C-H-A-P-T-E-R

8

Maryse: 13

I shot up from my bed, my eyes slightly watery. Another nightmare.

My eyes trailed the empty motel room around me, and checked the small cell phone on the bedside table. No missed calls - they were alright. Dad and Dean were out hunting, but they were fine. They would have called otherwise.

I sunk back down into the sheets, feeling the warmth engulf me once again. I couldn't help but wish that they were here, but at the same time, I knew that the feelings were weak. I couldn't depend on someone else for safety, not when others would have to depend on me once I got older. I had to learn to take care of myself, even when I had nightmares.

Slowly, I let myself drift back to sleep.

XXX

"Ris, why don't you go ahead and take a bed tonight. I'll sleep in the Impala."

Eyes widened a fraction, I turned my tired gaze to Sam. For the past few nights, I'd been letting him sleep in the hotel rooms and taking the Impala without a fuss. Dean had informed me that Sam hadn't been sleeping while we were at a diner after the wendigo hunt. I figured it would be easier to sleep in a hotel room rather than a car.

"No, Sam, really," I said, "It's fine. I don't mind."

Normally, I'd be jumping at the chance to ditch sleeping in Baby, but these weren't normal circumstances. Sam might have a nightmare here or there (I mean, in this profession, who didn't?) but he hadn't been sleeping at all lately.

"Rissy, it's eleven o'clock, and I'm not in the mood to argue. Just go to bed," he said, standing from the chair he was seated at and grabbing his bag.

My hand dropped to my side, hair brush clanging against my thigh. I would have said something had it not been for the exhaustion written on his face. He looked like a zombie, his light brown mass of hair disheveled and bags under his hazel eyes.

"Okay," was all I said as he walked through the door, closing it lightly behind him so as not to wake Dean.

I turned to glance at my sleeping brother and then continued to brush my hair. After I'd braided the wet mess, I laid down on the bed opposite to Dean, picking up the box of popcorn on the table, and started eating a midnight snack.

After the wendigo hunt, we'd found a lake haunted by the ghost of a boy. It hadn't been a regular salt and burn, really, since the boy's body was actually buried in the lake. We couldn't find it and burn it, but instead, the man that the ghost wanted revenge on had sacrificed himself, putting the spirit to rest. Now, we didn't have a job, and I was kind of enjoying the bliss of it. The only thing that weighed me down were thoughts of my dad and of the weird incident in that motel room. Nothing had happened since then and we hadn't gotten any word of Dad.

A frown formed on my lips as I came to the bottom of the box, and I placed the empty box back on the table, laying back down into the scratchy motel sheets. No matter how itchy the duvet was, there was always a sense of comfort I got from them. They felt normal, like home and safety. I curled myself into a ball and felt myself drift off to sleep.

XXX

Click.

My eyes shot open at the soft sound and quickly found Dean's green gaze. His eyes screamed at me to stay still and be quiet. My body froze as I listened to the soft breathing of the intruder, and my heart beat picked up while I watched Dean's hand travel under his pillow.

His knife.

"Morning, sunshines!" Sam's voice rang through the motel room, and I jumped, surprise pulsing through my veins.

Dean's hand shot back out from under his pillow, and he turned to look at Sam.

"Morning, idiot," I muttered, sitting up slowly, "What ungodly hour did you decide to wake us up on?"

Sam chuckled and took a sip of the coffee he held in his hand. "Five forty five," he answered.

Dean groaned. "In the morning? Where does the day go?" Sarcasm dripped from his words, and I couldn't help but smirk a little. Classic Dean.

I bounced slightly on the bed before standing up and raising my arms above my head. I felt my shoulders pop and the cracking noises resonated throughout the room.

"Did you get sleep last night?" I questioned, lowering my humming limbs.

"I, uh, I caught a few hours," he answered, his shoulders raising in a shrug.

I made my way over to my duffel and unzipped it, reaching in and looking for my trail mix.

"Liar," Dean replied, "See, I was up at three, and someone came back in the motel room to watch infomercials."

I shook my head as my hand finally grazed the smooth surface of my pack of trail mix. "Sam," I said, standing up, "you need to sleep."

"It's not a big deal," he said, his voice nonchalant.

I sat back down on the bed, tearing open the trail mix and pouring a handful into my palm.

Dean huffed, now sitting up. "Yeah, it is."

"Look," Sam said, sitting next to me and taking a bit of trail mix from my hand, "I appreciate the concern—" I shoved him with my shoulder, making a sound of protest.

"Oh I'm not concerned about you," Dean answered, "It's you and Ris' job to keep me alive, so I gotta have you two sharp."

"Whatever." I rolled my eyes and popped what was left in my palm into my mouth.

Dean cracked a small smirk, but his expression quickly became serious. We both turned our gaze to Sam. "You still having nightmares about Jess?" Dean asked.

A sigh escaped Sam's lips, and he placed his coffee cup on the bedside table and threw the small bit of trail mix into his mouth. "It's not just her — it's everything. I just forgot . . . This job — man, it gets to you."

I let a grimace slip across my lips. "You can't harbor it, Sam," I said, shifting a little where I sat, "You gotta block it off."

"Yeah, you can't let it get to you," Dean agreed.

Sam's eyes flickered between the two of us. "So all this — it never keeps you up at night?"

I opened my mouth to answer but quickly shut it, not wanting to tell him the truth, especially not in front of Dean, but not wanting to lie to him right after we'd gotten him back. Dean shook his head, and jealousy flared within me. Why couldn't I just take my own advice? Why couldn't I just block everything out like he could?

Sam was less believing of our brother. "Never?" he questioned, "You're never afraid?"

Dean shrugged his shoulders a little, shaking his head. "No, no not really."

A scoff filled the silence surrounding us, and Sam reached forward towards Dean's pillow. He removed the knife, and all of my jealousy quickly vanished. Sam held up the gleaming weapon, and my eyes found Dean's face.

"That's not fair." Dean grabbed the knife. "That's precaution."

A small eye roll from yours truly.

"Alright, whatever," Sam said, "Too tired to argue."

I patted Sam on the back, trying to send him some form of comfort, when Dean's cell started ringing. He picked up the small device and looked at the ID, his eyes furrowing questioningly. The three of us quickly exchanged a look before he answered it.

"Hello?"

Dean's face registered further confusion as the person on the other end spoke, sending small buzzing noises to my ears. It was only a few seconds into the conversation when a flicker of recognition crossed Dean's features.

"Oh yeah, with the poltergeist up in Pennsylvania," Dean said, and I quickly sifted through my memories for the case. Who was the guy that we helped? Harry? Gary? Jerry? Something like that. "It's not back, is it?"

More buzzing from the other end.

"What is it?"

XXX

"Thanks for making the trip so quick," Jerry said — I'd quickly found out that his name was Jerry, and not Harry or Gary — "I oughta be doing you guys a favor, not the other way around." He glanced over his shoulder at Sam. "Dean, Ris, and your dad really helped me out."

"Yeah," Sam said, his gaze switching from Dean to me and then back to the short and bald Jerry, "they told me it was a poltergeist?"

"Poltergeist? Man, I love that movie," a man to my right exclaimed. The sides of my mouth tilted upward, and I trained my eyes on Jerry's brown dress shoes.

"Nobody's talkin' to you," Jerry answered the man, his voice raising slightly in volume. It quickly returned to its hushed tone when he answered Sam. "Yeah, it was a poltergeist — practically tore our house apart. I'll tell you somethin'. If it wasn't for you two and your dad," — I was quickly brought to the realization that Jerry was now talking to Dean and I — "I probably wouldn't be alive. So your dad told me you were off at college." Back to Sam.

"Uh, yeah," he replied, "Been taking some time off."

"Well, he was real proud o' ya', I could tell," Jerry said, his eyes glancing back at Sam and quickly shifting back towards the front. "Talked about ya' all the time."

I looked towards Sam to catch his confused expression, knowing that this would be news to him. He probably thought that Dad was still upset about him leaving for college.

"He did?" Sam asked.

"You bet he did." Then, to Dean and I, "Oh, hey, you know I tried to get a hold of him, but I didn't. How's he doing?"

I pursed my lips, sharing a look with Dean that told him to answer. "He's um wrapped up in a job right now."

"Well," — Jerry spun around to walk backwards — "We're missin' the old man; we get Sam — even trade." He spun back around and continued to walk towards his office through the airplane workshop.

A contagious chuckle fell upon our group, and Sam said, "No, not by a long shot."

Jerry ducked his head slightly, gesturing towards the right, which I assumed to be the way to his office. "Here's something I want you three to hear." He lead us to a door and opened it, ushering us inside.

"Please, sit," he said, and the three of us each found a chair. "Now, listen to this." Jerry pulled out a CD and placed it in the player on his wooden desk. "Sounded like it was up your alley. Normally, I wouldn't have access to this: it's the cockpit recording for United Britain Flight 2485."

"Mayday, mayday," a voice called from the recording, the words quickly being sucked into static as the voice recording malfunctioned. The voice quickly became unintelligible, and I began to wonder why we were even listening to it, until something engulfed the static. A low growling noise erupted and soon grew high pitched, fluctuating between the two keys. And then, it stopped, static returning and then cutting off.

"Took off from here," Jerry said, "crashed about two hundred miles south." He looked up at us. "Now, they're saying, mechanical failure — cabin depressurized, nobody knows how. Over a hundred people on board, seven people survived. Pilot was one of them — good friend of mine. His name is Chuck Lambert. Chuck's pretty broken up about it, like it's his fault."

Sam was the first one to say something. "You don't think it was."

"No."

"Jerry," Sam continued, counting the list off of his fingers, "we're gonna need passenger manifests, a list of survivors—"

Dean looked at Sam and said, "Right, and uh, we need to take a look at the wreckage."

Jerry pursed his lips, and then replied, "The others I can do, but the wreckage . . . It's locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I've got that kind of clearance."

Slowly, the three of us began to nod, but I knew what was coming. We were about to do something illegal, as always.

Everyone, I'm so sorry for not updating for the longest time. I've had so much school work, oh my gosh. Okay, but if it makes you feel better, I stayed up until two in the morning writing this for you guys. I love all of you, and I know I don't deserve them, but reviews are highly appreciated. Thank you for staying with me!