Disclaimer: Nope, nada here.
Author's Note: It's short, but effective. Or so I hope. I actually have tomorrow off, so if I am laden with enough praise and encouragement, I might just be able to write a new chapter then.
"You know you can call me, right? Any time," he says with just enough saccharin sincerity to make her cringe.
"Yeah, Sam, I know." She takes off her seatbelt, moves for the door handle, and turns to him, newly trimmed hair flopping in her face. "You're always there," she drawls sarcastically. "Or here. Or whatever. I get it."
"Just trying to help," he offers with a sly smile, fully aware that the one thing that bugs his sister more than anything else is having people think she needs assistance. With anything. Hell, she once threw a book at Dean's head when he asked if she knew what she was doing preparing dinner.
She had no idea and their spaghetti was crunchy, but message received none the less.
"I'll see ya around," she says through the open window, continuously hoisting her bag back up on her shoulder. Her words float back lazily to him as she turns and walks away, "Later Tater."
Sam waits until she gets to the door, turns the key in the lock and waves a final goodbye before disappearing inside the tiny rundown house. Tiny, ugly rundown house. But who was he to judge? He'd just dropped her off in a '92 Corolla.
000000000000000000000000000000
The place was quiet and faintly musty, as was always the case when she was gone for several days. When she and Ben were gone for several days. No one around to open any windows, let in some fresh air. But it was late, already dark, and she'd learned long ago that once night comes, all the doors and window remain shut, and locked.
On her way into the kitchen she pressed the flashing light on the answering machine, quickly turned and backtracked, slapping the delete button after the first message began. Charles Dunn, museum curator extraordinaire and extracurricular supernatural enthusiast. Every time he called it was to offer her a job she didn't want, in a long speech so laden with sexual innuendo it make her want to hurl. Delete.
There was only one other message. Dean, newly alone and bored after dropping them off at Sam's hours prior. He mentioned something about a possible werewolf up in Montana, which apparently reminded him of the hunt they went on when they were kids, the one where Sammy almost go devoured. Which then led him to reminisce about forcing him to watch An American Werewolf in London when Dad left town a couple months later. Which started him on a rant about how unappreciated Rick Baker is now that CGI has come along and ruined good movies. Except the Matrix. Because that shit was awesome.
She pops the cap off a beer and hits the save button before collapsing on the couch, eyes falling shut for barely a moment before a soft shuffle causes them to spring open once more.
"You were gone awhile," he says, moving slowly across the wooden floor. "I was wondering when you'd be coming home."
000000000000000000000000000000
He just makes it to the freeway when it hits him, a wave of nausea that lasts only seconds, just long enough, thankfully, for him to swerve and pull onto the shoulder. He knows what's coming. First the nausea, then the dull throb at the base of his skull. Then the deep slicing agony of his consciousness being split open.
It had been months, many months, since the last vision. And, truthfully, he thought they were over and done with. Demon dead, visions gone, end of story.
Clearly, that was not the case.
Reality began to fray at the edges, cars rushing by quickly bleeding into a hum he was pretty sure was only in his head. A blaring horn reverberating in his ears as a deep, sharp gasp. Of pain.
And then he was there, inside this other reality. One that was meant for someone else, and had not yet come to pass.
"It's just the way it has to be," he hears, barely able to make out the words over the echo in his head. "Sorry," drifts to him, and he cringes at it's sardonic tone.
He struggles to focus, take in some details. The person talking. The room they're in. Something. Anything. But the only image that becomes clear enough to see is the knife as it's thrust into someone's back. Repeatedly. The only sound now being the thick sucking of metal through flesh, and the wet gasps of the victim.
It's strange, how easy it can be to become frantic even when caught in this dreamlike state. He was nothing more than a voyeur in these visions, but he could feel his heart thrum wildly in his chest none the less.
Because someone dying. And how could he save them if he didn't even know who they were?
Focus, focus, focus, he repeated silently to himself. But this wasn't a dream, it wasn't up to him to pick out details here or there. He was simply shown what he was shown. Focus.
Only one thing stood out. In the end, just before falling back into the sick, skull crushing reality he'd only just left. One thing.
The victim's hand, slapping the hardwood floor as the body fell. The hand that flexed and curled, fingernails clawing for a grip as breathing became more thick and wet. The hand that had a protective sigil etched into it, one he recognized. A Druid mark in black ink tattooed just above the wrist. He had only ever seen one like it, that specific symbol in that exact spot.
And it was on Tessa.