I'm specializing in nightmares for this story. Sorry about the vivid scenarios. I might even consider it a possible trigger.
Thank you for your reviews :]
-Ten-
Talons and Fire
More than ever the Uriel's cool smile was stranded together with ice, defiance, and a look of forcefulness. He stood like he usually did; hands folded in front of him, chin lifted a little so his eyes could peer down with superiority. Right now, they were locked upon Storm who stood in the middle of that meadow, listening to the usual distant birdsong.
"You must be getting tired of our faces being the only ones you see when you're unconscious," he said in a tone one would assume he was a lighthearted father trying to gingerly show their child the error of their ways. "Apparently even spineless little birds can be rebellious."
Storm gave no indication that she could hear him. She was taking the time to fully examine the meadow for the first time. Behind her was a large gathering of trees, its depths a green too dark for the eyes to penetrate. It was sunset, the field and sky set aflame with a blood orange glow. Fireflies went in and out of vision and there were crickets singing amidst the fields of swaying grass and flowers. It was still pleasantly warm, peaceful, safe. It was similar to the feeling Storm had every time in the same room with Sam.
"The cold shoulder," Uriel purred. "I can understand that, considering all we've done is try to save you and the people around you."
Storm's eyes darted coldly to his.
He went on with a small shrug, "And the truth is, you're not the only one tiring of these games. I won't tell you and neither will Castiel. Do not get your hopes up about him; he knows where his loyalties lie and the consequences of broken orders."
Storm still didn't anything, waiting for the punchline. Uriel's eyebrows rose a little, waiting for her to speak, and when she did not, he chuckled, the sound dry as chalk.
"Well, what do you know? You could actually pass as a looker if you keep your beak snapped shut." Suddenly Uriel wasn't smiling anymore and the lack of it was something of a relief to Storm; she couldn't focus on anything else when that stupid smile beckoned her to punch it off his face. "I'm sure that little brain stuffed between your ears might have worked out why we won't even consider telling you? We don't need to. When you eventually kill one of the Winchesters, that will be reason enough for you to come crawling back, begging us to take you away, to save everyone. By staying, you'll only prove our point."
It wasn't that Storm chose not to speak anymore; her tongue was tied in such a mass string of anger and hate that her brain couldn't keep up with which one to throw first. Her cheeks burned, fingers gripping nothing, imagining his head exploding off his shoulders.
"It's my job to get you back, and I will be damned," he laughed out the ironic word in a maddening spit, looking quite demented with his eyes bugging out, "if you smash down my reputation from keeping me from accomplishing a simple errand. You want freedom, little birdy, then I will show you what your freedom will do to the world."
Silence never seemed to have its own sound until every single possible noise was sucked from the world. The birds, the crickets, the wind, Uriel's jeers; everything was gone. Storm could hear her eyelashes blinking as she took a step backward, the sound of her bare foot crinkling in the grass like an explosion.
Storm's brain took several seconds to compute what was happening to her surroundings. The sun had turned off, but the sky was filled with lava, streaks of bold orange and glowing red. The color alone burned Storm's eyes.
As she took another step back, the grass crunched under her toes. She looked down, seeing what moments ago had been healthy, swaying emerald green grass was now completely singed and brittle.
And finally, when she looked up a golden pole, slight thicker than her arm, stood in her path. Not a golden pole, but a thousand, all building a circle around her, turning into a dome shape at the top. A magnificent, humungous, golden birdcage had been placed around her. It glowed a whitish gold, heat waves coursing menacingly, licking at Storm's face as she stood there, feeling the scorching metal dry all moisture from her eyes. Immobility poisoned her muscles and bones, only able to flicker her eyeballs left and right, examining the horrid wasteland of a world that had once been her evident place of sanctuary.
And then the flapping. The flapping like a million feathered wings repeatedly beating against each other. Feathers were falling around Storm like confetti, feathers of white, black, blue, red, gray, multicolored, but all due to perhaps the thousand birds that had erupted from oblivion into the cage with her. From the force of them Storm was slammed against the scalding metal bars, screaming as she felt it burn the flesh from her face.
There was fire rising from the ground and up, up around them in a blinding whir of fiery hurricane, burning away all Storm's hair and scalp, making her skin start to bubble and sizzle until singed to a black crisp. The birds were clawing into her back, hitting the bone, the putrid smell of their burning feathers swarming thickly into the tornado of fire. And that sound . . . that horrible, absolute unearthly sound of a million tortured squawking, chirping birds drawn out into a single hell-like serenade that writhed in the air like a solid and monumental explosion.
Storm waited for the fire to obliterate her, to bleed out from the wounds all of her body, to die in anyway, but only by the second did the fire gain a degree. She couldn't hear her screams, only feel the dull vibration of it in her skull and the tear it had slit in her throat.
"STORM!"
Storm was sure she had dropped a few feet onto her bed as her eyes snapped open, her chest heaving upward as she sucked in a desperate breath for her suffocated lungs, but she only choked. Her entire body was shaking like put on vibrate, her fingers trembling as much as two inches back and forth, her pajamas soaked with sweat. She was still swatting away the birds, rubbing the melting blisters on her face.
She gasped again, but still all she breathed in was smoke, which must have gone to her brain because it was just now that she saw her room was completely up in flames.
"SO—" Storm didn't know what she was trying to shout; somewhere between 'Sam' and 'no'. She was absolutely petrified, her heart seeming to pound directly up from her chest, up her throat, and onto her tongue.
"STORM! YOU NEED TO—"
But Storm didn't hear what she needed to do because there was suddenly an explosion that drowned out Sam's voice completely, like a giant metal object being hurled through a wall. The shock of the sound seemed to jolt sense back into her because she was throwing aside her flaming blanket with her still-quivering hand.
"S-Sam," she croaked. She had meant to scream, but the feeble whisper barely left her words as a miserable crack. Forcing strength back into her legs that felt like they had been repeatedly beaten with metal bats, she ran across the room with her arms shielding her stinging eyes. Everything was a blinding orange and yellow, the crackle and spitting of the fire like a solid entity that pounded against Storm's eardrums. Choking on black smoke and eyes watering so heavily that tears were streaming down her cheeks, she held her sleeve to her mouth. Storm anticipated the door handle to be as scorching as the metal cage bars in her dream, but intended to let it blister her anyway. She couldn't do it; the second the tips of her fingers grazed the metal, she flinched her hand back. Ripping off her shirt, she wrapped it thickly around her hand and getting just a tight enough hold over the knob to knock the door open.
Storm saw why Sam had been unable to get into her room; just outside the door the fire had burned a gaping, flaming hole which revealed the next floor down. Sam was standing in the living room, shielding his eyes and looking as though he had been preparing to jump but his eyes widened with horror and relief as he saw her standing there.
"Storm, you need to jump!" he screamed. "JUMP!"
This action included passing through about two feet high flames, but she was willing to risk that rather than being burned alive in her room. She didn't even have time to get a proper footing or wonder how big the hole was, she was just suddenly soaring. Sam's hand caught her forearm in a vise-grip before her foot even touched the ground again, almost slipping. Her pant leg was on fire but Sam was already gripping her shoulder, using his jacket to pat it out instantaneously.
Sam kicked down the front door to reveal a hallway where the fire hadn't widely spread yet. If Storm didn't know any better, she might have weighed about as much as a penny from how effortlessly Sam seemed to nearly drag her off her feet and out into the hall. Fire alarms were going off, every sprinkler on the ceiling showering freezing water down upon them. Storm only vaguely wondered why they didn't go off in her room.
Sam never once removed his iron grip from her shoulder as they sprinted down the hallway, joined by the other panicked people of the apartment, the alarm ringing in their ears. Storm's legs were trembling so badly, every muscle like gelatin and threatening to crumble beneath her, yet she kept moving, her body still showered with icy sweat.
She seemed to trip and fumble down every step on the staircase, yet still Sam was there to steady her, help her recover her footing instantly. Reaching the front entrance seemed to take an hour but once out in the freezing fall air, Storm gasped and choked, every intake of fresh night air seeming to make her only more desperate for more.
Firetrucks and policemen were driving in from all sides of the street, along with people in their night clothes running out onto the sidewalk to see what was happening. Sam let her fall to the pavement, crouching beside her as she bent over, the ground cutting into her knees as she vomited over the side of the sidewalk for a full thirty seconds.
When done, her lower lip was trembling with spit running down her chin, her face red and drenched with cold sweat. Halfway through her attack, Sam must have pulled his long-sleeved flannel and jacket around her, still keeping his hands firmly on her back. She realized she had only been wearing her bra and pajama pants, but could think of nothing else she cared less for.
She didn't need to turn around to know the apartment was still up in flames; its orange light illuminated the entire block, making Storm have a solid stretched shadow along the road.
"Storm . . ." Sam was beckoning her to move but Storm wondered if feeling would ever return to her legs, or if she wanted them to. "Hey, will you give her some air!? Storm, they're telling us to move. Storm . . ."
Storm didn't know who 'they' was. The people in the thick black uniforms were shouting words that seemed to be taking ages to travel from Storm's ears to her brain.
"Sam."
"I'm here," he said quickly. He squeezed her arm as if she were a blind person that needed guidance to locate him. "I'm here, Storm. Storm—"
With one hand on his shoulder and her palm pushing down hard into the pavement, she heaved herself onto her feet with little remembrance how a human body was supposed to work. She let Sam lead her away from the apartment and about ten feet to the nearest firetruck. Only when they reached the back of it did she realize that a paramedic was with them and had been talking the whole time, asking Storm questions that she had completely blocked out.
"In shock," the female paramedic murmured, and then shooting at Sam, "Look, I'm gonna need you to take care of your friend here while I start handing out blankets. I'll be right back to disinfect that scrape."
She gave Sam and Storm two green blankets and told them to sit tight in the back of the firetruck. Sam still had a tight arm around Storm's shoulders who was slowly coming back into focus of her surroundings, of the policemen and firemen running around, the giant hose being used to water down the finally dying fire of her old apartment building.
Storm had never been so grateful for Sam's silence, who seemed to get the gist that asking what happened was simply redundant until she recovered herself.
Her heart had slowed, the sweat had subsided, her limbs weak but workable. But the terror still brutally cold.
She tightened her blanket around her, closing her eyes. Against her closed eyelids, the fire created an unforgiving blackish crimson color which made her open them immediately.
Families were gathered around, all in their pajamas, most trying to comfort one another. With everyone in the building in front of her, Storm realized how little of her neighbors she actually got to know. She only recognized about three or four people. One little girl who lived on her floor was clutching a mewing white kitten to her chest, consoled by her mother. A couple with a lot of piercings and tattoos Storm had acquainted as Polly and Jared were hugging each other tightly.
She looked up at Sam. There was a cut just above his right eyebrow but was not bleeding. Otherwise, he seemed completely unscathed, apart from a few soot stains here and there. Apparently sensing her revival of reason, he shook his head slowly, his eyes scanning her face with utter disbelief.
"Sam," she rasped, sounding like she had been denied water for ten years. "I can't."
"What—" He seemed totally unable to think of what to even say. "Storm . . ."
"I can't come with you."
Sam stared at her, opening his mouth, a protest building on his tongue, but if there was ever a time to argue, it was least of all now.
The fire had been put out but they were still searching for trapped people inside. If anyone had been hurt or killed, there was no doubt it had been her, Storm's, fault. Because she was an unnamed creature with no means of control. She had almost . . . Sam could have been hurt so much more, and there was no telling what she would have done with herself if he had been killed. She didn't need to be conscious to set hell to the world; all it took was a bad dream and everything around her faced annihilation.
It was the loneliest thought she had ever conceived, seeming to tangle throughout her whole body like a swollen, ugly, twisted root. She swallowed and felt like there was a rock wedged in the back of her throat, her eyes burning as she watched the black smoke finally dissipate into the indigo background of the night sky. Trying to keep in the howl of misery was like attempting to whip an enormous evil beast back into its cage.
Sam looked down at her, his throat tight and ears ringing. The adrenaline was only just evaporating from his veins, but he was absolutely dumbstruck of what to think, what to even assume.
When he had awakened to the smell of fire . . . it had been so stupid to assume that it was him after years of his death. But when he couldn't reach Storm, thinking that she just might be pinned up to the ceiling—
Sam's thoughts came to a screeching halt, swallowing thickly, feeling as if brittle weeds were trapped under his uvula.
Somehow he knew that silence was essential, no matter how confused he was. It was so hard to think over the inane buzz in his brain, but he thought at least that in some degree he could comfort her.
He squeezed her shoulder again and she vaguely lifted her head to look at him, her eyes meeting his, the most hopeless eyes he had ever seen, yet still giving him permission of his mute question. Smoothing his hand down the back of her head, he eased her against him with his arms tightly around her. He sensed a second of reluctance, but the moment her head hit his chest it seemed to crumble away, every tightened muscle relaxing under his embrace as she let herself to be comforted by him.
It seemed so odd that less than twenty-four hours ago Storm had been trying to make him wear a wizard's hat, that they had been relaxed by a fire drinking mochas, or he had been torn by the dilemma to hold her hand.
.
Eleven hours later, Storm sat in the bedroom of the Sleepy Star hotel, based on the very end of town where not that many people lived. She was seated on the edge of a bed, a cramp in her big toe, 'Yesterday' by The Beatles playing quietly on the radio, listening to the brothers in the other room who thought she was sleeping. She was desperately resisting to, her head feeling like it had the weight of a bowling ball. The soft bed, pillow and sheets became so tempting that she got up and sat up on the large window sill where it was much more uncomfortable, weary eyes scouring the gray streets many stories below.
She was working so hard on not closing her eyes that she ended up not blinking altogether, her eyes burning, terrified of the concept of one more dream. She rubbed a bruise on her forearm she had no memory of getting, pulling her hair, digging her nails into her skin; anything to keep her in reality.
" . . . Do you know if she actually started the fire?" This was Dean.
"I don't know." Sam sounded as exasperated as she felt. His voice was a lot quieter than his brother's, evidently more afraid of Storm overhearing them. "She was just—just screaming her head off and then her room was on fire."
"Last time she had a dream of Hell. She mention what she saw this time?"
"She talked with Uriel. She was pretty shaken up, but she explained being in some . . . I dunno, giant birdcage that was on fire with a billion other birds, burning alive."
A long silence followed that one.
"So Uriel cooks her an' a few other feathered friends extra crispy and it happens in real life? An' she made a tornado of furniture last time she had a nightmare. Sounds like a stable sleeping pattern. I don't know, man. When you start sleep-elementaling you're puttin' a lot of people in danger. You included. Lucky no one got hurt or killed back there."
"And what if they did, Dean? What if they did and it wasn't her fault? What would you do?"
This silence was much colder.
"Sam, I know you like her. I do too; seems like a sweet girl—"
"Don't even go there, Dean."
"Well, we gotta go there! Where else, Sam? She almost turned you into a medium rare platter by havin' a nightmare. You can't tell me that that's not basically walkin' 'round with—"
"With what?"
"With a time bomb!"
"So, what're we gonna do? Just dump her out on the street? Let Uriel take her for whatever they have in store for her? Let the angels win? What do you want to do, Dean?" He barely waited a beat before saying, "We're not leaving her."
Another silence.
"We don't have any idea how to control somethin' when we don't even know what th' hell that somethin' is! She's proved more than once that she can do some serious damage. What would you do if she hurt someone, Sammy? Killed someone?" He was turning Sam's own question against him.
"Look, those dreams she had? Hell, being burned alive? They're obviously something that would be emotionally triggering. Maybe that's how her powers work; on emotions.
"An' who are you? Mr. Sandman?"
"I'm just saying, if she could learn how to control her emotions and feelings, maybe block out the dreams, she could have a chance at controlling this without even having to figure out what she is."
There was a beat before Dean said, "That's a lotta if's and maybe's, Sam. You willin' to take that chance?"
"She's completely innocent, Dean. She doesn't remember anything. She hasn't hurt anyone but a demon." Sam distinctly forgot to mention the man in the alleyway. "Heaven's after her and—and who knows what happens if they get a hold of her. Who even knows if she actually started the fire? Maybe it was Uriel, trying to convince her to go to them."
Dean stared at his brother, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, glancing at the floor before turning his back to Sam. He shook his head, wiping a hand down his face and biting his cheek. He looked back at him.
"I'm worried about you, man."
"Why?"
Dean leaned against the back of the couch. His voice lowered, as if he suddenly cared about Storm hearing him. "Just—you gotta know this might not end as smoothly as you hope it might. I don't want you to get anymore hurt than you need to be."
Sam adjusted his jaw, resting his hands on his waist. "This hasn't got anything to do with me, Dean."
Dean nodded, but not as though he agreed; a weak head gesture of skepticism. "Yeah, well, I've called Bobby and he's been runnin' the radar for anythin' that could possibly be linked with 'Athedas'."
"And?"
"An' as far as he can tell, the only Athedas known to man is a goat in Russia that races horses. If you think that will lead us to the answer of why all of this is happenin', then you better grab your babushka."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back on the kitchen counter and rubbing his tired eyes. "We'll find something."
"That song is startin' to sound old, Sam."
"Dean, you know we can't just leave her. I mean, wouldn't you feel better if we could—keep an eye on her?" Sam hated wording it like that, making it sound as if Storm was a constant threat. "She doesn't even have anywhere left to go now and we're not gonna just hand her over when we have no idea what they even want with her. We brought her into this whole mess, don't you think it's our job to get her out?"
Sam watched his brother's face intently, looking for any signs of submission. He stood with his arms folded, wetting his lips and staring Sam directly in the eyes. It was a long while before he said, "Okay, well to start off, if nightmares have been triggerin' her, maybe she shouldn't be sleepin' just now. Sam," he added as his brother moved toward the bedroom door. They met eyes and Dean breathed out heavily. "Listen, we do what we can . . . we see if we can find out what she is. If we can't, or if another episode like last night happens . . . Sam, you know I won't think twice if she ever comes close to hurtin' you."
Sam's jaw tightened. "She won't."
Dean didn't answer.
Storm was already getting to her feet when Sam opened the bedroom door, his eyes measuring the made bed and then flickering to hers. He opened his mouth, but then closed it, drumming his fingers on the doorknob.
"Yes. I did. Hear everything, I mean," Storm said slowly with absolutely no wish to be in pretense to the contrary. "I've been trying to keep awake."
Sam hesitated, shifting guiltily. She looked as though one good flick might make her collapse into a pile of dust. Her general youthful appearance was corrupted by dark purple circles under her eyes which were glossy, unfocused. He wanted more than anything to close the door and give her a hug, but Dean was waiting on them.
"Do you . . . I mean, you should probably eat something," he said, hating himself for this poor display of concern.
Storm walked up to him, the corners of her mouth looking as though the weight of the world was restraining them from smiling. Her fingers just barely brushed up the back of his hand and lightly squeezed his forearm before she walked past him and into the living room. After a moment, he followed.
"I ain't gonna beat around the bush, sweetheart. You look rough," said Dean. Sam gave him a furious glance from behind Storm.
"I agree with you," said Storm. Dean raised his eyebrows. "With the other thing. I don't know how to control it, I never did. I don't think I can until I find out what I am, which I don't know how to do. I don't know where to start."
Storm saw Dean glance at Sam behind her before meeting her eyes again, a severe frown on his face.
"What did Uriel say to you in this dream?" he asked after a few beats. "An' how long have you been havin' 'em?"
"Castiel and Uriel have been making a lot of frequent appearances in my sleep. The first one, Uriel wanted me to turn Anna in, the second, Hell. The third, one that showed me as a child with Castiel. And the fourth being the one I had last night." Apart from the horrid events in the cage, the dream was now a hazy whir of threats from Uriel, but she pressed on, "Uriel said something like—he didn't need to tell me what I am because I would eventually crawl back to him anyway."
"Why?"
"Because of what I would do. Because he said that I would eventually kill one of you."
This was evidently not the best thing to say to reassure Dean in the slightest, and even if her own words were making her heart bleed, she could see no good outcome of lying to the brothers in any way. And even if the thought was a consuming miserable ache that centered in her chest, maybe she wanted them to be afraid of her. She couldn't hurt them if they weren't around to be hurt.
"This is Uriel," said Sam finally and his tone of denial was what hurt Storm the most. She turned to look at him. He was staring at her with wide eyes, shaking his head. "Uriel would say anything to get you to give in, Storm. You don't know if you even started that fire. You can't just go to them."
"Why can't I, Sam?"
Sam felt like his tongue had shriveled to a dried up root at her words. He gaped at her.
"I don't need Uriel to tell me what I can and can't do; I know what I can do. And it doesn't even matter if I was the one to start the fire; wherever I am, whoever is doing it, these things will happen and anyone around me risks losing their lives. I don't need him to tell me that everyone would be a lot safer if I were to go with him."
The silence was like a ringing bell. Storm was still staring at Sam, quite immobile.
"I've fought against them. I've refused to go with them and I set a building on fire. I don't trust anything Uriel says, but it's not about what I want. This is about the people around me, about you and Dean." The weight of her feelings was finally escaping into her voice, which cracked a tone down to a harsh whisper. "I escaped Heaven and I wasn't supposed to. You weren't supposed to find me on that road. You know I shouldn't be here!"
The ceiling light flickered. Dean glanced up at it, moving forward to place a hand on Storm's shoulder to calm her. She went stiff at his touch, but a moment later her muscles relaxed. She bit her lip hard, making her brain focus on the pain before looking back up at Sam.
"Maybe you weren't supposed to be in Heaven to begin with," said Sam. "You were being tortured, Storm. I'm—we're not gonna let you go back to that. There was a reason you escaped. For all we know they want to use you to hurt more people."
Sam wasn't sure where this last assumption came from, but he saw no reason it couldn't be true. He watched her gaze dance across his face, her eyes hard with concentration.
"I'm just—just tired of this endless cycle of confusion, of almost hurting people. I don't know what the right choice is here, but when the angels will do anything to get what they want, waiting around for a miracle to pop up seems like a stupid way to risk your lives."
The silence fluttered morosely in the air, making Sam's ears itch.
"Okay, look," said Dean after a long pause, "no one's doin' anythin' right now. We work on lyin' low and for the meantime, keepin' you off Heaven's radar. Sam's got a point; they're sure goin' through a helluv a lot to get you back, and speakin' from experience, that's not necessarily always a good thing. We've got no idea what they'll do with or use you for once they get their greasy little paws on you. Dunno 'bout you but my bet's on 'nothin' good'."
The words didn't feel any cleaner than dirt on his tongue. But they needed time to think, and they couldn't risk emotions running high, especially with Storm. He could barely stand the look of appreciation Sam had given him.
"Just sit tight, alright? I'll ring up Bobby again, ask if he knows a friend of a friend or someone who might have any clue as to what the hell is goin' on. And you," he added to Storm as he pulled out his cell. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the kitchenette. "Coffee maker's over there. Sam, I'm thinkin' takeout. Anythin' dumpling-y."
Dean excused himself out onto the balcony, shutting the door firmly behind him. Sam wanted to know if his brother had any alternative motives with his conversation with Bobby, but he soon forgot his suspicions as soon as he realized he and Storm were alone again.
They both attended to their assigned 'jobs' which at least gave them something else to think about. Storm made her coffee, drinking it black and trying not to show discomfort as she sipped the horrible beverage. Sam ordered Chinese and the three all sat in uncomfortable silence around the table, the only sound being the chewing of food. As expected, Bobby had about negative ten theories on what Storm was. There was no lore whatsoever on a being, angel or demon, creature or spirit, that could make things explode, teleport, or send furniture flying around a room—no matter how far back he went with the textbooks.
Sam considered this news better left unsaid, but it didn't seem as though Storm was letting it affect her. He was sitting at the table with his laptop, going through countless articles about everything and anything to do with angels, or anything similar to them. Sam briefly scoured over clauses of something called Nephilim, but the description didn't add up. Also, according to the website, they were considered abominations and neither Uriel or Castiel really gave the impression that they thought her as much.
He laced his fingers together, resting them on his mouth as he unconsciously watched Storm on the couch, her face in a heavy textbook she had got at the library down the street. He knew none of them, no matter how many articles and books they went through, were getting any farther. The hopelessness was starting to close in on him, scratch at the walls of his skull, make his heart feel claustrophobic.
Interrupting his line of thought was the buzz of his phone. Dean, who was sitting on the opposite side of the couch, looked up. Ruby was calling him but he didn't answer it, staring at it until it stopped.
"Who's that?" Dean asked.
"Telemarketer."
She texted him a minute later.
'No cant be your final answer. You've gotten shabby and you know we cant afford that.'
Sam stared at the text until he got tunnel vision, the letters hazing across his vision. He thought about replying, but Dean was still watching him. As Storm's eyes flickered up to his, his fingers abandoned his cell.
He deleted the text.
"Okay I don't mean to be a downer or anythin'," said Dean after another solid hour of useless research, "but I don't think we're movin' any further forward. 'Fact, I think we're makin' a B-line in the opposite direction, right back to square one." He rubbed his face and checked his watch; 12:01.
"You can go to bed," said Storm. "I don't think another person makes much of a difference."
"I don't think the three of us put together can make much of a difference." He shut the musty book he was reading with a snap, standing up and plopping it on the coffee table. "I mean, let's face it; the chances of us findin' out your species by bookwormin' it up for hours on end are 'bout as likely as Uriel ever having done the macarena while wearin' a pink tutu and wooden clogs."
"I would have found him far less intimidating if that happened."
"Sammy?"
"Nothing . . . with a captial 'N'."
"What about Pamela? Put Storm in the same kinda hypnosis as she did with Anna?"
"She said that my soul, or brain, or something was too unstable to mess around with hypnosis," said Storm.
"Well, we gotta do somethin'. We keep doin' what we're doin' we're gonna get nowhere fast. And that's in hopes that Heaven doesn't tail our asses first."
"We're not finding anything tonight . . . we know that much," said Sam, massaging his eyes which were burning with exhaustion. "There's gotta be something. Anything."
"I'll believe it when I see it." Dean cracked his back, eying Storm uncertainly as she just finished about her fifth cup of coffee. "Hangin' in there okay?"
"Everything is bearable, at least. It helps when I don't think about it."
He shrugged. "That's somethin'." He clapped his hands together, nodding at the bedroom. "Anyhow . . . gonna go catch up on some Z's."
"Dude, there's only one bed, why should you get it?" said Sam.
"Fair enough. I'll sleep out here on the couch with Storm."
Sam stared up at his brother with narrowed eyes, shifting in his seat. He went back to browsing through websites and Dean smirked. He clapped Sam once on the shoulder before exiting into the bedroom.
Storm got to her feet to wash her cup in the sink and Sam leaned back in his seat, chewing on his cheek as he studied the back of her head. She hesitated with her hand on the sink handle, slowly twisting off the water with her eyes on a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the counter. She directed a vague smile at Sam over her shoulder.
"I've never drank before. Would you care?"
"I guess if there's ever a time for it, now's pretty perfect . . ." He wouldn't say no to a drink or two himself.
Storm picked up the bottle, unscrewed it, sniffed and then recoiled in disgust. After a moment of hesitance she raised it to her lips and took a very prolonged and generous sip. Sam raised his eyebrows. She started dancing uncertainly on the spot, withdrawing and scrunching up her face, giving a large body shiver. She held it out to him, shaking her head vigorously.
"Take it, take it, take it."
Sam gave a small laugh as he took it, taking a much smaller sip as he watched her fill up a glass of water. "That was probably a bit much for your first time."
"It tastes like nail polish remover mixed with orphan's tears."
He smiled over the bottle as he took another draft.
She slid her back down along the counter, landing with a soft thud on her bottom, resting her glass of water on her knee, tapping her nails on the glass. He held up the bottle in mute offering and she nodded once firmly. After a second he got to his feet only to sit down next to her on the kitchen floor, clearing his throat as he handed her the liquor. She looked at him, her face devoid of any expression Sam could decipher. She curled her fingers around the neck of the bottle, still staring up at him.
"Thank you."
He shook his head questioningly.
"It feels like you're constantly saving me, supporting me. While I think I'm an okay person, I don't see where I gave you much of a reason to be so . . . I just don't understand how you can be sticking your neck out for me like this. After you've seen what happens when I'm around. I could have killed you back in the apartment."
Sam wished he knew what to say to that.
"Storm . . . I think you're great." He wanted to shoot himself for how fucking lame that had just sounded. "I just—I don't know, ever since that night I've felt like I had this responsibility—" No, it was getting worse; he didn't think her as his responsibility. He was wishing the Jack was back in his hands. He puffed out a breath and shook his head gently, looking back at her. "Storm, I just don't think you're this horrible thing you're making yourself out to be. You're this sincere, sweet girl—" He stopped himself again. ". . . Can I start over?"
"You started over several times already."
He smiled at little, eying her lips for a second before looking away at the opposite wall. "I think you're capable of controlling what you need to control. Uriel would say anything to make you think otherwise, make you think you're not strong enough so you'd go to them." He was hot in the face for some reason, feeling her studying eyes and daring himself to meet them.
"It's the last thing I want to do," she said after several long beats. "I've had three years on earth to get over that I can't remember my parents or my own name. I don't know how old I am. But I really made something out of the life I got. I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I studied, I was working on my GED, got a job, my own place."
"It's how you take control that makes me think you can handle whatever you are, Storm. If you can start out with nothing and get as far as you've gotten . . . I mean, you didn't even have any memory. If it weren't for all this . . ." He waved a hand to indicate 'this'.
She looked so exhausted that it simply seemed too tired to be allowed. "You're the first person I ever knew, Sam Winchester. You found me and showed me kindness without reason, you visited me every day in that hospital, we played that stupid card game and I drew those stupid drawings, you named me." She laughed silently, closing her eyes and leaning her head back on the counter. She licked her lips and opened her eyes to his. "I try to be nice to every stranger because of how nice you were to me, some naked girl you found in the middle of the road. You were the influence of the person I am today."
Sam stared at her, more than ever at a loss of what to say. Something had hit his heart with a pang at her words, touching him deeply. She didn't look put off by his lack of reply. She blinked sleepily at him, raising the bottle to her lips but hesitating before taking another sip. Sam was unconsciously watching her throat as she swallowed and looked away abruptly, scratching the side of his nose.
"But there's a lot I still want to do."
"What do you want to do?" he asked curiously. She laughed silently and her smile, however small, was still genuine. "Seriously. If you could do anything—" He outstretched a hand to enunciate the possibilities, "—what would you do, given the choice?"
She continued to smile up at him, and Sam was so happy to see it that he had to smile back.
"Humor me," he added.
She straightened her back against the counter, breathing out heavily, the air ruffling her bangs. "I would—go to college. Fly in an airplane, go scuba diving with sharks, ride a four-wheeler, climb a mountain, get a tea cozy even if I have no idea what that is . . . go skydiving and figure out what it feels like to fly . . . kiss a boy . . . learn how to properly draw."
She pushed the Jack back into his fingers, which curled along the neck, just brushing hers as she withdrew her hand. He cleared his throat. "It's, uh . . . a cover—for a teapot."
"Mm?"
"A tea cozy. It keeps the tea warm."
"Oh. Well, that suits me."
Sam laughed nervously again as he said, "Have you really never—" He coughed and took another desperate shot of liquor, grateful for its soothing burn in his chest.
"Never kissed a boy?" Sam bit down on an apologetic smile. "Nope. In my defense, one year at an institution away from all of society didn't help. My whole world revolved around that hospital, and I counted on the doctors to tell me how the real world actually worked. While I got the whole sexual education, learned math, history and whatnot, I never learned what shoes go with which skirt, how to go on dates, how to get guys to like you—all the stuff that people generally have a lifetime to understand. My lack of knowledge on everything definitely tended to label me as 'weird' if I ever did grab a chance to interact with others. Some people were into it, though."
"Brad," Sam chuckled.
"Brad." She drummed her fingers on her knee, her leg spreading out slightly so that her sneaker bumped into his foot. "Who, now that I think about it, probably started freaking out once he saw the news this morning."
"He seemed to be genuinely concerned before . . ."
He offered her the bottle again but she shook her head and he screwed the cap back on. Due to the drink, Storm's cheeks were a deep rosy color and there were a few red splotches on her chest. She rubbed her eyes, giving a small yawn.
"Sam?" He peeked up his eyebrows to show his was listening, but the next second, she said, "Never mind."
"Storm?"
"I don't want to bring down the mood."
"It's fine. Say what you wanna say."
It was a moment before she said, "I know we keep on saying we'll find something—but I think Dean is right when he said that reading up on a bunch of books will get us nowhere. I'm trying to see a way out of the alternative, but . . . you know that feeling when you miss a step on a staircase?"
"Yeah."
"I feel like that . . . except the feeling never goes away."
Sam swallowed. "We'll call Pamela tomorrow . . . see if there's any whispers on the spirit realm that we could link to you, or if she would be willing to do a hypnosis."
"Anything."
He watched her fight the weight of her eyelids, her gaze going in and out of focus. "Storm, you can probably sleep. If you need to balance your emotions, you should probably be as healthy as possible, so you should rest."
She studied him, unconvinced. "Dreams are how they reach me."
"Look, I'll—I'll stay right here the entire time. If you even twitch an eyelid, I'll wake you up."
"Sam, you can't give up your sleep for—"
"Just get a few hours of shut eye, then I swear I'll wake you up. I'll rest then."
She was still nervous, but how long could she go on staying conscious? And he was right in saying that the more exhausted she was the more likely she would get ticked off. As if the mere thought of sleep was all it took to bring her will down, the pull of unconsciousness had never been so irresistible.
"Okay."
With a hand on the counter, she heaved herself up onto her feet, and Sam followed in suit. They walked into the living room and sat beside each other on the couch. Storm curled her legs against her chest, facing him, doing everything to keep her eyes open long enough to say, "Thank you." She used her last moment of consciousness to reach out and grasp his hand, her grip ceasing as sleep consumed her.
Sam had never seen anyone fall asleep so fast. Still, he looked down at their fingers loosely intertwined, smiling.
.
Storm.
How long had it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? Surely he couldn't be waking her up already. She swayed on the bridge of consciousness, her senses dull, not wanting to leave the warm and gentle world of sleep.
But the voice still beckoned her back to cold reality.
Wake up.
Sensation returned to her, the feel of the leather couch, the smell of Sam's aftershave. Still, she resisted all of it, wanting to dive back into black nothingness.
Storm, wake up now.
The voice was too urgent to ignore this time. It startled consciousness back into her, making her eyes pop open. There was still no one but Sam and Storm in the living room, and she assumed Dean still slept in the bedroom. She looked around for a clock, couldn't find one, then glanced down at Sam's watch. It was almost 4:30.
Sam had fallen asleep and was breathing deeply. Their cramped fingers were just barely laced together anymore, and Storm gently unstuck them, cracking her knuckles. She was still vaguely intoxicated, her head swimming but for the most part seemed to have a clear mind. Her skin tingled as she remembered the voice, looking around, suddenly on the alert.
Get up without waking him.
Now that Storm was awake, she was able to mull over that tone of voice, consider its familiarity. And she certainly did know it, but she didn't believe it.
" . . . Anna?"
Sam's nose twitched.
Don't wake him up.
Storm's bones locked with hesitance, her eyes the only thing that moved as they scoured the room. Gingerly, she lifted herself from the couch, holding her breath as she craned her ears for any movement.
But she hadn't heard Anna's voice with her ears; it was a like a speaker had been installed on the wall of her skull, reverberating around her brain, painfully clear. With a huge mental surge, she imagined her thoughts shooting out to wherever Anna may be.
Where—are you?
It was terribly discomforting, a bit like trying to get your eyes to roll back into your skull.
I need you to trust me, Storm.
Storm wasn't certain she could do that. For all she knew, this could be a trick from either Uriel or Castiel, but why would they charade as Anna when they would more likely just knock down the front door? Still, caution prickled at her spine as she stood in the middle of the living room.
That's asking too much.
You can't risk the alarm bells right now, Storm. I'm who I say I am.
Where are you?
Balcony.
At the word Storm's eyes darted there, mostly seeing her own reflection in the window, but she thought she could make out the figure of a girl. Storm still didn't move, trying to distinguish instinct from fear.
Before I got back my grace, I offered for you to come with me. I said I felt like I knew you. I was the one who told you that you weren't human.
Why can't I wake up Sam?
Because he won't like what I have to say. Not most of it, anyway.
Storm really couldn't tell if she was believing what she was hearing. This wave of doubt must have sunk into their mental connection because Anna was suddenly saying, I'm here to help you, but I don't want to 'think' anything in case someone else might be listening in. Please, Storm. I really can't stay in one place for too long. Let me at least say what I came here to say. If you don't like it, forget I was here.
Storm was really wishing the situation wasn't so desperate, but maybe it was this that made her finally walk toward the balcony door. She met Anna's eyes on the other side of the glass, clenching the handle uncertainly before glancing back at Sam. She slid the door open an inch to the right, a stinging breeze of bitter wind nipping at her face. She opened it enough to slide out, hugging her sweater tightly around her, keeping the door slightly open should she need to escape quickly.
Maybe for Storm's comfort, Anna stood a good distance away, her red hair flying about her shoulders as she fixed a serious gaze on Storm. Her tongue was already getting ready to form her first demand, but Anna was speaking harshly over her, a firm string of eight words that made themselves coldly clear over the biting wind.
"I know how to get your memories back."