A/N: So after I got 4 pages into this chapter, I thought it was too long for no reason. I just got into this headspace and kept typing until I had to stop. I hope you guys like it and don't think the same.
BTW: This chapter is titled after All in My Head by Tori Kelly. And on AO3, I got rid of a lot of tags because I didn't think they were necessary. You can read the story and figure out what relationships are, but some tags are necessary for some chapters for the purpose that they are warnings.
I put (F/N) for First Name in here because we are assuming that (Y/N) is a shorter version of the reader's name. If that's not the case for you, it's okay. Just put in a nickname for that particular space or use your name for both spaces.
Chapter 7: All In My Head
I don't stop running until I get back to the motel room door. I throw it open and am met with complete darkness. Whatever the texts from Dean said must explain where he went, but I don't really care right now. I need both him and Dad gone to do this.
I rush over to my bag and push the clothes on top f it as far down as I can with them wrapped in one big ball, making it harder to close. Next, I go into the bathroom and pick up anything I left from my shower before heading over to the sink to do the same, but when I glance up at the mirror, I can't help stopping for a moment.
I don't know when exactly I started crying, but my face is red and puffy with tear tracks going in all different directions, probably from my run here. I can't help but let out another quick sob at my appearance. I see him one time, and I'm back to being the sad girl I was before he left. But I can't think about that now; if I get too hung up over this, I'll never go through with leaving.
I splash some water on my face a few times and slap my cheeks.
"Come on (Y/F/N). You can do this."
I make my way out of the bathroom and place my remaining toiletries in my toiletry bag before zipping up my duffle and throwing it, along with my computer bag over my shoulders. I do a quick once-over to the room, and my eyes stop on Dean's bag.
He's gonna blame himself for this, and the coldest, darkest part of me, the part that I have come to know as the new self that I created after Mesa, hopes he does. But I also hope he finds it in himself to forgive me and move on. Dad'll be okay, he pushed away one kid, he won't miss me.
With that in mind, I drop my motel key on the nightstand between the two beds and make my way to the bus station.
I don't have a destination in mind, and the only tickets available are leaving now is going to Nebraska. Perfect. East sounds just perfect. I can't spend another minute here. Not Palo Alto. Not in California. Not on the West fucking Coast. I just want to get as many miles between them and meas I can.
The older woman behind the ticket window looks at me with pity, she must think I'm a runaway or something. I don't really care because it's actually true. Dad and Dean are going to lose their shit when they find out I'm gone. Without a trace. But like I said, they'll get over it.
Knowing our family, the first thing they'll probably think is that some monster took me – maybe even the one we were hunting – before they completely assess the situation and realize that all of my stuff is gone too. Then they'll probably put out a hunter's APB on me, but I don't want to be found that quickly. I know enough to but myself some time before they catch up to me. But first thing's first, getting the hell outta dodge.
I take the bus ticket from the woman and ignore her attempts at asking me where my parents are, why I'm traveling alone, and if I need help. Instead, I tell her I'm going home to see my parents from visiting a sibling who attends the University.
I speed walk to the bus, tossing the hood underneath my jacket over my head in the process, and manage to snag a whole row by myself in the back. It's not until the bus is pulling out of the parking lot, out of the college town where I'm leaving my entire family behind that let the tears fall once more.
As I cry as silently as I can so to not draw attention to myself, I can't help but wonder if this is how Sam felt that day in Mesa when his bus drove away from Dean and I. He couldn't have felt as terribly as I do. I feel as though my heart is breaking all over again. As though there is nothing on Earth, Heaven, or Hell that could ever fix it.
Sam doesn't know what that feels like. He can't. He probably doesn't know what it feels like to be heartbroken. He couldn't have loved me in the way he said if he could just give that same love away to someone else.
But I met Jessica. I know that she is everything that I'm not. She's smart, beautiful beyond anything I could ever be, and she had such a charismatic personality…she had me at our first meeting. And God she was so nice. I was skeptical of her at first because she seemed too nice, but as time went on, I realized she was just really good people. I could sense it. It's a gift of mine, it's like I can read something deeper in people that makes it easier to tell who is who. I knew she was a good person from the start, but I have met so many bad people in this world that I was on the defensive when I felt her.
No wonder Sam never came back. One glance from her, and he was probably under her spell. I don't have that kind of personality. I saw the look she got in her eyes when she spoke to about her boyfriend our first meeting. And again when she talked to him on the phone at the pub our second meeting, and finally how that same love was reflected back in his eyes when they shared their warm, heartfelt kiss less than an hour ago.
I know whoever this guy was must have been the one for her if he was able to make her so happy, even when he wasn't in her presence. But I never thought my Sammy could be the one for anyone but me.
I guess people really do discover themselves at college. I never thought discovery could be so painful.
I ride the Greyhound for nearly 24 hours, the bus frequently making stops at gas stations, fast food restaurants, and other places where a few people board and others leave before we reach our destination in Grand Island. As we drive in, I notice just how beautiful and quaint this place is, but 1500 miles isn't a significant enough distance between Palo Alto and I.
When the bus pulls into the station, I grab both my bags and make a B-line for the Ticketmaster. This man is around the same age as the woman at the bus station in Palo Alto maybe a bit older – the late 50s, early 60s – except he doesn't seem to bat an eye at me as I walk up. But that might have something to do with the fact that he has headphones in his ears.
"Which bus is going the farthest east and what time does it leave?" I don't beat around the bush with my questions, causing the man to take his headphones out, look away from whatever he's doing on the computer, and give me his full attention.
He looks me over for a second, worry and curiosity taking over his features.
"And why would you be heading that way?" he asks not unkindly.
I groan internally, not wanting to deal with too many questions, and tell him the same thing I told the female Ticketmaster in California, editing bits and pieces to fit my location.
"You don't look old enough to be going such a long way by yourself." His eyes narrow slightly in confusion. "If you're meeting your parents, why do you want a ticket to some random city on the East Coast?"
Well shit. Most people don't ask this many questions or pick up on little details like that. They just don't care enough.
Apparently, I don't answer his question fast enough because a look of confirmation passes over his face. "Ok young lady, why don't we call this 'sibling' of yours and get them to straighten this whole situation out."
"That won't be necessary," I say as I pick my bags off the floor and sling them over my shoulders before quickly making my way out of the Greyhound station before the guy can call the police or something unnecessary like that.
I mean seriously, I'll be seventeen in two months. It's not like I can't survive on my own for two seconds. I've killed things that would make most people piss themselves, and he thinks I need my fucking brother to take care of my 'situation'? What the fuck ever.
I make my way down Route 30 for a while, a little chilly even through my jacket and inner layers, but mostly pissed off. The sun is just coming up to me left, and I can't help but roll my eyes at it, thinking I'll be out here for hours til I find another town. Probably in the dark.
Just as the sun is almost out of the sky, I spot a building with several cars, pickup trucks, and motorcycles around it. From the looks of it, it appears to be a bar, but based on its location, it's probably a roadhouse.
As I approach the building, I don't take the time to confirm which because over the years, any and every place one could go to but a drink was the same. On the outside, there were always neon lights that spelled out the name of the establishment. The buildings were all in different states of being, some showing just how old with the amount of stains and cracks on the walls. While others were pristine and new, not to mention that the younger the patrons, the newer the place likely was.
This place was obviously one of the older places though. Judging by the age of the wooden boards the place was built from; they were obviously older, but they looked like they had many more years in them. The patron's cars also gave it away. Being the daughter of an ex-mechanic and auto lover meant I knew a few things about cars and their owners. And based on the fact that most of these cars are over 10 years old means that their owners were probably either late baby boomers or early generation Xs. Some might be younger than that, but you don't meet very many younger people interested in driving 1970 Dodge Challengers or 1962 Ford F100s. Most kids nowadays want the newest, most expensive car out there, with only a few – like my brothers and me – raised to know the full physical value of a car as opposed to how pretty, shiny, new, and in style it is.
I walk past all of the cars and up to the door, completely exhausted due to the fact that I have just carried everything I own –which has to weigh at least 20 pounds –almost 30 miles and take a seat at the very end of the bar, dropping said belongings at my feet. The bartender walks over to me, a beautiful brunette who looks to be around my father's age, perhaps a bit younger.
"Hey sweetheart, what can I get you?" she asks me with a kind smile. With everything that I've been through recently, her kindness almost seems misplaced.
"I'll just have water," I say, and my voice seems to give away just how tired I really am.
The bartender seems to notice this as well, and a look of sympathy passes over her face as she prepares my water in front of me. I gulp down the water as if I haven't drunken anything in days until the last of the refreshment is gone from the cup, and the woman takes the glass away and fills it almost to the top once more. I pick the glass up again and take slower sips this time, and the woman just looks at me for a while.
"If you don't mind my asking, what are you doing out here in the middle of Nebraska?" She still has that sympathetic look on her face as she asks me this, but it isn't like either of the people at the bus stations. They looked at me with more pity than sympathy – I might even be able to go so far as to say there is a bit of understanding in those eyes as well – because of what they believed I was doing or how I looked, I don't know. I just know that it pissed me off. I'm not some poor, defenseless little girl who can't handle herself and needs the company of someone else to get along.
Those people made me forget about my heartbreak and sadness, even if only for a minute. But this woman with kind, warm hazel eyes, eyes almost the same shade as my brother, just as welcoming as his used to be, just made everything come crashing down all at once.
Before I can even process what I'm doing, I have burst into tears, and not just any tears. These are fat, ugly morbidly unattractive globs of salt water. And once I've started this, I know it's going to be a while before I can stop.
The brunette before me comes around and rubs her hand back and forth on my back as I cry, a comforting, womanly touch. One that I can only assume only a mother could give, and this makes me sob even harder. I'd never had a mother's touch to guide me and show me all of the ways to survive this world and all the problems that come with it. Her daughter – assuming she has one – must love and admire her because I know that this woman must really be something if she is taking the time to comfort someone she doesn't even know.
"Listen, sweetie," she begins when my sobs die down to pitiful sniffles. "I don't know what happened or what you're going through, but for someone your age, there is so much more in life to look forward to. You can do and be whatever you want to if you don't let the problems of your past weigh you down. There is no amount of darkness out there where you can't find even a sliver of light."
Her words are impactful, meaningful, and to most people, those simple words of encouragement from a stranger just might get them to get up and push through whatever trials and tribulations life throws their way, but not me.
I haven't been dealt the best hand in life. My mother was murdered when I was a baby, and that forced my father to lose his mind with grief and this unquenchable thirst for revenge on the thing that killed her. I lost my childhood –a normal one anyway –and ended up falling in love with my brother, who I believed felt the same way about me. He left and promised to come back for me, but never did because he has everything he needs without me. I don't think my other brother and father need me either or even see me as they see him; a girl can only take so much before she breaks.
So no, the words of some stranger, who probably has no idea what is really out there lurking in the dark, and damn sure doesn't know a thing about me or what I've been through. If she did, she'd probably remove her hand in disgust and kick me out of her place and tell me to never show my face here ever again.
But I'm not going to tell her my story. Never even crossed my mind actually. What I do though is force a fake smile through my tears, praying silently that it's convincing.
"Thank you. Not very many people out here who are kind enough to comfort a sobbing mess like me." I say, looking down into the remainder of my water.
She pats my back once more before moving back around the bar. "Yes, I did. You walked in here looking like you were gonna pass out any second and like the world had chewed you up and spit you out a few times over." As she speaks, a girl not too many years older than me -18 or 19 from the looks of it –with curly blonde hair and eyes that almost mirror the bartender's walks behind the bar with an empty bowl for what I assume is for pretzels or peanuts. "Plus, if something happened to my Joanna Beth, I'd want someone to do the same."
So she does have a daughter.
"Oh Mom, you know I can handle myself. I've kicked enough of these guys asses to prove that." She says as she pours more pretzels into the dish.
"Language Jo." The woman says in a scolding tone. Jo rolls her eyes behind her mother's back at the tone. "I saw that."
Jo, in turn, stutters slightly and comes over to us with a nervous smile that makes me smile slightly.
"So who is this?" She asks looking at me with curiosity swimming in her brown eyes.
At first, I have an impulse to lie again, afraid that my father might roll through here looking for me, and they say that they've seen me, but what are the odds of Dad finding this particular roadhouse in the middle of nowhere Nebraska.
"(F/N) Wi –" I clear my throat a bit. They don't need to know everything. "Just (F/N), but you can call me (Y/N) if you want."
"(F/N), where have I heard that name before?" The woman looks at me with an analytical gaze as she tries to place me. It makes me nervous for some reason.
"Don't know. It's a pretty common name. Maybe someone came in here with the same name." I try, though she continues to give me the same look.
"Maybe."
"Well my name is Jo, but you knew that. Well, I guess you know my first and middle name now seeing how my mother loves to use it so much." She gives her mother a side glance, one that says, 'why can't you just call me by my preferred name instead of embarrassing me in front of strangers?' "But you can call me Jo. Jo Harvelle. And this is my mother, Ellen."
Jo holds out her hand for me to shake, and at first, I just glance at it, but something in me lets me know that I can trust her. Both of them.
"Nice to meet you Jo and Mrs. Harvelle."
"Oh sweetheart, call me Ellen. I've never really liked the formalities of Miss and Misses." She says as she moves to make a beer for some guy at the end of the bar.
"So what brings you to the middle of Nebraska. I don't remember seeing you before." Jo askes while washing some dishes after placing the bowl of pretzels in front of me.
I picked one up and place it in my mouth. Once I start chewing is when I realize just how hungry I am. I haven't eaten anything in a day and a half because I never bothered to pick anything up at any of the rests stops on the bus.
I find myself answering her questions honestly, which surprises me. "Just traveling. Needed to get away from my family for a while. Too much drama for me to keep trying to deal with." I say around a few pretzels, the bowl now halfway empty.
Jo seems to notice this and looks back at her mother. Ellen comes over with a look of worry on her face.
"Do you want something heavier than that sweetheart?" She asks me, giving me the same look her daughter has.
"No, I think I'm okay," I say as I finish off the last of my pretzels practically scarfing them down and choosing them with the last of my water as well. When I look up at the pair, they are staring at me expectantly. "What?"
The look of concern that Ellen had on her face changes to one of determination.
"How about a grilled cheese and some more pretzels? On the house." She adds the last part when I go to comment. And apparently, my verbal answer doesn't matter because the next thing I know, my stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl, causing Ellen to give me a look of confirmation before she walks away to make my sandwich I assume.
She returns ten minutes later with my meal and another glass of water, Jo having gone to serve a few of the bar's other patrons.
"And you can stay here for as long as you need to. And don't tell me you have somewhere to be, I know you don't." She uses her stern, 'Mom' voice that she used on Jo not too long ago. "Now eat; there's plenty more where that came from.
I still don't understand why they're being so nice to me, but for the moment I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.
A/N: R&R, please.
