here. You're making this far harder on yourself than need be." I just stare at the gross stuff they're going to make me drink again. (I hate them. I don't want them. I want Albert. Albert with his dark eyes and sweet smile and … Albert wasn't real?) Stupid tears start falling again.

I hear the beep, but Sam holds his finger up to have me keep it in a few seconds longer. "Open, honey," he says as he hands me a tissue. I wipe my face and look back, finding both green and hazel eyes capturing me.

"105.5, Libby. That's not good. You need to drink this entire antidote and keep it down. Do you think you can do that?" he asks me. I shrug my shoulders, truly not sure if the foul-tasting liquid will stay in me.

I eye them shrewdly (at least I think I'm looking shrewd). "What if I don't want to do it?" I say with snark.

I'm answered with two sets of glaring eyes, a jaw clench from Dean, and a small eye twitch from Sam.

"Then you won't like what happens when you don't," he said simply. (What does that mean? Is that, like, a threat? They can't MAKE me do something I don't want to do, right? Then I think back to Walnut Grove and how much I had learned about trying to do the right thing. About not fighting so much. I thought about Mr. Ingalls and how disappointed he would be with me behaving this way, and what he would do about it. How can something they say wasn't even real have taught me so much?)

I hold out my hand but it's shaking, mostly from the stitches, but also because I really haven't eaten much. Dean reaches forward and steadies my hand. "Good choice, Lib. Now just down the hatch so we can get this fever down."

Sam tells me to look at the ceiling and before I know it, Dean empties the cup into my mouth and I swallow as fast as I can.

I gag. Dean jumps back and pushes Sam closer, muttering something about "not me this time". Sam sits beside me and takes one of the pillows out from behind my back so I recline. "Just breathe through your nose and out through your mouth. You're doing fine," he says with a small smile. He reaches out to feel my forehead again and this time I flinch away. He gives me an amused look (Amused? I'm amusing?) "Libby, I'm not going to hurt you. Please." (He doesn't know. He doesn't understand how many people have said that to me).

I decide to let him. I mean, they've kept me alive up til this point, I suppose if I want to get out of here I need to at least play along with some of their stupid rules. I let him check my temp, my eyes (they still hurt so much, but he says they will get better with time), and the stitches without any trouble. He reaches down and lays a gentle hand on my knee and I can't help but let out a scream. The pain shoots simultaneously down through my ankle and all the way up to my hip.

He quickly draws his hand back. "Okay, okay, okay. Sorry, Lib. I know. I'll get you something stronger than aspirin for the pain, okay?" I can tell he feels bad because now I'm crying and my face is hot and I can't hold it in any more. "Here, take a drink. Not feeling queasy are you?" I take a gulp and shake my head no. I try to pull it together.

"Libby. How old are you? I've just been guessing," he asks.

"I..I'm… twe…twelve," I manage to stammer.

"Okay, good. But you're small for twelve, so I won't be able to give you a full dose for the pain, you understand?"

"Yeh…yes," I say though my teeth. "Did the thing…. The Djinn…did it break my knee?" I ask, completely forgetting what happened.

Sam studies me for a minute, then shifts on the bed beside me. "Umm…no honey, you broke your knee yourself when you were on the side of the road with us… don't you remember that?" He had this odd look on his face, and it kind of scared me.

I decided to lie. I was a pretty good liar. I pretended to think back and said "Oh yeah, NOW I do. Right. On the side of the road with you two." I quickly looked away from him. He cleared his throat and I looked back at him. "What?" I asked with mock anger.

He turned and dimmed the lights, and was back with some medication and a PB&J. He insisted I eat something before I take the pill. These guys were total control freaks. Bossy as hell! He stood there and watched me peel the crust off and eat the inside of the sandwich. "Good job. Was that so hard?" he said. He watched me take my pill and sat in the desk chair beside the bed.

"Go away," I said angrily. I was really starting to get pissed.

"No. I'll stay until you fall asleep. And Libby, when you wake up we are all having a talk about what's going on with you. We aren't mad at you. But if you want us to be mad at you, keep talking those lame lies you just gave me. No. Lying. Got it?" he said firmly.

I was beginning to feel sleepy and floaty.

"I don't know what you mean," I challenged in a voice sounding far away.

"You'll have to do better than that, little one. Winchesters created the art of lying, especially to ourselves. So when you wake up, it's truth telling time." He stood, looking overly-tall, and winked down at me. "Get some rest now, Dean and I will be back to check on you until you wake up. You're safe here; we won't let anything happen…"

… But I was already floating away, above the pain and the memories and the sadness. It was by far the best moment I'd experienced since meeting the two of them.

SNSNSNSNSNSNNS

"Libby wake up, kid."

Dean. I pretended to be asleep.

"I know you're awake. Time to get up and get showered and eat breakfast. And talk," he added. I was used to getting up at the crack of dawn from the time I spent with the Ingall's (Pretend time. Not real. In my mind. HALLUCINATION. My stomach clenched from the heartbreak.), but the pill Sam gave me really knocked me out. I peeped open my eyes.

"What time is it?" I asked, still groggy.

"It's 9am, up and at 'em."

"Where's Sam?"

"Sam's out doing some research. And this is not twenty questions." (Hmmm… research? What kind of research? Research on how to ditch 12 year old girls to the custody of the state, probably.)

"When will he be back?" (I had to ask, because Dean made me nervous. They both could be tightasses, but of the two, Sam didn't skeech me out as much).

Dean huffed a long breath. "He will be back when he gets back," he said tightly. He held out his hand in a "hurry up" motion. "Let's go. Up."

I kicked off the covers and tried to not lean on my arms to push myself off the bed. My feet didn't even touch the floor. He reached over and lifted me under my armpits and placed me on the floor.

He showed me my bathroom and put plastic around my arms to protect them from the water… then showed me a pile of towels and assorted shampoos and body washes, and told me to "have at it". (oh-kayyyy…except I have no clothes and they're dirty as hell…what's the point?).

It was like he read my mind.

"We're taking you out later to pick up some clothes, until then I'll grab you a tee shirt and look for some sweats." He gave me a soft look. "It'll suck until we get to the store but it'll only be for today."

I have to admit I am sort of blown away by how nice he was being.

As he left the room he told me to lean on the shower wall to keep my weight off my knee. (Good advice since it was screaming at me, sending lines of electric pain up and down my leg. I swear it hurt all the way up to my teeth).

I began to gingerly make my way to becoming hygienically acceptable.

SNSNSNSNSNS

I limped my way down the hall toward the smell of food. I was starving. I could hear two voices, so I knew Sam was back, and I knew they were talking about me. I stopped just short of the kitchen and listened.

"Yeah, so I found the Group Home in Queens – spoke to a …. Mrs. O'Hare. She used the excuse of confidentiality and really didn't give me much, so I told her we would be in touch in person and she agreed to a meeting. I told her I'd call when we were in the area. She seemed surprised that the FBI would even be calling. I know something's up, Dean, and face to face she won't be able to evade our questions. And," he added, we need to find out what's going on with Libby. She's all over the map emotionally, and I know she was lying to me about her memory loss. She has secrets, Dean, and we both know that secrets lead to trouble. Once she…"

I fake coughed and leaned against the door frame. Sam gave me the once-over and was by my side, holding my waist and helping me to the table. I had to look like hell, but at least I was clean. I was wearing a back tee and a pair of sweats with the waist cinched as tightly as I could. A pair of Dean's socks on my feet completed the clown look I was definitely not going for.

"You're pale," he said. He reached out and felt my forehead for the hundredth time. "At least your fever is down. How ya feelin'?" he asked, looking as sincere as Mr. Ingalls used to look at me. (Mr. Ingalls is not real, I reminded myself. There is no Mr. Ingalls. When would that thought not hurt my heart? I fought against the truth of it all.)

"Hello? Libby are you with us?" he said, shaking my wrist and bringing me out of my thoughts.

"Uh… yeah. I am. I'm hungry," I said to him, trying to smile. Remembering the Group Home and the things that happened there, the smile just wouldn't come. Instead, I choked back a sob.

"Kid, we have lots of food, no reason to cry about that," Dean said, patting my shoulder.

Sam sent Dean a "WTF" look and moved his hand down to mine. "Libby, let's get some food into you and we can talk after, okay? Then we'll hit the store and get you some clothes that fit you. How does that sound?"

For some reason that sounded just like what I wanted. I wanted to sit and eat food someone else made me and have clothes that fit. I gave him a nod and he nodded back with a smile.

With no indication, a memory fell into my mind with a clink. Kristie. My Bestie. (How did I forget her? What else have I forgotten?)

"Sam? Dean?" I asked.

"Yep," he answered while making me a sandwich and what looked like a salad. (Oh God, green stuff. I know he's gonna make me eat it. My stomach growled regardless. And I felt something – that feeling when I was with the Ingall's… NO, I mean when was being drained by the Djinn, God, it's so confusing! I felt like I was being taken care of. I let myself feel that, just for now. Because I'm so tired. And just for a minute, I want to rest my brain.)

"What's up, kid?" Dean said.

"I want to use your phone," I said, trying to ignore the waver in my voice.

"Not happening," Dean said, while at the same time Sam turned and said "Why?"

I gave Dean a mean look and blurted, "I want to call my best friend. I want to call Kristie," I answered. I tried not to beg, but I just remembered her. I can't believe I forgot my best friend. (What the hell is wrong with me?)

Another sob escaped my throat. I gave up and started begging. "Please, please let me call her. Something's wrong with me! I forgot her until just now! I know she hasn't forgotten me. Please, Sam. Please, Dean."

They looked at each other for a long moment. It was like they could talk to each other without words.

Sam set my food down in front of me with a glass of milk. "Eat, Lib. Then we'll talk about you calling your friend, okay?"

I looked at Dean and he nodded, encouraging me to eat.

"Okay, thanks," I said, taking a bite of my ham and cheese. I couldn't believe how fast I scarfed it down.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNS

Sam and Dean sat in the living room with me with a phone between us on the ottoman. I was curled up on the leather couch, a warm fuzzy blanket around me, holding a throw pillow on my stomach. It made me feel better.

Dean started. "Okay, kid, here are the rules. Phone stays on speaker. This phone cannot be traced. We are letting you do this so you can get some information."

Sam cleared his throat. "AND, this is to show you that you can trust us, Libby. We have to work together. There's a reason your memory is slipping. There's a reason you were in that cave. For as long as Dean and I have been hunting, we have never found a kid with a Djinn. Call Kristie. Go ahead. But remember your on speaker and try to keep it together, okay?" He gave me an encouraging look and then handed me the phone.

Muscle memory kicked in. I dialed her number like I had hundreds of times before. (Funny I didn't remember her until today but her phone number came so quickly). I took a sip of water to clear my suddenly dry throat. I put the phone down on the ottoman so they could hear everything. Her phone rang until I thought she wouldn't pick up. But she did.

"Hello?" she said. (Kristie's voice – Oh God, Kristie's voice!)

I tried to keep my voice steady. "Kristie? Kristie it's me. It's Libby." I felt hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Sam handed me a tissue that I pressed to my eyes. He smiled a dimpled smile encouragingly. Dean gave me a nod. Dean was always nodding.

Dead silence on the other end. Pin-dropping silent.

"Kristie?" I repeated.

"That's not funny. Who is this? How did you get my number? WHO IS THIS?" Kristie rambled off rapid-fire.

"Kristie, it's me – it's really is. I miss you so much!" I cried toward the phone.

"You're sick! Libby's dead. DEAD! And she's never coming back! Why? Why would you do this? Mom! Mom!" she screamed into the phone before she slammed it down, disconnecting us forever.

I looked at the brothers, clutching the pillow like a life preserver to keeping me from drowning in the swirl of emotion that encompassed me.

"I'm dead," I sobbed.