Author's Note:

This chapter was pretty intense to write. Get ready to hear a little of Kara's background, and feel free to review/send me feedback whenever :)

-TheEliot

"There's no need for such wariness," I begin, "I don't mean the two of you any harm."

Dean snorts slightly, as if challenging my ability to harm them. I look up from my hands, meeting his eyes and holding him there with my own. His smile falters slightly at the intensity of my stare, and his more primitive instincts warn him of the power—the abomination— sitting in front of him. I can smell the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He breaks eye contact, clearly confused by his visceral reaction, and I focus my attention back on my fingers, somewhat ashamed by my scare tactic. Still—he's better off if he doesn't underestimate me.

My eyes flick back and forth between the two brothers, taking stock of the situation, and I come to the conclusion that though they can know the truth, I must break it to them gently. Gradually.

Perhaps I will start at the beginning.

"The two of you are probably wondering how I came to be here," I speak quietly, my voice as soothing as possible, "I thank you for not asking me yet, it has been considerably easier to…adjust…due to your consideration of my privacy. Still. I think it's time that I explain myself."

I glance away from my fingers, which seem to have a mind of their own, and have unwoven and reshaped the ropes intended to bind my hands—the rope now resembles a lotus flower.

The boys look at me expectantly.

"My name…my name is Kara. I am, well…I am something new. Or very old. New to you, but I think perhaps that I am the only being of my…species…extant in modernity."

I glance up to glean their reactions just as Dean interrupts,

"Wait a sec, just how old are you? You look like you can't be more than nineteen, maybe younger, but you're talking like a stuffy old professor."

Sam hadn't spoken yet, but had been staring at me intently, an expression of the utmost concentration furrowing his brow, his eyes widened slightly and he focused on Dean, saying quietly,

"She's talking like Cas. She sounds exactly like him."

"Angel?"

They shrug together and turn their attention back to me.

I flinch imperceptibly at his name, and Dean studies me, clearly waiting for me to continue. I once again appreciate their willingness to allow me to move at my own pace, and assume that it probably has to do with the fact that I had an emotional breakdown on the floor of their motel room. I bite my lip nervously and try to phrase my answer,

"I'm…eighteen, in a way, but have been alive for a much longer period of time than an average eighteen year old."

"So you're like a vampire?" Dean asked, as both brothers tensed instinctively.

"No, not like that…I'm…" I struggle to describe my condition, still not used to forming words in this language. Listening for a few hundred years isn't the same as speaking. Suddenly I'm struck with an idea.

"Do you think…do you think you would let me show you?"

They immediately look wary, but I cut off Sam as he attempts to speak,

"It's not in any way dangerous. I told you, I am something new to you, and the something that I am is telepathic. I have not delved into your minds as of yet, do not worry—I would not breach your trust in that way—but I am able to tell you my story much more…accurately…if you could be here, inside my mind, as I flip through the information. You will not be in a trance of any kind—you will be aware of your surroundings—but you will see the truth of my words. I want you to trust me."

"First, I want you to explain to me how you can be eighteen in a way. Then we'll talk about you getting into our heads." Dean says, his eyes viewing me critically.

"I'm not going to be getting in your heads. If anything, you'll be inside mine. And as for the other…" I take a breath, bracing myself for the frightening truth that I have barely allowed myself to accept, "My body, my mind, and my earthly memories are that of an eighteen year old…person…but I have been conscious…I have been in stasis…I have been frozen without being frozen, aging without maturing, learning without truly developing…" I flounder, trying to describe how captivity affected me, "I have been in a prison of time for 2000 years."

There is a moment of awkward silence.

"Okay so you're definitely gonna have to elaborate on that one." Dean says, clearly becoming exasperated with my cryptic answers. "What the hell is a prison of time?"

"I was trapped in a dimension outside of time. You've actually perceived the physical manifestation of the dimension—it looks like an old chest, or box, cylindrical in shape and with a series of runes etched into the rim."

Their faces pale. Suddenly it occurs to me that I do not know how they became aware of my prison—what prompted them to seek it out?

"So…you're what was in the box? You're what we released?" Sam inquires, his eyes glancing up and down my small figure. He looks…confused.

"Yes. The box is a prison, designed by witches—the Ancients—specifically to capture Beings like me. It is intended to be a weapon of the Heavens, and is sealed by a powerful Enochian sigil, which is only activated by the Angel who draws it. Supposedly, the box—Demillicus' box—traps its prisoner in a single moment of time, and that moment is all the prisoner is aware of until—if—the Angel who bound it decides to release him or her. The reality, however, is rather less pleasant."

I am silent, willing myself to remain where I am, trying so desperately to push down the memories of the cold, the crushing, heavy darkness, oh God I can't breathe—

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and open my eyes to see the concerned faces of the Winchester brothers. I shiver, and realize that I have broken out into a cold sweat, my hands clenched so tightly my fingernails have cut the skin. I take a deep breath and continue,

"The particular Angel who trapped me made a mistake with the sigil…or he thought he was being merciful…perhaps he was…but instead of binding me completely, he allowed me a small—but powerful—window to the outside world. I am telepathic, as I said, and he left me with part of that. I could not send out any of my own waves of thought, but I was allowed to pick up whichever signals I so chose. The side effect, of course, being that I was aware, completely and entirely, of every passing second of time."

"You sure it was an accident? Angels can be douche bags, believe me." Dean says, a note of commiseration in his voice. Sam kicked him, obviously thinking that I would not see and wishing to punish his brother for insensitivity. I wince along with Dean, aware of the blood pooling under his skin at the ankle. I had almost forgotten about bruises.

I sigh, the sinking feeling in my chest having nothing to do with the image of Dean's bruise, "I certainly hope it was an accident. The betrayal of imprisonment is enough of a burden to bear, without the pain of intentional torture." I shudder, realizing what I just implied—I am going to have to get used to giving people half-truths. I hadn't meant to tell them about my friendship with my captor. They seem to pick up on my reluctance to continue that train of thought, though I can tell from the heavily meaning-filled glance they shoot at one another that they will be inquiring further about my betrayal after they feel that I am sufficiently rested. They obviously don't plan to let me go. Not that they have any power over me. Not that I have anywhere to go.

"Anyway, this fault in the sigil lead to my consciousness being aware of the passing of time, while my psyche and physical body remained static at eighteen. My mental acuity and physical well-being are as they were, though my body suffered somewhat from the disassembling and re-assembling of my particles, resulting in my current fatigue. My memories, however, and my knowledge, are that of someone with access to 2000 years worth of information."

I pause, letting them process the once again look at one another meaningfully, and I wonder if being attuned as they are to one another has allowed them some form of telepathy. That certainly seems to be the case. I am tempted to listen in on them, but decide against it. No need to betray their trust now. Not yet.

Dean is the first to speak.

"Okay, so you've been in some kind of time-prison for 2000 years, and you were trapped there by some douchebag angel. But we still don't know—why did they trap you there? what are you? what happened to you to make you react so…violently…when I first saw you?"

He said this last part silently, as though his curiosity had gotten the better of his sensitivity. I decide to answer his last question first. It seems my breakdown upset him. I look into his eyes, not trying to scare him this time, just trying to form the best explanation to the utter terror of that cylinder. The constant and crushing…not going there. Finally, I just answer simply,

"I am severely claustrophobic."

This statement seems to confuse them both—such an ordinary plight in such an extraordinary situation. I decide to elaborate.

"When I was a child—a very small child—my family was attacked by those who feared my reaching my full potential. They decided to stop me before I became powerful enough to do any damage, and they ransacked my home, killed my parents, and toppled the house down in the process."

I gather my strength, trying to sound as distant and clinical as possible.

"They failed to finish the job—they failed to kill me. Instead, I was left…"

I pause, and decide that bluntness is the way to go.

"…crushed under the corpse of my decapitated mother, and the both of us under a large pile of rubble. I believe I was in that state for days, because by the time I was rescued, my mother's corpse was partially decomposed."

I glance up at them, taking stock of their horrified expressions. I find myself unable to stop talking.

"For the rest of my life, I found myself unable to sleep well because of the nightmares of being trapped in the dark, the heat, and the stench of my rotting mother. I needed open windows at all times, and could not sleep without a candle until I was sixteen."

I pause and take a sip of water to way down the lump in my throat.

"My prison was not the ideal environment for a severe claustrophobic," I say dryly.

We sit in silence for a few moments, the boys processing the information while I revel in the plate of crackers they gave me. Every bite of the salty snack provides me with a burst of flavor so intense that I experience bouts of synesthesia, explosions of blue popping up around me as I crunch. I am so preoccupied that I do not pay attention to their conversation, and barely notice when they return. It is Sam this time who speaks.

"Okay, Kara, we're ready for you to show us the rest of your story."

I pause, a cracker halfway to my lips, and brace myself.