Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, Sera Gamble and pretty much anyone else not me.
The sound of a door opening sliced its way through my head, erasing the sharp edges of my dream and fading it out into a realization that it wasn't real. I shifted on the narrow couch, the roughness of the cushions rubbing against my bare legs, and reached under my pillow. The sharpness of the blade barely imprinted itself on my palm and giving me peaceful knowledge that it was there. Chances were I would probably end up slicing through the pillow as well if I pulled it out quickly enough … oh well, it wasn't like it was a cushion or something.
"Morning, sunshine," Sam's voice greeted with false cheer, a sigh at the end of his words as if the announcement was exhausting. I opened my eyes, a patch of grey light seeping through the half closed curtains and painting sections of misshapen shadows across the room.
"Oh," Dean groaned, shifting in his disheveled sheets and arching his back to turn and take in who had disturbed his sleep. Sam stared back, his stance suggesting no physical exhaustion and three cups of coffee balanced between his hands, a box of something unidentifiable under his arm. "What time is it?"
"Uh, it's about 5:45," Sam answered, glancing between the partially uncovered window and Dean, still intelligently sprawled across the bed.
"In the morning," Dean moaned, turning away and scrunching up his face as if to block out the fact.
"Yep," Sam simply replied.
"Where does the day go?" Dean sarcastically wondered, rolling over and kicking at the sheets with his bare legs. The light shifted over him as he moved and illuminated his disheveled hair and lined tired face. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Yeah, I grabbed a couple hours," Sam blatantly lied, glancing down at the coffees in his hands as if the brief loss of eye contact could hide the fact.
"Liar," I mumbled, pushing myself off the couch with the imprint of the pattern marking itself on my palms and my straggly hair falling over my shoulders. Dean and Sam both glanced over at me, recognizing and remembering that I was present.
"So, I was up at 3," Dean continued, picking up at where I started and making it his own. "And you were watching the George Foreman commercial." He sat properly as he spoke, running his hands over his bare legs and the bottom of his black boxers.
"Hey, what can I say?" Sam shrugged, gesturing to the objects in his hands as if to distract from the topic and make us drop it. "It's riveting TV."
"That's the biggest lie I've ever heard," I pointed out, rearranging myself on disheveled sheets and cushions sliding out of place. I better not have a stripped imprint on my ass. Sam laughed slightly, ducking his head and placing the coffees and box onto the table. The label reading "Timbits" turned towards me and I felt my stomach twist with hunger.
"When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?" Dean questioned, squinting up at Sam's turned back which cut through the light and creating a lumped shadow across the floor.
"I don't know," Sam admitted, turning back around with a coffee and the box returned to his hands. What was the point of putting them down …? "A little while maybe." He shrugged and crossed the floor, the carpet shifting almost soundlessly under his feet. I moved better on the couch, the sheet sliding over my knees and better covering them with worn fabric.
"Hi," he greeted, sitting down on the bed across from me and his knee bumping into mine. The contact brushed my mind with thoughts … nightmares, worry, exhaustion that ran bone deep, Jess … and sent off a sweet realization that he was touching me. "I brought you a coffee."
"Thanks," I mumbled and took it from his hand, the steamed feel of the cup rough in my hands still half slack from sleep. I brought it quickly to my knee and balanced it, the heat cutting its way through the sheet and presumably forming a small round intent in my skin. He held open the box of timbits with a slightly seducing air, the ghost of a smile on his lips that worn away the still fading edges of my dream and brought me wonderfully back to reality. I looked up at him with half rolling eyes and took the entire box, the poorly folded edges of it sticking out with an ill cared for appearance. He laughed slightly like he had expected it and ducked his head before looking up at me, the light casting off his face and sketching shadows across it. He was probably the first man I had ever thought as beautiful.
"How was your sleep?" He asked, cutting through my thoughts with no sense of what they were about. I bite my tongue to keep them back and bowed my head, turning the balls of essentially deep fried fat over one another for an appetizing one. Powders dusted my fingers and tiny crystals of sugar embedded themselves into my skin.
"About as good as yours," I answered, picking up a chocolate one and biting into it. Cocoa powder exploded into my mouth and ran it instantly dry and I sipped the coffee to rid the taste, ignoring the burn.
"That bad, huh?" Sam wondered, dropping the poorly constructed lie he had half heartedly brought up. "I told you that you could sleep on the bed."
"Wasn't that," I assured him, half heartedly telling the truth. It had been to some degree the couch – narrow structure, rough fabric and an identifiable sharp object sticking into your back did not equal good sleep – but to another it was the slashes of memory that tore through my nightmares, flashes of recollections breaking through my otherwise mundane dreams and reminding me of something that no one should never to relive. Or go through with a first time.
"What then?" Sam quietly asked, his voice rapidly softened and I looked up, his eyes searching over my face for a clue or sign that he could discover about me. Teasing prickles erupted over my skin at his gaze.
"Dean talks in his sleep," I answered simply, drawing back into myself and away from the edge of vulnerable that I had nearly tipped into. "And there is only so many times I'm willing to hear his voice." He continued to scan my face, taking note of the change that I had drawn back from.
"I know the feeling," he replied, responding to the answer that I hadn't voiced, answering the thought that I had pulled back brokenly.
"I am a joy to listen to," Dean interrupted, his voice breaking through whatever had been building and I looked over at him with a disgruntled look. He shrugged innocently, hands up as if to say "don't mind me." I sighed and set the box back onto the couch next to me, wiping my fingers on the twisted sheet.
"Well, I'm going to have a shower," I announced, pulling back the cover and setting the coffee on the floor. I stood up, the carpet briefly forming my foot prints and walked over to the ajar bathroom door.
"Call me if you need any help," Dean assured me and I turned to him, a smirk on his lips and a wink in his eyes. I raised my eyebrows at him and looked over at Sam, still seated on the edge of the mattress. He shrugged at me with a helpless air and I turned back to the door and walked inside, closing it behind me. I'd smack him when I came out and was more awake. Less likely I'd miss that way.
I stepped out of the Impala, the hardened gravel crunching underneath my feet like stepping on bones. I slammed the door behind me and tucked my arms deeper into my sleeves, a harsh wind snapping through the air and rapidly shoving the dark clouds across the sky. Sam and Dean also stepped out, Dean tucking the car keys into his pocket with a mild clatter of metal on metal. The large concrete building loomed ominously above us – maybe not Sam – and the front door opened, a middle aged man walking out with a balding head.
"Sam, Dean," He greeted, walking over with a hurried step. He reached out a hand and shook first Dean then Sam's hand with a business like air that bordered on friendship. He turned, pausing when he saw me.
"Who's this?" He wondered, glancing back at Sam and Dean as if I was incapable of introducing myself.
"I'm Kate," I informed him and he looked back at me to clarify that I had spoken before back at them to clarify what I was doing there.
"She's our newest addition," Dean explained. Newest addition? What was I an x-box?
"Hi, I'm Jerry Panowski," he explained and held out a hand for me to shake. I glanced down at it before back up at his face. I really wasn't in the mood to hear what his thoughts were. Probably something along the lines of some sort of hair growth product that obviously wasn't working.
"Must be a bitch to spell," I simply said, arms still crossed over my chest with the indication that I wasn't going to shake his hand. He froze slightly, tilting his head as if repeating what I just said to make sure he heard correctly. He glanced at Sam and Dean for help but they shrugged, growing used to the lack of filter in my head and on my tongue.
"Alright," he accepted and turned back to the building with an indication that we follow.
"Thanks for making the trip so quick," he thanked, his footsteps soundlessly moving over the floor and between the various shelves of heavy machinery. "I ought to be doing you guys a favor, not the other way around. Dean and your dad really helped me out." He turned to Sam as he said this, not ceasing his walk as he directed his comment to him. Walking while turning … I was impressed.
"Yeah, he told me," Sam answered glancing back at Dean. "It was a poltergeist?"
"Poltergeist?" A man asked, picking up on the detail of the conversation and inserting himself into it. "Man I love that movie."
"Hey, nobody's talking to you, keep walking," Jerry advised, turning to address the man as he passed. He looked back at us to indicate his re-entry into the conversation. "Damn right, it was a poltergeist. Practically tore our house apart. Tell you something, if it wasn't for you and your dad …" he looked back at Dean to specify that he meant him. "…I probably wouldn't be alive." Dean glanced over at me with a proud grin, checking to see if I was impressed. Maybe once he stopped thinking with his little head then I'd be impressed. Or thinking just in general.
"Your dad said you were off to college, that right?" Jerry asked Sam, directing us into a larger, less cluttered space with large shapes of various aircraft pieces supported by white metal frames.
"Yeah, I was," Sam answered, prickles of almost visible discomfort breaking free of his skin. "I'm … taking some time off."
"Yeah, well, he was real proud of you. I could tell," Jerry explained. "You know, he talked about you all the time."
"He did?" Sam asked in surprise, leaning forward as if checking to see if he heard Jerry's words wrong.
"Yeah, you bet he did," Jerry insisted, snapping back to glance at Dean as a thought occurred to him. "Oh, hey, you know I tried to get a hold of him, but I couldn't. How's he doing anyway?"
"He's um …," Dean trailed off, hands tucked into his pockets as he searched for an acceptable answer. "… Wrapped up in a job right now."
"Well, we're missing the old man, but we get Sam … and Kate," Jerry pointed out, turning around to briefly walk backwards and face us. "Even trade, huh?" Sam and Dean both politely laughed. It wasn't that funny …
"No, not by a long shot," Sam answered modestly. "Maybe Kate though." I smiled somewhat, a bigger grin locked up inside my chest.
"I got something I want you guys to hear …," Jerry trailed off, moving on from the bad joke and moment that followed.
"… I listened to this," Jerry explained, opening up a CD drive and sliding a disc into it. "Well, it sounded like it was up your alley." He pushed it in further and it closed with a mechanical click. "Normally I wouldn't have access to this. It's the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight 2485." Lot of flights. "It was one of ours."
"Mayday. Mayday. Repeat," the voice broke through the distortion on the disc, panicked and rushed. "This is United Britannia flight 2485 requesting immediate instructions and help."
"United Britannia flight 2485," another voice responded, more calm and collected with a loud alarm blaring in the background. "We copy your mayday."
"We may be experiencing some kind of mechanical failure …," the first voice continued. Radio static shocked through the voice with an unearthly growl and roar that sent unpleasant shivers over my skin. The sound cut off with an ominous silence,
"Took off from here, crashed about 200 miles south," Jerry explained, filling in the scientific blanks. "Now they're saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurized somehow, nobody knows why. Over 100 people onboard, only seven got out alive." I nodded slowly, the number echoing in my head with how small it was in comparison. "The pilot was one. His name is Chuck Lambert; he's a good friend of mine. Chuck, is, uh … well, he's pretty broken up about it. Like it was his fault."
"You don't think it was," Sam stated, no question in his voice like the words suggested.
"No, I don't," Jerry answered with complete confidence.
"We're going to need passenger manifests and a list of survivors," I requested, leaning back further in my chair and resting my elbows more comfortably on the arm rests. The three of them jumped slightly and turned to look at me, reminding themselves that I was still present. I had to start talking more.
"And, uh, any way we can have a look at the wreckage?" Dean asked, recovering and turning back to face Jerry.
"The other stuff is no problem …," Jerry explained, also recovering. " … But the wreckage … Fellas, the NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I've got that kind of clearance." Dean and Sam glanced at each other and the wheels in Deans head started to grind –most likely emitting a great deal of dust – as a plan slowly started to take shape.
"No problem," Dean assured him.
The door of the store opened with a bell ringing to announce the fact, Dean stepping out and holding the door open for the pretty woman walking by. She smiled at him in appreciation and he gave her a once over before turning back to us. I pushed myself off the hood of the Impala, the grooves of it digging into my back presumably leaving ugly red marks. Or maybe purple. Just not pink.
"You've been in there forever," Sam pointed out, his arms outstretched with a question to them as to why he took so long.
"You can't rush perfection," Dean pointed out, holding up the ID's so that they flared and exhibited snippets of information.
"Homeland security?" Sam questioned as Dean held out his card to him. Sam took it and flipped it over to further take in the details. Dean turned to me to hold out mine and I took it with a disinterested air, the plastic hard in my hands. "That's pretty illegal, even for us."
"Yeah, well," Dean argued, moving around to the driver side of the car. "It's something new. You know, people haven't seen it a thousand times." I moved around Sam to my door and pulled it open, the metal of the handle hot. I slid inside, the sun cutting strange shadows over the seat as Sam moved into the front seat. Dean grunted as he shifted better, the door slamming close on Sam's side.
"All right, so what do you got?" Dean questioned, looking down at his own Homeland Security card.
"Well, there's definitely E.V.P. on the cockpit voice recorder," Sam explained, opening up his laptop and switching to the page he wanted.
"Yeah?" Dean asked, waiting for Sam to continue.
"Listen," Sam advised and clicked on a button. I moved closer to the front seat and rested my arms on the back, indistinct and distorted voices breaking out over the speaker.
"No survivors," a voice broke through, raw and distorted with a screech to the end that dragged on longer then the words. Man needed a cough drop.
"No survivors"? What's that supposed to mean?" Dean questioned, his brow furrowed. "There were seven survivors."
"Got me," Sam shrugged, shutting down the laptop top.
"So, what are you thinking, a haunted flight?" Dean asked squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the traffic.
"There's a long history of spirits and death omens on planes and ships," I explained, rearranging myself so that I fit better between their two heads.
"Like phantom travelers," Sam finished, turning to look back at me and make sure that he was going in the direction I intended.
"Exactly," I congratulated with a small smile which he returned.
"Mm-hm," Dean nodded, leaning back against the door so that he could look at the both of us at once.
"Or remember flight 401?" Sam continued, ignoring Dean and shifting so that he could look at me better. I removed my elbows – least there be a mild collision – and shifted closer on the edge of my seat.
"Right, the one that crashed and the airline salvaged some of its parts and put it into other planes," I said remembering. "Then the spirit of the pilot and copilot haunted those flights."
"Right," Sam grinned, pleased that we were following each other's train of thought so well.
"Yep," Dean loudly interrupted and we both turned to him, his arm resting over the steering wheel with a somewhat irritated pose.
"Maybe we got a similar deal," Sam attempted, moving in his seat to better face the front and looking somewhat embarrassed.
"Alright," Dean announced, glad to be included again in the conversation and digging through his pocket. "So, survivors. Which one do you want to talk to first?" He held up the sheet of paper and scanned the list of printed names.
"Third on the list," Sam said, pointing in the general direction of the third name. "Max Jaffe."
"Why him?" Dean wondered, also looking at them name.
"Well, for one, he's from around here," Sam explained, moving back in his seat. "And two, if anyone saw anything weird, he did."
"What makes you say that?" Dean curiously asked, turning to look at him.
"Well, I spoke to his mother and she told me where to find him," Sam answered, a somewhat ominous tone to his voice as he left the answer hanging.
"I don't understand," Max said in confusion, carefully stepping through the overly manicured grass. "I already spoke with Homeland Security."
"Some new information has come up," I explained, a gentle breeze moving through the hair, drawing back strands of my hair and awakening faded memories. Scratchy white clothing, scientific sounding voices, the strong scent of medicine, leather binds clamping over limbs despite begging's to stop …
"Yeah, so if you could just answer a few questions," Dean said, picking up where I left off.
"Just before the plane went down, did you notice anything … unusual?" Sam asked politely, stumbling slightly on the last word as if he couldn't find the right one to fill the space.
"Like what?" Max asked, his head bent into his shoulder and a limp taking over his steps.
"Strange lights, uh, weird noises, maybe. Voices," Dean tried, attempting to keep his voice neutral and away from a more serious tone. Max stared at him for a moment, briefly picking up on suspicion before brushing it away.
"No, nothing," he insisted, setting his cane against the edge of the garden table and sliding into the varnished seat. I also sat, the smoothness of the wood nearly causing me to slide off and under the table. Just what mental patients needed a suspected conspiracy from the garden chairs.
"Hmm," Dean answered with disbelief. "Mr. Joffe."
"Jaffe," Max corrected.
"Jaffe," Dean acknowledged with little care. "You checked yourself in here, right?" Max barely nodded. "Can I ask why?"
"I was a little stressed," Max responded with his voice bordering on laughter that Dean didn't get that already. "I survived a plane crash."
"Huh," Dean said, not fully believing him. "And that's what terrified you? That's what you were afraid of?" Smooth, Dean … smooth.
"I … I … I don't wanna talk about this anymore," Max quickly said, picking up on where we were going and backing away.
"I think you did see something up there," Dean pressed, not picking up on Max discomfort. "We need to know what."
"No. No, I was delusional. Seeing things," Max insisted, convincing both himself and us.
"He was seeing things," Dean repeated dryly, turning to face me.
"I heard," I pointed out, turning away from the table and to the others scattered across the lawn. Patients moved across the grass in plain clothing, doctors in white jackets darting between them.
"There was this man," Max sighed, giving in to whatever he had so strongly denied. "And, uh, he had these … eyes, these, uh … black eyes. And I saw him … or, I thought I saw … him …" He paused, taking even breaths as he ran whatever happened through his head for further clarification.
"What?" Dean asked, drawn in and waiting for the punch-line.
"He opened the emergency exit," Max finished, hurriedly pushing out the words with denial. He looked between the three of us, silently begging for some reassurance that he had imagined it. "But that's … that's impossible, right? I mean, I looked it up. There's something like 2 tons of pressure on that door." Dean nodded slowly, processing the new information and piecing it together.
"Yeah," he said with great intelligence.
"This man, uh, did he seem to appear and disappear rapidly?" Sam wondered, leaning forward over the table with various strands of hair sticking out over his face. "It would look something like a mirage." Max's eyes darted back and forth before he broke out into a disbelieving smile.
"What are you, nuts?" He demanded. "He was a passenger. He was sitting right in front of me." Dean and Sam looked over at me and I rolled the information over in my mind like a bead between my fingers.
"So here we are. George Phillips, seat 20c," Sam acknowledged, gesturing up to house looming in front of us, a large unkempt garden in front.
"Mmm," Dean replied. "Man, I don't care how strong you are." He opened the door and climbed out; leaving whatever point there was to his words hanging. I yanked open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk, the lazily cut grass alternating in length over my shoes.
"Even yoked up on PCP or something," Dean continued. "No way can you open an emergency door during a flight."
"Not if you're human," I pointed out, stepping up further on the grass, the dusted petals of a dandelion catching onto my hem.
"But maybe this guy George was something else," Sam suggested, turning back to the car and resting his clasped hands on top. "Some kind of creature, maybe? In human form?"
"Does that look like a creature's lair to you?" Dean asked, gesturing to the house. Sam turned to look at it, taking in the grey home with black shingles and the wild bushes dotted with flowers in front. Appearances could be deceiving.
Sam picked up the picture frame by the back and turned it around to face him, taking in the sight of the smiling middle aged man.
"This is your late husband?" He asked, gesturing to it to indicate that this was who he meant. That or she was having a very open affair.
"Yes, that was my George," she said quietly, a sad exhaustion in her voice.
"And you said he was a … dentist?" Dean asked, Sam leaning over and carefully setting the picture frame back onto the table next to the vase of fake apples. False advertising.
"He was headed to a convention in Denver," she nodded sadly. "Do you know he was petrified to fly?" Dean turned his head with a "really?" tilt, not one hundred percent certain what the detail had to do with anything.
"For him to go like that …," she trailed off; her face twisting with barely contained grief.
"How long were you married?" Sam gently wondered.
"Thirteen years," she answered a small, sad smile on her lips.
"And all that time …," Sam continued, looking down at the picture frame in front of him. "…Did you ever notice anything strange about him? Anything out of the ordinary?" She looked between the three of us – Dean and Sam seated with me leaning against the door frame – with uncertainty.
"Well …," she started, still looking unsure about the question. "He had acid reflux if that's what you mean."
"I mean, it goes without saying, it just doesn't make sense," Sam pointed out, stepping quickly down the raggedly cut stone steps.
"Yeah, a middle-aged dentist with an ulcer is not exactly evil personified," Dean responded with dripping sarcasm, taking the last step and walking onto the sidewalk.
"You'd be surprised," I pointed out dryly, Dean looking back to acknowledge me.
"What we do need to do is get inside that NTSB warehouse, check out the wreckage," Dean stated, stopping so that he could look at the both of us at once.
"Okay, but if we're gonna go that route, we better look the part," Sam pointed out, heavy suggestion in his tone.
I adjusted myself on the car bumper, a chilled wind pulling at the undone folds of my jacket. I'd have to put up a sign reserving the bumper, I used it so often. The door to the store opened and I looked up, Dean and Sam stepping out with matching black and white suits. An ache beat in my chest at the sight of Sam, tugging at the collar of his shirt and adjusting it. I curled my fingers into the sleeves of my jacket to keep from reaching out and fixing it for him, grazing my fingers through his hair and over his neck … I needed help. Dean looked down at the suit in displeasure, picking up on nearly invisible details about it that displeased him. Sam untucked his fingers from his collar and froze, his finger still locked in the fabric. I casually glanced behind me at the mundane traffic before turning back. What was he looking at?
"Hey," he said and walked over, running his hand through his hair and poorly smoothing it down.
"Hey," I answered, nervous dancing moving through my stomach.
"What are you wearing?" He asked, taking in my attire. I glanced down at them, the brown leather jacket, pressed white shirt and dark jeans, staring back at me with innocence.
"Clothes," I said and looked back up, not wanting to go into boring detail.
"Kind of casual don't you think?" He asked, again adjusting his collar like a nervous tick.
"I think I look fine," I said pointedly. It had been the best dressed I had been since … ever.
"Damn straight you do," Dean said, looking me up and down with interest.
"Yeah, well you look like one of the Blues brothers," I informed him dryly. His smile dropped and he looked back down at himself with continued disapproval. Sam let out a burst of laughter and tugged the collar down so that it creased with an unkempt appearance.
"Stop fidgeting with your collar, you look like a grade seven at his first dance," I pointed out, moving away from the side and to the backdoor, the two of them staring after me with bewildered looks.
I held up the ID with confidence, the picture of me standing out from the details and leather case. Dean and Sam also held up there's with confidence, Sam almost bordering on look bored with his collar still unfixed. I bit the inside of my check to keep from reaching up and fixing it for him. Probably couldn't reach anyway, I'd need a step ladder or something. The guard nodded and Sam returned the nod in thanks, putting his ID away. I tucked my own ID into my jacket pocket and walked down the short hallway to the large metal door, dark bolts nailing it in place. A buzz echoed and Sam pulled open the handle with ease, holding it open so that Dean and I could walk through. My footsteps instantly echoed inside, large distant lights reflecting from the ceiling and illuminating the poorly reconstructed aircraft in the centre. I moved through the broken pieces of machinery, my footsteps loud on the concrete floor. Dean dug through his jacket and fished out a small gadget, unraveling the cord around it.
"What is that?" Sam questioned as Dean slipped a headphone into his ear.
"EMF reader," he explained, turning it over in his hands. "It reads Electromagnetic frequencies."
"Yeah, I know what an EMF meter is," Sam said with exasperation. "But why does that one look like a busted-up walkman?"
"'Cause that's what I made it out of," Dean explained proudly. "It's homemade." He held it up like a trophy, showing off the "apparent" skill that went into making it.
"Yeah, I can see that," Sam said with sarcasm, a growing grin on his face. Dean stared back at him mockingly before turning away, the EMF – or busted walkman – held out with its motor peacefully whirring. I followed behind, taking in the twisted metal that loomed ominously. It cast distorted shadows across the room, the lights cutting over the edges. Dean waved the EMF meter over a warped bar, pausing and swiping it back again, the tiny lights on the top flashing more violently. He tucked it back into his jacket.
"Check out the emergency-door handle," he advised, running his fingers over the edge with an observing – almost scientific air – and drawing them back, covered in yellowing residue. "What is this stuff?"
"One way to find out," I observed and stooped to my ankle, unsnapping the knife and unfolding it from the hem of my jeans. I re-stood and moved closer to the handle, scrapping the blade over the yellow residue, the substance chipping easily.
"Here," Sam said, holding out a small plastic bag and I scrapped the residue into it, the contents flaking in the pinched bottom. Dean made a face at the powder still on his hands and wiped them onto Sam's jacket with childish innocence. I knelt again and slid the knife back onto my ankle; the edge of it now flaked with yellow. The sound of a far off closing door broke through the subdued noise of the room and I froze, ears straining. Footsteps were echoing not far off, a hurried pace to them that seemed too impatient to be the steps of a casual walker.
"We got company," I warned, re-standing as Dean and Sam turned to the door, also hearing the footsteps. We took off, shoes pounding over the floor with muffled footsteps and around the dangerously arranged metal. Dean shoved open the door and I pushed through it, my heart pounding in my ears with urgency. The brilliant sunshine darkened everything significantly and I squinted against it. Dean moved past me and around to the edge of the building, peering out around it. Sam quietly closed the door behind him and looked out past Dean, gesturing to me that the coast was clear. I followed him, chest aching with adrenaline and my legs building pressure with the urge to break into a run. Sam and Dean walked on either side of me with attempted calm, not ready to break into relief yet. An alarm blared through the air urgently and snapped the poorly held adrenaline inside me. I broke into a run with Sam and Dean following me, the hot pavement blurring underneath my feet. A metal fence loomed in front of us and Dean undid his jacket with urgency, tossing it awkwardly on top. I made a small leap and dug my fingers into the wire, my feet poorly balanced on a lower bar. I pulled myself up, Sam and Dean grunting next to me as they climbed. I grabbed onto the top – the twisted wire biting onto my hands – and slid over, the pavement hotly connecting with my feet. Dean landed next to me, stumbling back slightly before jumping up to catch the sleeve of his jacket and swinging it over.
"Wow, these monkey suits do come in handy," he said with slight awe, gesturing to the fabric and bolting off into the shadowy front of the building. I glanced at Sam breathlessly who shrugged and we both took off after him, alarm still echoing in my ears.
Jerry stared into the microscope lens with concentration, sifting his body weight to adjust his view of it without having to move the lens.
"Huh," he said with interest and moved away, glancing up at us. "This stuff is covered in sulfur."
"You sure?" Sam asked, his thumb lazily moving over the folds of his sleeve.
"Take a look for yourself," he welcomed, gesturing at the screen, distant yells breaking an undercurrent to his offer. "If you fellas will excuse me, I have an idiot to fire." He moved away from the desk and into the confusion of machinery.
"Hey Einstein," he called, his voice fading out. "Yeah, you …" Dean moved around the desk to the microscope and peered into the lens. I sighed and untucked my hands from my jacket and into the back pocket of my jeans. Stinging lines still imprinted themselves on my palms and wore against the fabric.
"Hmm," said Dean with interest, pulling away. "You know there's not too many things that leave behind a sulfuric residue."
"Demonic possession?" Sam asked, glancing up at him.
"It would explain how a mortal man would have the strength to open an emergency hatch," Dean said, thinking aloud and leaning forward on his hands
"If the guy was possessed it's possible," I explained, removing my hands from my pockets, the sting becoming a burn.
"Yeah, but this goes way beyond floating over a bed or barfing pea soup," Dean observed, straightening and tucking his hands into his pockets, the fabric of his jacket gathering. "It's one thing to possess a person, but to use him to take down an entire airplane?"
"You ever heard of something like this before?" Sam asked, turning to look up at me, for once being shorter than me. Though granted he was sitting.
"Never," I said simply, my hair falling like a curtain over the side of my face and causing thin snippets of sun to fall through. Sam paused in his movement and stared at me, aching warmth on his face that seemed to run a blade down my insides and rip them raw.
I tapped the pen against my lips in thought, my eyes jumping over the various black and white sketches on the wall. The occasional photo blended in with the rest of them, the color scheme making it difficult for them to stand out.
"So every religion and every culture in the world has the concept of demons and demonic possession, right?" Sam said, leaning back more comfortably in his chair. "I mean, Christian, Native American, Hindu, you name it …"
"Yeah, but none of them describe anything like this," Dean pointed out, drawing his fingers away from the open pages of the book he was reading, the light briefly glinting off his ring.
"Well, that's not exactly true," Sam countered. "You see, according to Japanese belief, certain demons are behind certain disasters, both natural and man-made." I turned away from the wall and to the back of Sam's chair, generic articles brought up on the screen. Sam glanced up to acknowledge me, not pausing in his words. "One cause's earthquakes, another cause's disease."
"And this one causes plane crashes," I implemented, my tone making the words balance between question and statement. Sam shrugged as an answer, hands gesturing to suggest "I guess so." Dean groaned and moved up from the mattress.
"Alright. So, what, we have a demon that's evolved with the times and found a way to ratchet up the body count?" Dean asked, moving over to where I stood and Sam sat the light from the window cutting over his face.
"Yeah," Sam answered, lazily clicking at the keys. "And, you know, who knows how many planes it's brought down before this one." Dean nodded, mulling this over in his head for a moment before chuckling under his breath and turning away.
"What?" Sam softly asked, questioning Dean's sense of dry humor.
"I don't know man," Dean started, scratching the back of his head and turning back, his hand now gesturing with his struggle to explain what was going on in his head. "This isn't our normal gig. I mean, demons, they don't want anything, just death and destruction for its own sake. And this is big." Sam nodded turning away, the same thoughts occurring through his own mind.
"And I wish dad was here," Dean continued, speaking like this had been the problem all along but that his thoughts had worked themselves out of order.
"Yeah, me too," Sam quietly agreed. I glanced between the two of them, their gazes turned away as they took awareness of the same situation with varying degrees of emotion directed towards it. Well … this was awkward. A phone rang and Dean dug through his pockets to pull it out, opening the top and pressing it to his ear.
"Hello?" He asked, professional again after the moment that bordered between intense awkwardness and a family moment … with me being awkward. "Oh, hey, Jerry …," he paused and his face darkened with surprise. "…Jerry, I'm sorry. What happened?" Sam looked up curiously, his fingers grazing the edges of a piece paper over his keyboard. "Where'd this happen? … I'll try to ignore the irony in that … Nothing. Jerry, hang in there, all right? We'll catch up with you soon." He clicked off the phone and looked at Sam and me with a disbelieving gaze.
"Another crash?" Sam asked, guessing from the fragments of conversation he had heard.
"Yeah. Let's go," Dean said, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
"Where?" I asked.
"Nazareth," he answered with an ironic look, Sam barely smiling in response.
"Sulfur?" Dean asked, Jerry pulling away from the microscope. Jerry barely nodded, confirming Dean's suspicions. "Well, that's great." He turned around to face Sam, sitting at a desk with a model plane propped up in front of him. "Well, that's two plane crashes involving Chuck Lambert. This demon sounds like it was after him."
"With all due respect to Chuck," Sam indicated to Jerry. "Um, if that's the case, that would be the good news."
'What's the bad news?" I asked, turning a tiny model plane over in my hands. It was probably the only time that I had been bigger then something.
"Chuck's plane went down exactly 40 minutes into flight," Sam continued. "And get this, so did flight 2485."
"Forty minutes? What does that mean?" Jerry wondered, glancing between us, his eyes red with exhaustion and poorly kept tears.
"It's biblical numerology," Dean patiently explained. "You know, Noah's Ark, it rained for forty days. The number means death." And the number thirteen has been getting a bad rap …
"I went back and there have been six plane crashes over the last decade that all went down exactly 40 minutes in," Sam added, clicking over the laptop screen.
"Any survivors?" I asked, setting the plane back onto the shelf, balancing it precariously.
"No," Said Sam, shaking his head. "Or, not until now, at least. Not until flight 2485, for some reason. On the cockpit voice recorder, remember what the E.V.P. said?"
"No survivors," Dean quoted in remembrance. Sam nodded, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall easier into place.
"It's going after all the survivors," I voiced, the words making even more sense out loud.
"It's trying to finish the job," Dean remarked with a sigh of realization.
"Well, thank you for taking our survey, and if you do plan to fly, please don't forget your friends at United Britannia Airlines," Sam politely spoke, shifting his hold of the cell phone against his ear. "Thanks." He hung up the phone, crossing a name off the list in front of him. "All right, that takes care of Blaine Sanderson and Dennis Holloway. They're not flying anytime soon."
"That just leaves the flight attendant, Amanda Walker," I observed, leaning over Sam's shoulder to read the uncrossed name still on his list.
"Right. Her sister Karen said her flight leaves Indianapolis at 8 p.m. It's her first night back on the job," Sam explained, folding back up the sheet and tucking his pen along with it.
"It sounds like just our luck," Dean sighed, a breeze wafting through the window and ruffling his hair.
"Dean, this is a five-hour drive, man, even with you behind the wheel," Sam pointed out, taking note of Dean's unorthodox driving skills. Dean sighed, considering the next possible option.
"Why don't you call Amanda's cell phone again, see if we can't head her off at the pass," he suggested, scrambling for another option.
"I already left her three messages," Sam explained, rubbing the back of his head. And four was the official "you have a stalker" number. "She must have turned her cell phone off." He sighed deeply with exasperation. "God, we're never gonna make it."
"Oh we'll make it," Dean insisted, the Impala snapping around a corner and blaring more violently down the road.
I jogged through the sliding doors, brushing past a man in a business suit whose suitcase clipped me in the knees. I shoved by more harshly, slowing to a stop in front of the multiple screens displaying departure and arrival times. Dean and Sam slowed next to me, the three of us taking in the names and times that were slowly changing as the details did.
"Right there," said Sam pointing, somewhat breathless from the run. "They're boarding in 30 minutes."
"Okay," Dean panted, nodding with acknowledgment. "We still have some cards to play. I need a phone." What was he going to order a pizza? He pushed through in front of us and darted through the crowd, Sam and I following, only half aware of what was going on. He skidded to a stop in front of a pay phone and pulled it off the hook.
"Uh, gate 13," Dean voiced into the phone, shifting with anticipation. "I'm trying to contact an Amanda Walker. She's a flight attendant on flight, um …"
"Flight 424," I whispered, leaning forward so he could hear me.
"Flight 424," He said into the phone, placing a hand on my shoulder in silent thanks. Tightly wound nerves pulsed through his head, darts of exhaustion and adrenaline pulling through. He dropped his hand and held the phone more closely, impatient bubbling through his expression.
"Come on," he said through his teeth. "Miss Walker." He brightened in mild relief and straightened like it made a difference. "Hi, this is Dr. James Hetfield from St. Francis Memorial Hospital. We have a Karen Walker here … nothing serious, just a minor car accident but she was injured so …" He trailed off, face faltering. "…You what? … Uh, well, must be some mistake." He turned away from us, Sam darting to follow his movement and try and get a sense of what was going on. "Guilty as charged." He chuckled nervously. "He's really sorry." This conversation was really hard to follow one-sided. "Yes, but he really needs to see you tonight. So …Don't be like that. I mean come on. The guys a mess. Really, it's pathetic … oh yeah … No. No, wait. Amanda … Amanda!" He pulled the phone away from his ear and with attempted calm set it back on the hook.
"How'd it go?" I wondered, leaning against the post. He turned, throwing me a disgruntled look before stepping away in frustration, running a hand over his face.
"Damn it. That was so close," he paced in continued frustration, other various options crumbling before they started. Yeah, because it sounded like he was doing well.
"All right," Sam sighed. "Time for plan B." Wasn't that plan B? "We're getting on that plane."
"W… well, now, just hold on a second," Dean quickly said, attempted – and failed – calm in his voice.
"Dean … that plane is leaving with over 100 passengers on board," Sam pointed out, urgency starting to push into his voice. "And if we're right …" he dropped his voice lower "…that plane is going to crash."
"I know," Dean insisted, nerves starting to break free of his composure.
"Well, okay," Sam said, not sure what the problem was. "Then we're getting on the plane and we need to find that demon and exorcise it. Look Kate and I will go get the tickets you go get whatever you can out of the trunk, whatever will make it past security. Meet us back here in five minutes." He made a move to leave before pausing, taking in the barely controlled nerves that were more gradually taking over Dean.
"Are you okay?" He asked quickly, hoping that it was a yes answer followed by a quick movement into action. Dean started to nod yes before changing his tactic half way through.
"No. Not really," he admitted.
"What?" Sam sweetly asked the sound sending goose bumps down my spine. "What's wrong?"
"Well, I kind of this problem with, uh …," Dean whispered, moving his hand in a jerked motion that looked like … well, nothing.
"Flying?" I asked, not sure what else could have filled what he was trying to say.
"It's never been really been an issue until now," he insisted, avoiding a "yes" answer.
"You're joking right?" Sam asked, disbelief in his tone.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Dean demanded, his face becoming more twisted with growing fear. "Why do you think I drive everywhere?"
"All right," said Sam, reshaping the plan in his head. "Uh, Kate and I will just go."
"What?" Dean demanded.
"Kate and I will just do this by ourselves," Sam calmly shrugged.
"What are you nuts?" Dean questioned. "You said yourself the plane is going to crash."
"Dean we can do it together or Kate and I can do it ourselves," Sam pointed out, pressure starting to build with the intensity of the situation. "I'm not seeing a third option here." Sending one of us by ourselves … that would be a third option. Dean stared at him, playing his options over his head. Judging by his facial expression they weren't good.
"Come on," he said with exasperation. "Really?" He looked around, growing gradually more aware of his lack of options. "Man."
"Flight attendants, please prepare for departure," the voice over the intercom politely said, tiny movements in the plane starting to make it tremble. I shifted in my seat, the fabric moving beneath me and the seatbelt cutting into my lap.
"Just try to relax," Sam whispered to Dean with attempted encouragement.
"Just try to shut up," Dean threw back, his teeth clenched. The engine roared and the plane started to shake faster, everything trembling with its movement. I glanced over at Dean, sitting painfully stiff in his seat, clutching the arm rests.
"Need to hold my hand?" I whispered, leaning over the narrow aisle. He glanced over at me, before turning away, stiffly shaking his head.
"Once in a lifetime offer," I informed him, righting myself in my own seat. The roaring slowed somewhat, the tilt of the plane changing and the black sky outside the window moving faster.
Dean hummed next to me, his head uncomfortably forced back against the seat with his continued attempt to glue himself against it. Sam glanced around him at me before looking up at Dean, still humming the same tune under his breath.
"You humming Metallica?" Sam asked in surprise.
"Calms me down," Dean insisted. Sam looked away with a scoff, shaking his head slightly.
"Look man. I now you're nervous but you gotta stay focused," Sam pointed out. Dean shot him an irritated look before quickly nodding.
"Okay."
"I mean, we got 32 minutes and counting to track this thing down or whoever it's possessing, anyway, and perform a full-on exorcism," Sam reminded him.
"Yeah, on a crowded plane. That's gonna be easy," Dean said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Just take it one step at a time, all right?" Sam calmly asked. Dean nodded, swallowing hard.
"Now, who is it possessing?" Sam asked, glancing around at the various passengers.
"Well, it's usually gonna be somebody with some sort of weakness, you know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through," Dean stated, his words distracting himself somewhat. "Somebody with an addiction or some sort of emotional distress." He glanced behind him at a stewardess walking by, before snapping his head back around.
"Well, this is Amanda's first flight after the crash," Sam observed. "If I were her, I'd be pretty messed up."
"Mm-hmm," Dean nodded. The stewardess paused behind me and I twisted in my seat.
"Excuse me?" I asked, speaking as politely as my body would allow. She turned at my voice, resting a hand on the back of my seat. "Are you Amanda?"
"No, I'm not," she apologized.
"Oh, my mistake," I informed her, giving her an apologetic smile. She nodded and moved on ahead of me. I twisted again as Dean did, glancing down the aisle to see a pretty blonde behind the curtain in a stewardess's uniform. I turned back to face Dean who nodded, thinking what I was thinking.
"All right. Well that's gotta be Amanda back there, so …," Dean trailed off, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "I'll go talk to her, and, uh, I'll get a read on her mental state." Seemed smart, the one of us with the worst mental state going to check on someone else's.
"Right," Sam nodded. "What if she's already possessed?" Dean paused, thinking for a moment before digging through the bag at his feet. Hopefully his own.
"There's ways to test that," he informed us, digging through it and pulling out a crumbled water bottle with water inside. "I brought holy water." He must be a fun person to vacation with.
"No," Sam flatly said, grabbing the bottle and shoving it into his jacket. "I think we can be more subtle. If she's possessed she'll flinch at the name of God."
"Nice," Dean acknowledged, getting up from his seat.
"Hey," Sam called after him.
"What?" Dean demanded, turning back.
"Say it in Latin," Sam whispered, his words barely loud enough for me to hear.
"I know," Dean insisted, turning to walk back again. I reached out and grabbed his jacket and pulling him back, barely controlled nerves bubbling beneath his surface.
"The Latin word for God is Deus," I informed him quietly, his face close to mine.
"I know," he insisted, pulling free of my grip and moving down the aisle. Turbulence shook the plane and Dean fell against one of the seats. He gripped its edge to keep him up, slamming his fist into the seat across from him. I grinned and turned back around in my seat to face Sam who shook his head in mild amusement.
"Think he's going to be okay?" He asked.
"I doubt it," I admitted, moving more comfortable against the grooves of the seat.
"You ever been in a plane before?" He wondered, still leaning over Dean's seat to face me. I looked over at him, his bangs falling into his eyes and framing his face. I dug my fingers into my palm – taunting the still not healed cuts from the wire – to keep from reaching out and brushing them back.
"Once or twice when I was a kid," I shrugged, the experiences cut down to fragmented memories of a small girl in black, silent and curled up in her seat.
"Let me guess … you were the kid causing trouble?" He asked with a smirk and laugh. I let out a small laugh myself, more out of the fact that I enjoyed his smile then the fact that he was wrong.
"No, I was the brooding little girl curled in her seat, minding her own business," I informed him, glancing back over. He nodded slowly; the dimmed lights skimming over his eyes and making them sparkle like dust in the sunlight.
"Sounds a bit like you," he admitted. I nodded, a hand skimming my back and alerting me of fear taking over a usual sarcastic persona. Dean gripped the back of my seat and sat back down his own, removing his hand and taking a mild breath of relief that he made it.
"Alright. Well, she's gotta be the most well-adjusted person on the planet," he summed up, shifting more comfortably in his seat.
"You said Deus?" I asked, leaning over my arm rest and having it dig unfortunately into my chest.
"Yeah," he sighed.
"And?" Sam wondered, also leaning in closer to him.
"There's no demon in her," Dean summed up, finally finding minimal comfort in his seat. "There's no demon getting in her."
"So if it's on the plane, it could be anyone, anywhere," I pointed out, scanning the crowd. A violent jerk shook the plane, the parts of it rattling with little confidence in themselves. My heart picked up its pace in my chest somewhat, alerting me that I may be more nervous than I thought.
"Come on, that can't be normal," Dean grinded out through his teeth, his nerves setting him dangerously on edge.
"Hey, hey. It's just a little turbulence," Sam assured him soothingly.
"Sam, this plane is going to crash okay. So quit treating me like I'm frigging four," Dean snapped at him in a hurried whisper, his white knuckles clenching his arm rest.
"You need to calm down," Sam calmly informed him.
"Well, I'm sorry, I can't," Dean snapped back, his breaths coming in quick and panicked.
"Yes you can," Sam continued calmly.
"Dude, stow the touchy-feely, self-help yoga crap. It's not helping," Dean insisted, razor sharp nerves coming loose in his skull.
"You're panicked you're wide open to demonic possession," Sam pointed out, taking more quietly and with an edge to his otherwise peaceful tone. "So you need to calm yourself down, right now." Dean nodded slowly, parting his lips and exhaling deeply, his breath trembling.
"Good," Sam said, his patience fraying. Dean turned away from Sam, still breathing deeply, and glanced over at me.
"Can I hold your hand now?" He wondered innocently.
"Now …," Sam said, cutting whatever answer I had off with a biting tone. "I found an exorcism in here that I think is gonna work. The Rituale Romanum."
"What do we have to do?" I asked, leaning over the aisle to hear better.
"It's two parts," he sighed, holding the open pages of his dad's journal carefully. "The first part expels the demon from the victim's body. It makes it manifest, which actually makes it more powerful …"
"It would," I said dryly, Sam smirking slightly.
"More powerful?" Dean repeated body still clenched with attempted calm. "How?"
"It doesn't need to possess someone anymore. It can just wreck havoc on its own," Sam explained patiently.
"And how is that a good thing?" I wondered.
"Well …," said Sam, turning back to the journal. "…Because the second part … sends the bastard back to hell, once and for all."
"Well, first things first we gotta find it," Dean sighed, jumping back to the missing first step.
I unevenly stepped over the narrow aisle, edges of bags and feet sticking out and forming an obstacle course for me to follow. It wasn't like this was hard enough to begin with or anything … I skimmed my fingers over the shoulder of a woman next to me, her eyes rising at me with confusion and disgust. Husband, kids, job, affair …oh … nice. I sidestepped over a bag, fingers skimming the man at an angle from her. Money, money, new car, money, cat … Nothing interesting about him, though the cat was a surprise. I reached the end of the aisle, turning against the barely curtained door. Dean walked over, head bowed and examining the E.M.F. meter in his hands. He glanced up as he saw me and stopped in front, running his finger over the dials.
"Anything?" He wondered. I shook my head, Sam walking up behind him and clamping a hand on his shoulder, making Dean jerk violently.
"Oh, man don't do that," he said through his teeth.
"Anything?" Sam wondered, ignoring his comment.
"No, nothing," Dean answered, Sam glancing over at me with the same question in his eyes. I shook my head. What kind of guy thinks of money, a new car and a cat? "How much time we got?"
"Fifteen minutes," Sam replied, glancing down quickly at his watch. "Maybe we missed somebody." Dean glanced behind him, taking in the sight of the passengers for any sign that he missed one.
"Maybe the thing's just not on the plane," he suggested weakly.
"You believe that?" I asked, leaning against the doorway, the curtain catching up beneath me. Dean turned to face me, desperation on his face for his words to be real.
"Well, I will if you will," he pointed out, a smirk pulling out at his lips. A red glow reflected from beneath me and I looked down at the meter still in his hands, the lights on it blaring brightly. I looked up again, glancing behind me as the bathroom door opened and a man in uniform walking out. He nodded and smiled at us in greeting, turning to the door to the cockpit.
"What? What is it?" Sam asked, not seeing the red lights or almost inaudible hum.
"Deus," he said with dead calm. The man paused, a tremble moving through his shoulders and he turned back, his eyes glowing black. I swallowed hard, a dryness coating my mouth and throat. He smirked and turned back around, walking into the cockpit and locking the door behind.
"She's not gonna believe this," Sam insisted, shaking his head and moving rapidly through the seats ahead of me.
"Twelve minutes, dude," Dean reminded him from behind me. Sam ignored him and moved through the doorway, stepping back so that I could move through. Amanda turned around from where she stood a polite smile on her lips.
"Oh hi," she smiled, recognizing Dean. "Flights not to bumpy for you I hope."
"Actually that's kind of what we need to talk to you about," Dean nervously said, Sam jerking the curtain closed behind me and grazing the side of my head. My hair shifted with the movement and I involuntarily shivered.
"Um, okay," she said, not fully understanding. "What can I do for you?"
"All right, this is going to sound nuts," Dean warned, his eyes darting around to make sure no one else was listening. "But we just don't have time for the whole "the truth is out there" speech right now …"
"All right, look," I interrupted, putting a hand on his arm and pushing him aside. Man claims that we have twelve minutes left and stalls. "We know you were on flight 4285." She stared at me for a moment, taking a step back with growing suspicion and fear.
"Who are you guys?" she asked, attempting to remain calm.
"Now," Sam started, picking up where I left off. "We've spoken to the other survivors. We know something brought down that plane and we know it wasn't mechanical failure."
"And we need your help," Dean cut in. "Because we need to stop it from happening again. Here. Now."
"I'm sorry, I'm very busy," she stumbled, bowing her head and making a move to the door. "I have to go …"
"Whoa, whoa," Dean interrupted, putting his hands on his shoulders and pushing her back, Sam's girth alone blocking the door. "Wait a second. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? But listen to me. Um, the pilot from 2485, Chuck Lambert? He's dead."
"W … What? Chuck's dead?" she demanded, trying to make sense of what was going on and failing in the process.
"He died in a plane crash," I quickly explained. "Now that's two plane crashes in two months. That doesn't strike you as strange?"
"I … I," she attempted.
"Look," Sam began, running his fingers through his hair with irritation at how slowly the situation was moving. "Something was wrong with 2485. Maybe you sensed it, maybe you didn't. But there's something wrong with this flight too."
"Amanda you have to believe us," Dean insisted, bordering on desperate. She glanced between the three of us, words shaping and collapsing on her lips as she struggled to piece together a reasonable explanation without shattering all she thought she knew.
"On … on 2485, there was this, uh … this man. He … had these eyes," she attempted, looking up at us and struggling.
"Yes," Sam cut in, excited to be finally getting somewhere. "That's exactly what we're talking about."
"Well, I don't understand. What are you asking me to do?" She demanded, becoming frustrated.
"Bring the copilot back here," I answered.
"What? What does he have to do with anything?" She demanded, losing her frustration and growing fearful again.
"Don't have time to explain," I insisted, resisting the urge to glance at Sam's watch. "We just need to talk to him, okay?"
"Well how am I supposed to go into the cockpit and get the copil …," she asked, gaining on hysterical.
"Do whatever it takes," Sam pleaded. "Tell him there's something broken back here. Whatever will get him out."
"Do you know that I can lose my job if …," she started, further stalling the situation.
"You could lose a lot more if you don't help us out," I said through my teeth, adrenaline and anticipation flaring in my blood and making it heat. A fire wouldn't be particularly helpful at the moment. She looked from the three of us again, begging us silently for a last minute "ha, ha fooled you."
"Okay," she whispered, sensing what she was begging for wasn't going to come. She moved past us and pulled back the curtain, walking through with the barest of trembles to acknowledge how scared she really was. Dean peered through the curtains to watch her go, the barest strip of light illuminating his face and the tiny details on it. He waited, silently watching and his eyes darting as he followed the movements Amanda was making.
"They're coming," he quietly said, pulling away and digging through his jacket. Sam dug through his own and pulled out the bottle of Holy water and held it out to me. I carefully took it, the plastic crinkling under my hands. Dean held the journal out to Sam who took it and started rapidly flipping through the pages. The curtains parted.
"Now, what's the problem?" The copilot asked, moving through the fabric. Dean's fist slammed out from the side and smashed into the side of his face, throwing him against the wall. Dean rushed after him, grabbing onto his tie and slamming him back down onto the ground. I rushed over, the uneven floor sliding under my feet, and dropped down beside him.
"Hold him," Dean grunted, digging through his jacket and trying to hold him down at the same time. I kneeled half on top of him, my knee purposefully digging into his ribs as he grunted with pain. Dean pulled out a roll of duck tape and ripped off a section, smoothing it over the copilot's mouth.
"What, what are you doing?" Amanda demanded in a panic, Sam bolting over beside the three of us. "You said you were just gonna talk to him."
"We are, just forcefully," I said through my teeth, my hands gripping onto his forearms to hold him down. His body jerked underneath the multiple pressures, his face becoming red with exertion. Sam grabbed the water bottle beside me and squirted water onto him, steam burst up off his skin and clothes, burning holes through both.
"Oh, my God. What's wrong with him?" Amanda asked, her breath coming in faster as she started to full on panic.
"Look, we need you calm," Sam informed her, drawing his attention briefly away. "We need you outside the curtain." The copilot's body jerked beneath me again, shifting back and forth violently. Man it was like trying to hold onto a freaking fish. "Don't let anybody in, okay? Can you do that?" She stammered unhelpfully. "Amanda?"
"Okay, okay," she finally said, her footsteps retreating to behind the curtain. Dean slammed his fist into the copilots face again, the action doing little good as he continued to convulse.
"Hurry up, Sam," he grunted. "I don't know how much longer I can hold him." Sam splashed more water on the copilot, his shirt now stained through and the steam clouding the small space. He pulled out the journal and started to read, saying the Latin words with ease like he had spoken them often. The water bottle snapped away from us, skidding across the floor and the copilot forced his arms free and shoved me. I fell back and hit my head against the wall, a crash echoing next to me. Red hot pain pounded in my head and I blinked back the color, everything swaying nauseatingly. Now would not be a good time to pass out. I dragged myself over, everything dancing out of shape, and he shoved me again, harder this time. I hit the wall again, the corner of it slicing into my back.
"Son of a bitch," I swore, grabbing onto the edge and pulling myself to my feet. The ground moved unevenly beneath my feet and I dropped beside the copilot again, his attention on Sam and his black eyes alive with anger and hate. I pounded my fist through his face, the connection of flesh on flesh clearing my head with satisfaction. Dean fell next to me, holding down his body with exertion, Sam watching the two of us with detachment and horror.
"Sam," I half yelled, the pounding in my head returning and echoing in my ears. Sam shook himself free of his stupor and continued to read, his fingers moving down the page. The copilot's body twisted more angrily and Sam dropped the book to help hold him down. Steam rose more vividly, my hands slipping and sliding over his soaked through shirt. His back arched and powdery black smoke burst through his mouth and twisted through the air. He collapsed back onto the ground, the smoke screeching and roaring as it moved.
"Where'd it go?" Sam asked as I let go of the now comatose pilot, my hands chafed from holding the wet fabric and tensed with the movement of holding them stiff.
"It's in the plane," panted Dean. "Hurry up, we gotta finish it." He patted Sam on the back to get him to move and he stumbled through the curtain. I leaned back against the wall, my breath pressing blunt knives in my chest as I gasped to reclaim it. Man I could use a beer.
"You okay?" Dean worriedly asked, still gasping and panting. I turned to him, my lips parted to answer when the floor disappeared beneath me.
The floor collided again with my body and I hit it hard, the copilots arm softening a small section of my back. Roaring and screaming flooded my ears, everything moving violently with darkness and light slashing my vision. Dean gave a short yell next to me, his shape barely visible against the emergency door. Everything was shuddering, moving out of place with one another and I pushed against the floor, the feel of it vanishing and reappearing rapidly. A loud crash echoed next to me and Dean yelled loudly, his face visible in a flash of lightning. His face was twisted with terror, his shirt whipping with the wind and papers blowing from who knows where. I twisted myself onto my front and dragged myself over, the floor moving dizzyingly and bruising my stomach. I really needed a beer. I slid over to where he lay, plastered against the wall, and half pulled myself to my knees.
"Dean," I yelled above the noise and my hands found his face, his mouth wide open as he screamed. "Dean … Dean listen to me!" He half turned to look at me, still yelling in a way that would be comical if it weren't for the fact that we were all about to die. "Listen to me it's okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay." My lack of faith in the words made them seem hollow but he stopped yelling, his face however still twisted in horror and bone deep panic. "Dean it's alright. Just look at me. Look at me! Look at my eyes." I shifted my hands over his face, the bristles of his checks rough on my palms and I held them over his temples, my fingers half twisted in his hair. "Look at my eyes. Okay? Look at me." His eyes settled into mine, his terrified gaze locking onto my one of forced calm. Terror seeped through his mind, memories and last minute prayers breaking through. "Do I look scared? Do I look scared?" He barely shook his head, his face moving unevenly in my hands. "No, no because it's going to be okay. I am not going to let anything happen to you. You hear me? I will die before I let anything happen to you, okay? Okay? Do you hear me?" He nodded violently, swallowing hard. "I need you to calm down, okay? Nothing's going to happen to you but I need you to calm down. Can you do that for me?" He shook his head, his eyes alive with still beating terror. "Yes you can. I know you can, Dean. I need you to look at me. It's going to be okay. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe." He barely nodded and his lips parted as he exhaled, his breath trembling. He swallowed hard and exhaled again, his breath a fraction more calm this time. "That's good. Just breathe Dean. That's all I'm asking, just breath. It's going to be okay, just breathe." He tried again, his lips shaking with the movement and snaps of lightning suddenly twisted over the plane and blinding me with light. I closed my eyes against it, the brightness seeping through my eyelids, my hands still on Dean's face. Everything slowed down, the movement and trembling of the plane smoothing out as it righted itself like nothing happened. I opened my eyes, the jerking of the plane evening out and everything falling back into place. Dean continued to stare at me, his face still twisted with terror that was slowly ebbing. "You're doing good." I reminded him, readjusting my hands on his face that had become sticky with sweat. "That's it, just breathe. It's okay. You're doing great. Just breathe." He took another deep breath, the sound of it shaking but the terror inside him ebbing away like the ocean smoothing out the rough edges of a stone. "That's great. Just breathe. Just breathe." He continued, his eyes still fixated on my face and the feel of them dancing over my skin. The light returned to the ceiling and softened down his eyes, the terror gone and a look in that took me in with an expression that seemed unnaturally warm. Awareness shook me, the fact that I was kneeling between his legs with my hands on his face, and brought me back into the moment. I lowered my hands from his face, my hands skimming the top of his jacket and I quickly drew them back to me, my fingers trembling.
"Just breathe," I reminded him, taking in my own breath, my whole body exhausted. He took another breath, still staring at me with the same expression. "Just breathe." He nodded, swallowing hard. I nodded as well and stood, my legs shaking and walked to the doorway, my fingers grasping at the wall to keep from falling. I pushed through the curtain, debris and luggage crashed everywhere with the passengers righting themselves and looking around in still partial terror. Sam slowly stood up from the middle of the aisle, his shoulders rising and falling quickly with his breath. Relief collapsed inside me and he turned, taking sight of me and pausing with the same relief. I managed a tired smile, the only thought, the only thing that mattered … the fact that he was alive.
Chatter danced around me indistinctly, similar phrases reaching out and claiming a difference. I adjusted my footing on the ground, the feel of it still uneven and my head pounding from the collision and thoughts that I was too tired to block out. Amanda stood a few steps away with a police officer, her pale skin standing out from her uniform as she spoke quietly. She glanced up and saw us, a small smile torn between relief and gratitude on her lips.
"Thank you," she mouthed. Dean nodded in response, his body barely a breath away from mine.
"Let's get out of here," he suggested, his hand closing over my arm and gently moving me forward. I followed his lead with a slight stumble, everything still swaying with remembrance.
"You okay?" Dean asked worriedly, his expression warm and soft the way he had been on the plane.
"Yeah, just dizzy," I insisted, shifting my bag over my shoulder and casually moving out of his grip.
"We could take you to the paramedics," he offered, gesturing behind him at the crew of them moving through the crowd. "We'd wait."
"Its fine," I insisted with more force, brushing my hair over my face to cover it.
"Alright, what about you?" He wondered, drawing his attention to Sam, silently walking beside us. Sam slowed his steps, turning to stop in front of us with words he was fighting over ready to burst.
"He knew about Jessica," he said, speaking through his lips with barely contained emotion.
"Sam, these things, they … they read minds," Dean persisted with confidence. "They lie. All right? That's all it was."
"Yeah," Sam barely whispered no conviction in his voice. I broke free of my restrictions and reached a hand out to him and lay it on his arm. He looked down at it; my fingers uncertainly sprawled over the creases in his jacket.
"Come on," Dean said forcefully, moving past the two of us.
"Nobody knows what you guys did, But I do," Jerry said matter of factly, his hands loosely placed on his hips. I guess no trophy then. Dean nodded in acknowledgment, leaning casually back against the Impala.
"A lot of people could have been killed," Jerry continued and held out his hand for Sam to shake. "You're dads gonna be real proud." He dropped his hand from Sam's grasp and held it out to Dean who also shook it. He turned to me, considering for a second, before holding his hand out in acceptance of who I was and what I did. I also reached out and shook it, the deep lines in his hand betraying great use. Gratitude, exhaustion and the slightest bit of skepticism broke through … no hair replacement though.
"We'll see you around, Jerry," Sam politely said as Jerry dropped my hand. He nodded and walked away, arms swinging with his movement and the sense of a "job, well done" in his step. Dean walked around the front of the Impala before stopping and turning back to Jerry's retreating back.
"Hey, you know Jerry," he called, Jerry half turning at the sound of his name.
"Yeah?" He called.
"I meant to ask you, how did you get my cell phone number, anyway?" Dean wondered, his arms open with the question. "I've only had it for like six months."
"Your dad gave it to me," Jerry answered simply.
"What?" Sam demanded, fully turning.
"When'd you talk to him?" Dean asked with attempted calm, straightening against the Impala.
"Well, I mean I didn't exactly talk to him," Jerry backtracked. "But, uh … called his number, his voice message said to give you a call." Sam and Dean stared at him in torn disbelief and hope.
"Thanks again, guys," Jerry thanked, turning again and retreating back into the shed. Sam spun around to face Dean, swallowing hard against everything that was most likely building in his chest.
"This doesn't make any sense, man," Sam pointed out, hands tucked deep into his pockets. "I've called dad's number like 50 times. It's been out of service." Dean ignored him, hurriedly pressing keys on his phone and holding it up to his ear with a determined look on his face. I shifted on the surface of the bumper, adjusting the lay of my arms over my knees. A warm breeze wafted through the air, travelling with it the sound of a plane flying overhead, brushing back my hair and allowing the sun to shine better on my face. Dean awkwardly leaned into Sam, pulling back somewhat and gesturing for me to lean in and listen. I shifted closer, moving onto my knees and between their heads, the grainy sound of a voice message barely audible.
" … I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. (785) 555-0179. He can help," the message clicked off, the gravelly voice – torn half between hung-over and tired –cutting off abruptly. Dean pulled the phone away and clicked it shut, staring down at it in his hands. Sam turned away, the sun catching at his eyes and illuminating the tears hanging in them. An ache contracted in my stomach, clenching my insides in its grasp at the sight and I cautiously reached out a hand and lay it on his shoulder. He turned to look up at me, the half formed tears like orbs in his eyes and his expression broken with hope and desperation. He attempted a smile that trembled on the corners and nodded, acknowledging my attempt. I tried to smile back and dropped my hand, my fingers absent mindedly grazing down his back. He pulled himself off the bumper and moved around to the front of the Impala, his steps hurried like he was holding back. A gust of wind twisted my hair and I untangled my legs and stood up, pins and needles in them making the ground feel still uneven.
"Uh, Kate?" Dean asked uncertainly and I turned back to face him. He ran a hand over his face with thought, uneasily moving closer. He stopped close to me, looking back at the front seat where Sam's head was visible through the rear window. "I uh … I wanted to thank you." He drew his hand away from his face and thrust them awkwardly into his front pockets, squinting at the sunlight which I could feel framing me.
"For what?" I asked, crossing my arms, the wind tugging at the bottom of my jacket and flapping it nosily in the wind.
"For, uh …," he stumbled, searching for the right words. "For on the plane." He bowed his head in embarrassment, ashamed like he was a little boy being scolded by a teacher. It swelled warmly in my chest and I smiled, un-tucking my arm and sweeping my hair back from my face.
"No problem," I insisted. He looked up, surprised that I hadn't snapped at him or something similar.
"I mean … it was really helpful what you did and it really helped me out and …," he trailed off, rambling and smiled in warm appreciation that twisted with the same embarrassment. "Just thanks."
"You're welcome," I answered, re-crossing my arm with the wind tangling my hair over my face. Life was too short for me to sweep it back again. He nodded, laughing slightly under his breath.
"And just so we're clear … you won't tell anyone, will you?" He asked, worry edging out his tone. I laughed again, the environment a perfect background to my answer.
"Who would I tell?" I demanded, the truth behind the fact not affecting me as much as it would with someone else. I had the two of them and … and that was alright. It was more then I had ever had and … it was nice. "I promise I won't tell." He grinned in further appreciation, the look in his eyes from the plane returning and turning them soft with the addition of the sun. He sighed deeply, looking out over the dusty road and darkening field on the other side.
"You up for a beer?" He wondered, turning back.
"Finally, yes," I said in relief and he laughed in agreement. I smiled the feel of it so frequently on my lips unnatural and I turned to the back seat, the crusted dirt crumbling underneath my shoes.