Kat was bunched between the two brothers, feeling her body warm with their body heat and threatening to send her drifting off into sleep, where she could find rest. She blinked lethargically, reminding herself of her earlier fascination as Chuck finally stopped guzzling water like he would die without it. He shifted, his electric gaze, like morning swirled into one harmonious blue and divided between two eyes, turning towards the crowd anxiously, as if the author felt terrified and small. Kat wondered suddenly if he saw the eager faces as the demons from the Winchesters' story, the ones he saw flashing before his eyes with no end in sight, no way to pull it back and make it stop. And he was subjected to the carnivorous smiles and the inky eyes and the cat-like movements that spelled death. Maybe, as he faced the crowd, he was facing his own demons.
"So I guess….questions?" Chuck stuttered out, his voice a high whisper across the room, even with the microphone. Kat wondered if the power in his eyes that held her enraptured was blocked off, hard to access, impossible to touch. Hands shot into the air, all participants ripe with questions, the enthusiasm in their violent motions nearly jarring.
"Are the books that good?" Kat asked, trying to pull back the skepticism from her voice, hoping not to offend either of the brothers. Sam looked down at her thoughtfully, brow furrowed and confused for a moment.
"Not really," he said after a moment. "But I guess the story is pretty…dramatic, now that I think about it." He seemed almost unwilling to admit it, like he would rather pretend his life was boring, devoid of a story arc that could mesmerize readers, draw them in and leave them invested in him and his brother and their father. He didn't deserve the unwavering devotion these addicts clearly had for him and Dean, like they were gods amongst men and should be worshiped. It made him uncomfortable.
"Please," Dean scoffed, not taking his eyes from the nervous writer on stage, who was still struggling to pick a questioner from among the sea of fans before him. "They're only obsessed because I was full frontal." The flatness with which he spoke brought Kat's thoughts to a halt, her mind battling between confusion and shock, leaving her breathless.
"What?" She asked before she could stop herself, speaking around the edges of a laugh that almost felt natural, almost felt real. Her eyes cut to Dean and she thought his eyes could rival Chuck's in their depth, endless and boundless, greens and golds wrapped around each other in a cyclical embrace. The edges were crinkled in amusement, a soft look working its way into the filmed-over mask of a hunter at the sound of her chuckle.
"Hey, Mr. Edlund!" A fan said excitedly, barely containing his hyperactivity as he stood and bounced on the balls of his feet. The hunters' attention was drawn back to the head of the room as a younger man gazed up at Chuck adoringly."Uh, big fan, wow... okay, I was just wondering. Where'd you come up with Sam and Dean in the first place?" he asked, stumbling over his last words as if wondering if he would offend the writer.
Dean and Sam stared, heads tilted curiously, but Chuck saw a threat, knew they were staring into his soul like they were looking for a mistake, a screw up to take hold of and pull, rip down and open until he was broken. Kat was between them, looking interesting, fascinated, no different than the times he'd watched her interact with the brothers, like the world was mesmerizing. She hid it behind layers of armor he didn't fully understand, protection that frightened him with its impenetrable strength, and guarded herself, as if she would be chastised for finding the waking world beautiful, as if she was not allowed to appreciate this creation. He knew she could stare out windows for hours just staring at the sky like the expanse of particles reflecting water had emotions, but held herself back, stopped her gaze short of adoring and kept it blank. Ingrained self-hatred seemed to be a disease in the world of hunters.
"Oh uh…" he managed to push out, remembering he had to answer a question and feeling eyes burning holes through his shirt and scorching his skin like Castiel's handprint had on Dean's shoulder. He sighed internally, hating it when he made references to his writing in his mind, forgetting that they were real sometimes. "It just... came to me. Okay, the hook man." He moved on as quickly as he could.
"Okay, so why in every fight scene, Sam and Dean are having their gun or knife knocked away by the bad guy?" The man asked with a thick German accent, staring at Chuck as if all of this was obvious. The hunters' faces unanimously crumpled into annoyance, and Kat struggled to keep her mouth shut. He'd never been where they had, he'd never seen what they had seen, blood stained their hands, blackness leaked into their souls. They were damaged in a way he could never understand, they were hardened and they were warriors. What right did he have to criticize them? "Why don't they keep it on some kind of bungee?"
Okay, Kat conceded, noting Sam's suddenly thoughtful look, he had a point there.
"Uh, I really don't know," Chuck mumbled, pointedly avoiding the hunters, again. Kat wasn't that surprised, but she wanted him to look back, convinced that with one more real look, she could understand the power behind his vulnerable and panic-filled eyes. She was sure she could read him.
"Yeah, follow up – why can't Sam and Dean be telling that Ruby is evil? I mean she is clearly manipulating Sam in some kind of moral lapse. Is obvious, right?" the hookman asked, his accent slurring his words together and making them difficult to discern. But both brothers tensed in a way that told Kat all she really needed to know; the man had hit something, tapped some hidden cavern of not-yet-dealt-with-issues and that was not allowed, as per the Winchester Code. She shifted uncomfortably, hyper -aware of the sudden stiffness between the two, and wondering what had happened, who Ruby was, why she was important.
She wondered if she'd ever get the chance to find out, or if the brothers would change their mind, would decide that she shouldn't know, didn't deserve to. Kat swallowed, eyes finding the floor, toeing it with her boot, doing anything to push away the idea of being shut out by the first family she'd found since Bobby lifted her off the ground in front of a warehouse in Maine. Memories were rushing back, swirling in her head and trying to drown her under the weight, and she didn't know how heavy a moment could be. She was afraid to ask, afraid to speak at all and upset this balance. Afraid to drive them away and have them leave her behind. Words are like a touch, and some touches are bruising.
The empty highway was quiet, empty air making no noise now that the thrum of the Impala had faded, disappeared over the horizon you could never quite reach. Kat absently kicked up dust as she walked, remembering the town they had passed through only a few miles back. Or maybe it was twenty. It didn't really matter.
Jamie was beside her, his messy black hair rustling slightly in the wind, baking like her's was under the sun. His brown eyes were bottomless and closed off all at once as he met her eyes, that same removed distance he always had around her, like he was treading carefully, afraid to overstep his boundaries and break the carefully constructed masks between the two. The ones that told them they were okay, connected and united like twins ought to be.
"He's not gonna come back, is he?" he asked, his voice softer than her's was though she was never sure why; she was supposed to be the softer of the two. Kat looked up, stared, shook her head, not wanting to talk. "I think it's because you asked about Mary," he said flatly, eyes misting over in something in-between sorrow and contempt.
"He said it was because his kids needed him," Kat said, confusion coloring her tone, black hair falling in her eyes and sticking to her forehead. "We can't fault him for leaving us. Not when his family needs him."
"They've needed him for months, he's only just leaving now. I don't think that's it," Jamie rebuked, shaking his head solemnly, as if he knew something she didn't. Their arms brushed accidentally, Kat jerked her arm away on instinct. She couldn't remember the last time she hugged him.
"I doubt me asking about his wife made him leave," Kat mumbled, carding a hand through her hair and scanning the road for passing cars.
"Just- just try not to be so nosy next time, okay? I don't want either of us left behind again anytime soon," Jamie mumbled, trying to be good natured and leaving her reeling, sure she'd done something wrong, made a mistake in the handling of John Winchester. She didn't look at him after that, and for a moment she was sure he sighed in relief.
The convention room came flooding back, like she'd never left when her mind had been so removed, lost in moments she'd rather forget, spinning endlessly, spinning in and out. And her mouth made mistakes, spewing words no one wanted to hear and they bit in and didn't let go and she couldn't take them back. Sometimes they drove people away, made them leave her on the side of the road with her twin and her bags and the knowledge that she could cause pain with a sentence. Words are like a touch, and some touches leave scars.
She blinked past emotion, forcing it back and pretending she didn't feel Dean's gaze on her face, the feel of his eyes on her. She knew. She wondered how much time had passed, realized another fan was standing to ask his question, eager eyes turned to the man with the answers. Kat wondered if she would ever be comfortable asking questions.
"Yeah okay, so at the end of the last book, Dean goes to hell, so, what happens next?" the man asked nervously, eyes flicking over other audience members, gauging if he was asking the right question. Dean tensed, shut his eyes for a moment, long enough for Kat to read the effort to close out the rest of the world, to fight off memories he didn't fully understand, couldn't come to terms with because they were too dark and pushing your hand through inky blackness to dredge out images was scary. Too scary.
She shifted, her arm brushing Dean's lightly, her form of empathy, condolence, the passing of strength through the whisper of skin on skin. His eyes opened, bright green seemed hollow and bleak, but he smiled, nodding his thanks.
She didn't fully understand his story, knowing only the sparing details Ash gave her on the night the man rose from the pits, when the redneck had gotten drunk in celebration and shouted to the bar that Winchesters are 'never really gone'. But it wasn't her place to ask, and the memory of an open road and her twin brother made her silent, unwilling to speak.
"Oh. There lies an announcement, actually. Um, you're all gonna find out," Chuck said, and for once he sounded almost like the prophet he was supposed to be. His voice was soft, inviting, warm, like he was welcoming the lost home. "Um, thanks to a wealthy Scandinavian investor, we're gonna start publishing again!" He finished, his words lacking all the enthusiasm she was expecting, as the crowd immediately erupted into applause, smiles breaking onto their faces before the hunters could be sure of what was happening.
She could feel the disapproval rolling off of the brothers and it was leaving her swimming, unsure which way to lean; she remained impartial, untouched by conflicting emotions in the room. She sighed. This was going to be a long day.
Xx
The hotel bar was dark and smoky, drenched in a layer of rich color and dark wood that reminded Kat vaguely of The Shining, which she knew by flashing pictures on a screen that still astounded her. She was walking behind Dean and Sam, whose steps were too purposeful, too angry. Her eyes flicked around the room, taking in clowns with twisted fangs and scarecrows with bloody eyes. She shivered, wondering if the fans took some form of obscene pleasure in masking themselves as the faces children saw in nightmares. Her hand danced too close to her gun, concealed in her waistband by her leather jacket and careful motions, but knowing it was there gave her comfort. The weight was almost a part of her now, so different from the dangerous and heavy way she'd thought of it for the first few months, like she was sure it would go off on its own.
She stayed close to the brothers, but her steps lacked the purpose theirs held, the angry need to retain their own privacy pumping through their bodies and blinding them, tunneling their vision until all they saw was Chuck and all he saw was the threat of a black eye. They reached the quivering prophet and the jittery fan girl within the moment, Kat a moment behind, her eyes anywhere but on the boys as they fumed.
Dean's blood was pumping through his veins at a rate only he could describe as torturous, too fast and too angry and too pent up, because he didn't need a thousand people reading about what he did when he was a million feet under, holding a knife above a squirming victim in the total darkness of his soul. He'd been more demon than human then, and Castiel could barely recognize him when the angel came to grip him tight and raise him from perdition, too nice of a word to describe the webs of hatred and fear and pain that infected the body and the mind and twisted everything. Dean didn't need a thousand people knowing that he wasn't the hero they loved.
He cut in on Chuck's soft-spoken attempt at asking Becky out, watching the girl's hazel eyes fixate on his brother a bit too long for Sam's comfort. Dean's enraged demeanor incinerated the awkward moment between the author and his fan, eclipsing Chuck's stammering overtures completely.
"Hey, Sam!" Becky called adoringly, her head tilting slightly and an expression that could only be construed as awe passed over her features. It was sickening.
"Yeah excuse me," Dean cut across before anything could be said, green eyes focused on the smaller man and everything in his mind screamed HITHIM. HITHIM. HITHIM, but they were in public, so he spoke instead. His words were harsh and tinged with the promise of violence, the barest hint of his accent slipping through in his frustration. "I don't know if you've noticed, but our plates are kinda full. I mean, finding the Colt, hunting the Devil, we don't have time for this crap!" He ended near a shout, hating every pair of eyes that glanced his way.
"Hey, I didn't call you here-" Chuck tried to push out, leaning back slightly in his seat as if to avoid Dean's projection of anger. It wasn't working.
"He means the books, Chuck," Sam said, bitch face out and voice hard. He was the brother Dean recalled fighting with his father, shouting at the top of his lungs and winning an argument because he was the smart kid that could out-talk anyone. "Why are you publishing more books?"
"I dunno…food, shelter?" Chuck asked, nervous sarcasm coloring his words and making a small smile rise to Kat's lips. She stood slightly apart, having no part in the argument and taking to staring that the fruity looking drinks before Becky and Chuck like they were mesmerizing.
"Who the hell gave you the rights to our life story?" Dean asked dangerously, leaning too close to the prophet and the pain of his mother's death was rising in his heart again, taking hold of his body and twisting up and back, manipulating his soul until it was mangled, leaving him more broken than before. No one should get to read that, see the raw, untamable pain he felt whenever the woman was mentioned, the way he struggled to control his voice when he smelled strawberries or stared at the ceiling too long, imagining her body pinned there.
"An archangel," Chuck said, gaining strength for a moment and pushing the words out of his mouth with more energy than the Winchesters could ever remember. "And I didn't want it." Headaches were his norm and they were blinding, sending him crashing to the floor of his dilapidated house nearly every day, liquor was going to kill him soon, he had no doubt, and his vision was never really clear. It had been worse when Sam had visions, then Chuck had to see them too, feel every stabbing pain through his head and his heart at every wrong turn in their story. Every trip, every fall, Chuck knew better than he knew his own body.
"Yeah, well, deal's off," Sam said flatly, no sympathy in his eyes. People would read about his addiction, the sweet taste of Ruby's blood flooding his mouth and his choice to follow her, leave Dean behind. The darkest moment of his life. So Far. "No more books. Our lives are not for public consumption." A cold look settled over his eyes and, for a moment, Chuck remembered that Sam was just as dangerous, sometimes more so, than his brother.
Kat was still standing there, staring into space because it wasn't right to interfere. The battle they were fighting wasn't something she could join in. This was personal and it was psychological. Their minds and hearts and layers of guilt over guilt were terrified, rightly so. She would feel the same.
But her instincts told her to back off, so she didn't speak. She stood so silently she was sure they'd forgotten about her. She wouldn't have been surprised. She felt all over the place, emotions stemming from years of being locked away suddenly free and flowing into each other without restraint, playing in the sunlight in a way she didn't understand.. Dips and turns and twists were leaving her breathless, clutching at the edges of her mind as she tried to reel herself back. It was hard to stay focused when her mind felt scattered, pulled in a thousand directions, a thousand thoughts circling each other endlessly.
"Uh, Becky, will you excuse us for just a second?" Chuck asked, his eyes misting over to try and hide his pleading anxiety, nearly begging for her to leave them be for a moment; her eyes on him were beyond disconcerting.
"Uh huh!" She agreed excitedly, watching them stand and begin walking into another room while taking a contemplative sip of her Yellow-eyed Cooler. She may or may not have been watching Sam's ass as he walked away.
Kat was just going to keep standing there, maybe browse through the merchandise in the other room, escape the suffocating smoke of the bar room, when Dean laid a hand on her shoulder, tugging slightly. She followed. She wasn't sure why.
Dean held onto her shoulder.
The weight of his hand was comforting, the notion foreign and alien to her, where a touch brought soothing warmth that infiltrated skin with soft touches that left you in that hazy realm of not-quite-awake and you weren't sure if you were dreaming, or if the world was really this comfortable. She knew it wasn't, but she savored the feel of his rough hand pressing against the collar of her jacket, that juncture between neck and shoulder, where his skin barely brushed hers, leather and cloth blocking his way. It was close enough, but for Kat it wasn't quite close enough. The absurdity of the thought made her stiffen, her movements halting for a moment.
Touch was supposed to be frightening, supposed to make her jerk away and itch like something was wrong. Not want to lean in.
Questioning green eyes met hers, head tilted slightly and lips quirked down, confused. She shook her head absently, shaking away her thoughts and his questions all at once, and made to move forwards. Realization shot through his gaze, making the gold seem clear and defined, reaching out into his eyes like the fingers of angels. He moved his hand, sure the touch was making her uncomfortable, hating himself for overstepping that unspoken boundary. He turned back, following his brother into a separate room where they could speak to Chuck. She frowned at his back, feeling cool air invade her skin, missing his touch.
"Do you guys know what I do for a living?" Chuck asked, cutting across her thoughts with a high-pitched bitter voice. She looked up, meeting his eyes and wishing she didn't because she still didn't understand them. She swallowed, carding a hand through her hair as if the action could give her comfort. He looked away and she sighed in relief, feeling the commanding control behind the blue ease off of her like raindrops on a window. Lightning and sunrises mixed in his gaze, like it couldn't decide where to lean, what aspect to envelope when it had the capability to do it all, see it all. She wondered if night resided there, if stars and planets swirled behind his eyes like she imagined they would, if rain crashed through his senses and thunder reverberated through his eardrums. She wondered if destruction and the creation found even ground within his body.
"Yeah, yeah we know," Sam said tiredly, rolling his eyes and looking at the ceiling, silent prayer for a break on his lips. It would go unheard.
"Well could you tell me, 'cause I don't. I-I'm not a good writer," Chuck managed, eyes shifting to the floor as if embarrassed and Sam couldn't help but agree with him. The plot was theirs alone, no one could change that, but 'With determination, Dean pushed the doorbell with forceful determination?' The guy had to be kidding himself if he thought he was good. "I've got no marketable skills, I'm not some hero, who can just hit the road and fight monsters, okay, until the world ends." Dean's eyes hardened, filmed over, anger rising in his chest at just the thought that their life was anything but agonizing, terrible, miserable. "I gotta live! Alright? And the Supernatural books are all I got! What else do you want me to do?" Chuck gazed at them with anxious eyes, half expecting suitable answer, shifting uncomfortably under Kat's intense eyes.
She looked like she wanted to say something, had a thought on the tip of her tongue and she was just about to catch it, impart some wisdom the three men in the room would treasure. Chuck leaned forward, almost unconsciously, intent on hearing her voice for the first time since he walked on stage, wondering what she would say.
A raw scream cut her off.
The hunters were running before they were aware of the fact, bodies pushing forward and around a corner and up a set of stairs while Chuck tried to call them back. This time Kat was in the lead, taking off before the other two could even react, words of comfort and maybe even wisdom frozen in her throat as the voice carried through the hotel, rebounding off the walls. Emotion and feeling and the sensation of good touches were thrown into a backseat as her body went into high gear, the thrill of the hunt urging her forward as she took the stairs three at a time, heavy footfalls crashing through her senses and she was dimly aware that more than just the brothers had responded to the cry of terror. But this wasn't a game the devoted fans knew how to play, and suddenly she was back in her element, confidence rising in her system and all she needed was the too-fast heartbeat and the need to protect to become the cocky hunter the brothers had met in the Roadhouse. The Hunt was on, and she was done being a bystander.
