ONE AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER
The world is going to hell. My life is going to hell.
Wind whipped down the street. I barely managed to open the door and the bell jangled as it closed behind me. Inside was warm, a bubble of calm air, subdued voices and the buzzing of needles inking skin. It was so disconnected from everything inside me that froze, entirely disoriented.
"Hey," the man behind the desk greeted me, standing and smiling. I stared. His arms were covered, all the way down to his wrists. He said something else but his voice was suddenly far away, because I wasn't looking at him anymore, no, he had stepped to the side and there was a mirror behind him—I haven't looked in a mirror in three days, not since—not since—
My eyes were wide, too wide, terrified, deeply shadowed—so little sleep, she haunted my dreams, whispers too loud, I couldn't sleep—hair a mess, pale skin, gaunt cheeks—when was the last time I ate?—no sleep, she haunted me, whispering, black eyes black eyes black eyes—
"—you okay?"
I sucked in a breath, snapping back to reality. "Yes, yes, I just—" I laughed nervously. "Just spaced out for a second there, sorry!" He looked like he might ask me to leave, so I pulled out my notebook, trying to hide how badly my hands were shaking. "Here, I have some—I have some designs, some things I wanted to get—"
Days weeks months of compulsive research, pages and pages and pages, every ancient culture every dead language every symbol ritual chant sigil—protect yourself protect yourself—drawn over and over and over—
The needle buzzed and broke skin and I could breathe, thawing out on that cracked leather of the chair. Tensed, aching muscles relaxing slowly, mind drifting.
"...storm of the century headed for Chicago..." There was a small TV in the corner, the news anchor's voice breaking through my reverie. "Officials are urging residents to prepare..."
My stomach turned uneasily and something inside me whispered open your eyes.
No, I don't want to, no—I opened my eyes.
Look, the whisper commanded, look.
I turned my head slowly, trembling. I watched through the front window as the white classic car pull up, watched as the skeletal man step out, dressed in black, walking with a wooden cane. A silver ring set with a white stone glinted on his right hand.
True terror punched the breath out of me, icy fingers locking around my heart. My vision blurred as the tears spilled over, my mouth half-open in a silent scream.
This is the end.
PRESENT DAY
Holy water to the face was pretty fucking far down on the list of ways I liked to be woken up. On top of that, it felt like my brain had gone a few rounds with the inside of my skull. And my face fucking hurt, son of a bitch. I groaned.
Someone was yanking up my sleeve and I felt the bite of a silver blade. "If you fuck up my ink I'll kill you," I tried to say, but the words were hard to wrap my tongue around. I'm slurring. Huh, that can't be good. I coughed, trying to squint the world into focus. It was surprisingly difficult. Dingy motel room, two guys. It took a second but I recognized what was going on.
"I'm human, asshole," I spat. The response was a flashlight in my face, eyelids being pried up. I tried to pull away and became pleasantly aware that I was tied to a fucking chair.
"I think you gave her a concussion, Sam." I blinked away the shiny after-images. Jesus Christ, I was being monster-checked by a green-eyed Ken doll, and behind him stood Sam Winchester.
"Yeah, fuck you, Sam," I grunted, struggling against the ropes. "What's with the bondage? And who the hell is this asshole?"
Sam cleared his throat. "This is Dean."
"Your brother? Wife-and-kid, got-out-of-the-life Dean?" I looked Dean over with renewed interest. He was watching me with his arms crossed, face impassive. He had the cut of a life-long hunter—the way he held himself, his stance, the tension across his shoulders. I could see it from a mile away. And the fact that he was packing at least three different weapons. "Nice to meet you, Dean," I said with as much of a lazy grin as I could muster. "I'd shake your hand but—" I tugged against the knots uselessly.
"Alright, enough," Dean said, cutting me off. "My life story is fascinating, but we're here to talk about you. Who are you?"
"Sam didn't tell you about me?" I replied suggestively, sliding my eyes back to Sam. My heart jumped. Hair a little longer, eyes a little—softer? He looked... troubled. I frowned. "Sam," I said, and there was that slur again. "You're different."
"Hey, hey." Dean was back in my face, snapping his fingers. "Answer the question." I tried to pull in a deep, exasperated breath, but the ropes around my chest were too tight. My head pounded.
"Alice," I said. "I'm Alice." The room spun slowly and I closed my eyes, sagging forward. "Fuck," I groaned, gritting my teeth. No fucking way am I gonna pass out like some wilting flower. "A hunter, like you... Sam. Remember?" Jesus, concentrating was hard. I had to... to remind him. "We went... to Wonderland, down the rabbit hole..." Oh god, my head...
"Dean, cut her free."
"What?"
Their voices were suddenly far away, underwater echoes.
"She's concussed and delirious, c'mon."
Gentle hands on me, the snick of a knife, collapsing against a warm body, floating, floating away.
Sam lay her down carefully on his bed. He'd take the cot tonight. "Any idea what she was talking about?" Dean asked from behind him.
"No," Sam murmured. Her sleeve was pushed up from when Dean checked her, blood still trickling sluggishly. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, rolling it and tying it around her forearm. She had a long pale scar there, underneath the ink. He paused, tracing a finger over the tattoo, brow furrowing.
"Well, good," Dean said as he walked around to his bed, pointing a finger at Sam. "You know what Death said—" Sam knew where he was going with this.
"Yeah, no scratching the wall," he said absently, and then with more urgency, "Dean, look at this. It's an ancient Roman warding symbol." He'd seen it once before, while doing research for their own anti-possession tattoos. Dean gave him a look like yeah, so? "There's only one book in the world that documents that symbol," Sam said.
Dean looked at him for a long moment and then made a pained face, muttering, "Such a geek, oh my god." Sam blew out a half-annoyed sigh and looked away, back down at her face.
Who are you?