A/N: I apologize greatly for the amount of time it has taken me to update. Life got in the way, but I should have some spare time now to write more. I hope to update at least once a week or once every two weeks depending on chapter size and how busy I end up being.
Chapter 8: Long, Long Way From Home
Sam and Dean drive me back to the hotel. We all get out of the Impala and stand in the parking lot. All of us bear an injury from our encounter with the demon, but at least we are alive.
"Well, I guess this is it," I say.
"Yeah, go team," Dean says with a smile. "Really, though, good job with that devil's trap, and the holy water."
"Good job with the salt, and thanks for saving my life, both of you."
"So, what are you going to do now?" Sam asks.
"I don't know, go back to Mike's, I guess, patch myself up. Then wait for another hunt. The usual life. You?"
"Sounds good. Oh, Sam and I will do what we always do, drive around until we find another hunt," Dean says.
Dean starts unloading their duffels into the trunk of the Impala, unconsciously feeling the back of his head.
"Hey, if you, uh, ever need a couple extra hands on a hunt, give us a call," Dean says, handing me a small piece of paper.
On the paper are written two phone numbers, presumably Sam and Dean's. I tear off a blank part of the paper, pull a pen out of my jacket pocket and write my number on the paper.
"Same goes for you," I say, handing the strip of paper to Dean.
He smiles, tucking the paper into his pocket. Out of the corner of my eye I swear I see Sam roll his eyes in defeat. Dean is obviously no stranger to getting a woman's phone number. They finish unloading their duffels into the trunk and Dean closes the trunk.
"Alright, see you around," Dean says.
"See you," I say waving as they get into the Impala.
Sam waves back as he gets in the passenger's seat. I watch as they pull out of the motel parking lot and on to the main street. The Impala soon fades into traffic.
In an hour I have packed up all my stuff into my car and checked out of the motel room. I turn on the radio in my car and settle in for the nineteen hours of driving I have ahead of me. Relief washes over me as I put the city behind me, ready to also put the demon that came with it behind me. Sometimes I get so detached from the job it is easy to feel emotionless toward a case, but not this time. I am glad we sent the demon back to Hell, though it still won't help the families of the people the demon killed. I put the thought out of my head, resolving to stop thinking about this job. It will be hard to completely forget about the job, at least for a little while, because the aching of my shoulder serves as a constant reminder. It is a bittersweet feeling to leave the state behind, a state that I used to call home, even if it wasn't for very long. The beautiful landscape whizzes by as I pick up speed, heading northwest. Even though my family lived in Florida for a few months and a dozen other places, they will never compare to the home I gained in the darkest part of my life. When I found myself alone in the world, Mike took me in. He was a life-long friend of my father's before...I switch my focus to the road. I have lived with Mike for over a decade now and he has taught me pretty much everything I know about hunting. His house is my comfort place, it is the one place where I can find peace no matter how hard a hunt has been. After six hours of driving I make a quick stop to get out and stretch my legs, the sun is starting to drop lower in the sky. Since I am making good time, I decide to drive without stopping for the night. I pull out my phone.
"Lara? Well, thanks for keeping me in the loop," Mike answers sarcastically.
"Sorry, I had a busy day. Demons aren't easy, you know."
"Yeah, yeah, an excuse is all I hear. I was worried about you," he says, his voice getting serious.
"I know, I'm sorry."
"You said. Anyway, how'd the hunt go? How were the Winchesters?"
"Demon's gone back to enjoy the sauna. We all made it out alive and in one piece, so that's a plus. They put me to shame, Mike, they're two of the best hunters I've seen, no offense. And, they aren't complete asses, so they've got that going for them too."
"Aw, sounds like you're making friends, finally," Mike chimes.
"Shut up," I say, smiling.
"Where are you headed now?"
"If I haven't made a wrong turn and I keep up this pace, I should be in Wichita in about thirteen hours," I say jokingly.
Mike is silent for a second, "Well, if you stop there, I know a place you can stay for free."
I laugh, a smile spreads across my face.
"I'm coming home, Mike."
"Well it's about damn time. Alright, stop talking to me and get moving, drive safe."
"Thanks, I will."
I hang up and get back in my car. "Long, Long Way From Home" by Foreigner plays on the radio, I smile.
I could feel the tension,
I was longing for home.
I was, more than I realized, even now.
I'm a long way from home.
"I'm gonna fix that," I say to the radio, looking at the road ahead of me.
Many hours of driving and most of my classic rock CDs later, I pull onto the familiar gravel driveway just before sunrise. About a quarter mile up the driveway, nestled in the middle of a clearing in the woods is the simple, two story house where I spent the majority of my childhood. My headlights illuminate the faded, white columns of the front porch as I pull up to the house. I park next to Mike's dark green pickup on the side of the house where the gravel is wider. The air is crisp with a slight chill, the birds and other wildlife are starting to stir. I get out of the Camaro, taking time to stretch my cramped limbs. A door creaks and I turn toward the house. Mike stands in the doorway, he looks just the same as when I left him a couple months ago. Without a word we both cross the distance between us, and as I get closer I see Mike's blue eyes are glossed over, like he is about to tear up. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face into his shirt, taking in his usual smell of scotch and that aftershave I always hated. I feel his hands on my back as he hugs me back, momentarily pulling back to kiss me on the forehead.
"Don't you ever leave me for that long again, do you hear me?" I can hear his voice wavering as he pulls me close again.
I don't like it when his voice wavers, it reminds me too much of the bad times we went through together.
"Yes, sir," I say, my voice muffled by his shirt.
I am trying not to tear up myself. Our embrace lasts for a minute or so before we both back out of it. Any sign of Mike tearing up is gone, he is only smiling at me through his graying, black mustache.
"Come on in, I made your favorite."
"You didn't have to-"
"No, but I wanted to, now come on," he says, turning back toward the house.
I follow him inside, taking in the familiar sight and smells of the house. One smell dominates the usual smell of the house: waffles. I take two paper plates down from the cabinet above the sink and hand one to Mike. Even though I haven't stepped foot in the house for nearly two months, nothing has changed, typical Mike. A plate with slices of bacon sits on the stove top, I slide two pieces on my plate. Waffles are stacked on another paper plate sitting on the small kitchen bar table. I slide on to the bar stool closest to the wall, Mike plops down on the one next to me. We both dig into our meals at the same time, too occupied with the food to converse further.
When we are finished, I offer to clean up and Mike knows better than to argue with me about this. He walks off to his recliner in the living room, no doubt to polish and clean his guns. I finish cleaning the dishes and most of the kitchen in about ten minutes, there wasn't much to clean in the first place. I can still hear Mike in the living room, along with the low sound of the TV.
"I'm going up to take a shower and then I'm hitting the sack," I call to him from the kitchen.
"No sleeping for two minutes then looking up another hunt, okay? Really sleep," Mike calls back.
"Got it," I say, heading up the wooden staircase to the second floor.
I grab a towel from the hall closet and head to the bathroom. The warm shower feels nice after the incredibly long drive, especially because it followed such an emotionally taxing hunt. I let the warm water wash away the grime and blood as well as the tension I was holding the entire time I was in Florida. But as I close my eyes to let the water run through my hair, I am haunted by the image of the demon's black eyes and his voice.
"That's why it's going to be so much fun to kill you, slowly, because you can't do a damn thing to stop it." He was right, I couldn't stop that demon ten years ago and I couldn't stop the demon from tearing into me a day ago. As if on cue, my shoulder starts to throb and blood starts to flow out of the wound. In my exhaustion and hunger, I had completely forgotten about my wound. I push my thoughts away from the demon, away from my shoulder. I wash my hair, shave, then turn off the shower. I towel-dry my ridiculous amount of dark brown hair and wrap the towel around my body. I walk across the hall and push open one of the doors. My room is exactly how I remember it, just like the rest of the house, I don't think Mike has moved a thing. I rummage through the dark wood dresser in the corner of the room and pull out a pair of sweatpants and a loose-fitting tank top. I slip into the clothes, trying not to further agitate my sore shoulder. One thing left to do before I can get some rest.
I make my way back downstairs and into the living room, knowing Mike is going to be furious, for at least a second, that I am not asleep. As I round the corner to the living room I hear him let out an annoyed sigh.
"Lara, I swear-"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get to that nap, but I forgot to get you to look at this."
I walk in front of him, where the tank top I am wearing fully exposes my injured shoulder. Mike practically jumps out of the recliner.
"Lara, what the hell!"
I know he is only scared, not angry.
"I'm fine, I don't think it even need stitches."
Mike rolls his eyes, annoyed, heading to the small supply closet under the stairs. I sit down on the end of the leather couch in the living room. By now this is almost a routine that happens every time either of us returns to the house from a hunt. One of us ends up on the end of the couch while the other goes through the closet for first-aid supplies. Mike returns quickly with antiseptic and bandages, he pulls up a stool and sits facing me.
"Well, at lest you were right about the stitches," Mike says as he sits down, placing the first-aid supplies on the couch.
With expert hands, he cleans and bandages my shoulder. The antiseptic stings, but otherwise it feels far better to have the wound bandaged than not. Although, I do hate having to tape bandages with medical tape because the adhesive never seems to wash off. That is what had to be done because there was no other way those bandages were staying in place, given the location of my wound.
"Now, please, for the love of God, go get some rest," Mike says as he starts to place the supplies back in the closet.
"Geez! I'm going, I'm going," I say, throwing my hands up in surrender.
I hear him laugh as I am about to start up the stairs. I stop at the foot of the stairs.
"Thanks, Mike, for everything."
A small smile flashes on his face for a moment.
"Alright, get," he says, waving a hand at me as if to shoo me up the stairs.
I smile as I continue up the stairs to my room.
Exhaustion grants me reprieve from dreams and nightmares alike, at least for a little while.
We drive for hours, and I cannot stop crying. My eyes are fixed on the back window of the car, desperately trying to convince myself this has all been just a bad dream. Trying to convince myself that when I turn around it will be my father I see at the wheel, not my brother. I can feel the heat on my face from crying nonstop since we drove away from the burning bar. Images of my father being dragged, torn apart, by the invisible creature flash in front of my eyes. I feel like my family is slowly being picked off one by one and I fear my brother will be next. But he can't be, because he is strong, he has always been there for me. So had my father. So had my mother. The tears won't stop. I can vaguely hear Eric trying to calm me down, but I also hear the hitching of his voice, he is crying too. Then it hits me: we are orphans now. Eventually the car stops, but I don't see where we are at first, it is dark and I have only been looking out of the back window. Eric opens the back door, pulls me out of the car. When I finally see where we stopped, I feel slightly better. The white-columned front porch is welcoming, as is the face that appears in the illuminated doorway. The dismal look on Mike's face reveals that he already knows our father's fate, if we are returning to his house alone. Suddenly, Eric falls to his knees in the mud, sobbing. I stand next to him, unsure of what to do, this is the first time I've seen my brother break like this. Mike rushes from the house, kneels down beside my brother, lays a comforting hand on his back. My brother starts to rise from the ground, Mike helps him up. Mike leads us towards his house.
"It'll be okay, you'll be okay," he says to us.
I don't believe I'll ever be okay, not after tonight.
I stare at the old, white ceiling fan above my bed. I watch the blades go around and around, I feel the brush of cool air on my face. I figured I wouldn't escape the Florida case without at least some wonderful memento of my past. After all these years and I just start to get these nightmares from my past again, the trigger is obvious. I take a breath, try to level my mind before I get up.
The sun is high in the sky now, beaming through the open windows in my room. I must have been out for hours, the grueling trip down memory lane certainly didn't seem to make them pass faster. The groggy feeling that accompanies long periods of sleep soon passes and I get up from my bed. I look at my wristwatch, it reads 1:15. I've been asleep for seven hours, that's more sleep than I've gotten in a long time. Sometimes my life feels like a whirlwind and I'm just getting blown along with no control. But, it's my choice, I choose to be a hunter every day. No one makes me do it, no one has ever made me do it. Once I found out my father saved people almost every day, I made the choice to follow in his footsteps. Of course it was to the complete rue of my father, who had already seen my brother turn into a hunter. I was supposed to be the one to go to college, to get a job that actually pays money. I was old enough at the time that I still remember the fights my father had with my brother when Eric first decided he wanted to be a hunter. He was thirteen, it was three years after our mother died. Dad came back from a hunting trip, bloodied, with a werewolf on his ass. Dad passed out and luckily Eric knew enough about hunting, from watching Dad, to shoot the thing with a silver bullet when it showed up at our motel. All of that and I still wanted to be a hunter.
I walk over to the open windows in my room and look out at the forest surrounding Mike's house. I always thought of this house as a perfect house for a hunter, secluded, yet close enough to the city to stay in the loop. As children, Eric and I played on the edge of the woods. Our father and Mike never let us wander too far into the woods, as I grew older I realized why. It was also in these woods that my brother and I sharpened our skills in many weapons. Bows, guns, and knives were the main focus of our practice, but then weapons were merely for hunting for food. Mike and our father obviously knew there was another reason for our proficiency in multiple weapons, but we never expected to hunt anything except deer. I subconsciously rub my sore shoulder as I continue to look out the window. I see Mike in the yard below, working on his truck. I head downstairs and into the kitchen, hoping there is something to eat in the fridge. Hunters are not the most attentive when it comes to their own health, so take-out is usually a common staple. I am shocked to find the fridge fully stocked with actual food. I smile and pull out a few slices of cheese and grab four slices of bread from the counter. I know when Mike is fixing his truck, he focuses on nothing else, so he definitely has not eaten lunch. Mike walks back into the house just as I am finishing up the two grilled cheese sandwiches.
"Lara, you didn't-" he starts.
"Sure I did, you made breakfast, it's only fair I make lunch."
"Well, they look great."
I sit down next to him at the small bar table in the kitchen and pass him a sandwich.
"So, what'd I miss while I was gone?" I ask curiously.
"Nothing too interesting, a couple vengeful spirits and a possible poltergeist that didn't check out. Oh, there was also a zombie scare, but it turns out it was just some kids pulling pranks."
"Nice. Glad you didn't do anything too fun without me."
"I didn't say hunting was all I was up to. Jack and I went out more than once, got some beers...some women..."
Mike throws a wink at me and I immediately jump up from my chair, throwing my hands up.
"Oh, God, that's enough detail, thanks! If you're going to keep that up, I'm taking this back to my room."
Mike laughs, his same boisterous laugh that could cheer me up in almost every situation. I smile at him and sit back down, he called my bluff. We finish our sandwiches and Mike makes his way back outside to his truck.
"Hey," I call as he reaches for the doorknob.
I toss him a water bottle from the fridge, which he has no trouble catching.
"Hydrate, old man."
He smiles back at me and goes outside. Honestly, I have no idea how he lives when I'm not here.
I set myself up on the couch, laptop open and mindless television playing in the background just for the noise. For some off reason, noise helps me focus, it is dead silence I can't bear. Mike probably won't approve, but I start to search for another hunt. I did what he wanted, I slept for more than a handful of minutes. Besides, there isn't much else to do other than going on hunts. It technically is my job, anyway. I start with local stories that might have some grounds for investigation, then I work my way out. Nothing seems too out of the ordinary in the Wichita area so expand my search to the rest of Kansas. Even after searching pages and pages of news stories, nothing in Kansas stands out as needing immediate attention. Mostly what I come across are minor reports of things like vengeful spirits and the like, all of which will probably be handled by hunters in the area. Since Kansas seems all too quiet, I expand my search to neighboring states. A potential case in Missouri catches my attention. As I read the report it starts to sound more and more like djinn, something that would definitely require immediate attention. I am just about to go outside and tell Mike about the potential case when Mike walks into the house, his cell phone in hand.
"Look up top stories, South Haven, Michigan."
I can hear the urgency in his voice so I abandon the djinn case and look up South Haven, Michigan. One of the top stories that shows up as soon as the page loads reads, "Local Man Tragically Drowns in Lake Michigan." I click on the link to the news story and read aloud the first couple of sentences.
"'Local Ethan Bunker was found this morning in Lake Michigan, apparently having drowned. A full autopsy is being done to confirm the cause of Mr. Bunker's death. Mr. Bunker leaves behind-'"
"A wife and two children," Mike finishes, without looking at the news story.
"He was a hunter," I conclude. "Wasn't he?"
"A good one too, and a good man."
"I'm sorry," I say somberly.
Mike makes another call on his phone and I watch his expressions. He is no doubt talking to the hunter who called and told him about Ethan Bunker. While he is talking on the phone, I read the rest of the article and look into this South Haven city. I find out that there have been a few drownings in recent months: a child, teenager, and another adult male. The most recent drowning, prior to Ethan Bunker, was an eight-year old boy. There is no need to look further into it at this moment, I know we have a hunt on our hands. The twelve hour drive to South Haven will provide plenty of time for research. When Mike finishes on the phone, he sees that I have already closed my laptop.
"So, tomorrow morning?" I ask.
I can tell he has been shaken, normally, considering my recent injury he would argue my coming along, but this time he doesn't.
"Tomorrow morning," he confirms.
"I'll start packing."
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! I already know where I'll be going with this next chapter or two so it will definitely take less time to write. Also, don't worry, the boys will be back soon, I just don't want to depend entirely on the show for ideas.