Week One
We did exactly as Cas said, laid low. Sam and Dean decided, with no input from me other than intense objection, that I should stay in the Bunker. The boys didn't even hunt much, just picking up the occasional local case. They got word of a Ruguru in Amarillo, and for the first time I was completely on my own. Dean texted me in the mornings, at lunchtime, dinnertime and just before he went to bed. He reviewed every meal to me, every burger, every pancake. He shared details of the case. He was trying to keep light-hearted, not daring to remind me that I was stuck in a pre-war bunker completely alone. I couldn't bring myself to stay locked up in that place completely, so on the Wednesday I drove into town to pick up some groceries, Dean's angel blade never leaving my person. On Thursday I spent all day in the kitchen, preparing meals to put in the freezer. It was a welcome distraction, and I praised myself for my efficiency. On Friday, they came back, a little bruised, but alright, and I felt normal again.
Week Two, Thursday
The boys didn't take another job right away, and we fell straight back into our familiar routine. My sweet-tooth led me to the kitchen to make cheesecake, brownies, banana bread- all my mom's recipes. Sam stood over my shoulder, trying to pick up the recipe, helping me the stir the batter and pulling things from the oven. Dean sat at the table, reading, all the while the inviting aroma of baking filled the kitchen and made our mouths water. On Thursday evening, my bedroom door burst open and in strolled Dean, black t-shirt, dark jeans, a plate full of cheesecake and brownies and two forks. He made me watch On The Waterfront. We sat on my bed, bare arms touching, Dean's running commentary making me smile and laugh until I eventually fell asleep five minutes from the end. I didn't feel him leave, but when I woke up the following morning he was gone, the scent of him still imprinted on my pillow.
Week Six, Monday
Every morning I woke up feeling more and more suffocated, the stifling walls of the bunker becoming my own personal prison. The brother's had gone witch-hunting and weren't due back until Wednesday. I called Cas. He didn't pick up right away, but an hour later the high-pitched ringing of my cell from the library table told me he got my message. He showed up five minutes later, an angel blade and a large pepperoni pizza in his hand. We went into the garage, me in my sweats, him still clad in his suit and trench coat, and I lunged and parried, desperately trying to preempt his movements and not get my ass completely handed to me. These training sessions had become a permanent weekly fixture, and I was always rewarded with a slice of pepperoni pizza when I'd finished.
Week 9, Saturday
The old band was back together again; Cas had thought it a good idea to test out some of my powers a little further. The four of us were stood just outside the bunker entrance, the bright morning sun warming our faces. Cas told me to think about that old abandoned gas station about a mile up the road, to really focus on it. Cas disappeared a few seconds later, but when I opened my eyes, I was still stood outside the bunker, Sam and Dean smirking at me. Cas decided that because I was truly a human, not an angel with a vessel, flight was not going to be one of my little tricks. I was a little disappointed, but at least it made me a little less freaky. We all filed down to the garage, where Sam had placed a load of random objects, well away from the cars upon Dean's request, which I found myself making fly all around the room, smashing into walls, sliding off tables and crashing onto the floor. With my mind. Cas made me try it on him, assuring me it wouldn't hurt him at all, and within a second he was pinned up against the garage door, Sam and Dean sniggering.
Week Eleven, Friday
I spent another few days alone, leaving the bunker only to pick up supplies and take a breath of real, fresh air. The boys weren't due back for another couple days, and I found myself aching for their company, for the sound of footsteps other than my own, and more than the background noise of the TV I kept on at all times to break the silence. I was reading in the Library when I heard the bunker door open, and the sound of my two boys bickering as they descended the stairs. They were wielding paper bags from the local store- picnic supplies, they told me. I was taken aback by their display of sweetness, but remembered they probably felt almost as bad as I did about me being locked up in here. We drove to a nearby park, and sat on the grass by the little duck pond, watching the world go by. Dean and I sitting close, our thighs touching, his hand occasionally grazing my skin as he moved, the smell of his cologne in the sweet summer air a heady perfume. We talked about music, him ignoring my secret obsession with hip-hop and choosing to focus on Van Morrison, Fleetwood Mac, questioning me on Joy Division, The Smiths and The Cure. The aching I felt in my bones, the tiredness, the tightness I felt in my chest every morning slipped away, my smile was genuine, and I felt like I could breathe again. They didn't spend too much time away from the bunker, but it was enough. The times they were there though, the few days out of every week where I heard other voices, other footsteps, had become some of my favourite memories. We'd become thick as thieves, Dean and I especially, and the thought of them swanning off for hunts was becoming harder and harder to swallow. It made my stomach ache and my eyes sting. I didn't know how much longer I could do this.