Chapter 3
It was nearing nine a.m. and Kenzie couldn't sleep any longer, not with Sam breathing down her neck. The sun was blaring into her room and she cursed herself for not shutting the blinds. She maneuvered her way out of Sam's grasp and slid off the bed; Sam stirred ever so slightly but soon spread out like a starfish, taking up all the space on her cushiony full sized bed. She glanced at him, sleeping more soundly, and grimaced at the spittle that was slowly beginning to hang from his mouth.
"If he wasn't so cute," she mumbled to herself, "I'd find that utterly disgusting."
Sighing to herself, she shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, removed her amber t-shirt and navy blue shorts, tossed her undergarments to the hamper, and turned on the shower. Soon, spirals of smoldering mist were forming around her petite frame, the surge of the shower, pulsated against her freckled skin.
She wanted to get out of the house before Sam had arisen, so she made haste in the shower, left her hair damp after roughly towel drying it, threw on a pair of worn jeans, an emerald Henley, tied up her boots, and topped it off with her plaid jacket with the faux fur collar. She grabbed her favorite turquoise skull cap and grabbed her car keys. She grabbed her laptop, her camera with the extended lens, and opened the door. She was one foot out, when she realized Sam had parked the Impala behind hers. She tiptoed back into the house, searched high and low for the keys, and found them in Sam's back pocket on the jeans he had thrown to her floor. Hanging hers back on the rack by the front door, she sealed it softly, and walked to the infamous car.
"Hey there, sugar," she caressed the top, "let's go for a ride."
The car sputtered a bit, almost as if it didn't want Kenzie behind the wheel, but she whispered a few choice words, and it smoothed over; probably thinking it was Dean behind the wheel, the way she threw out a few choice F bombs. She reversed out of her driveway onto the dirt road that led away from her small cottage. She never settled for a big house, not after her parents died; she became a hermit, living with the bare necessities, usually on the outskirts of a remote town. She didn't like to be bothered; therefore, no one bothered her. Setting up her laptop on the passenger seat of the car, she headed back to the spot where she saw Dean. If it was him and he was 'appearing' to them, what harm could come from doing some extra leg work?
She drove, her hands steering the wheel at 10 and 2, the very same spot where Dean himself had taken the helm of this classic beauty. She didn't dare touch the radio station, Led Zeppelin's 'Dazed and Confused' was blaring from the speakers. Kenzie tapped away to the beat, rolled down the window, and let the crisp breeze of September, weave in and out of her hair, causing it to air dry into thick waves of molasses. She pulled up alongside the abandoned grocery store that had been ransacked a few days prior and noticed that the sign on the door read, 'Gone Fishing'. She rolled her eyes knowing damn well there wasn't a pond, lake, or water source for miles in none of the four directions. The windows to the store were blown to shards which proved easy enough to add another B and E to her record, not that she was keeping score on her transgressions; then again, no one, authoritative or not, would notice. This area of town was abandoned for a reason; it may have appeared beautiful with its lush green acres that stretched for miles unending, but the economy was greener and the people of the town, well, couldn't afford to set up shop longer than a year.
Kenzie took snap shots of the entrance way. Dirt laden footprints led her to the far wall where the coolers were. She scanned the coolers, their fluorescent lights flickered on and off, and she wondered when the last time the owners had paid the bill was. Not thinking twice, she grabbed a bottle of water, threw it into her bag, and snapped a few shots of the store. She sidestepped the footprints as she walked along the aisles of the store, noticed bags of chips and packaged sweets tossed and strewn to the floor. She then found herself pulled toward the cash register, which was indeed open, and of course, empty. A few coins were left, as if the perpetrator could have cared. The prints smudged and settled alongside the racks of skin magazines, Sports Illustrated, and a few teeny bopper rags. If she hadn't known better, the choices of what was taken, and the way the magazines were upturned, she would swear that Dean had been there. As if on cue, a strong gale of wind sent the wind chimes at the entrance to stir up an eerie melody. Kenzie turned; the hair on the back of her neck, stood on end.
Across the field, kneeling down, his elbows resting on his knees, was Dean. She was sure of it; so sure, that she ran to the Impala, started her up, blared the music, which just now happened to be AC/DC's 'If You Want Blood, You've Got It', hoping that he would turn to face her. Hearing the music, Dean turned on his heels, and spotted his car. Kenzie couldn't help but notice the flicker of recognition on his face and the obscene lust he had for the car. No sooner had she taken a shot, however, his face turned sour. His eyebrows furrowed and he jutted his stubborn jaw.
"Damn it," she berated herself, "I shouldn't be driving this car."
She watched as his mouth moved and she tried to read his lips. Something about, 'Why's there a chick behind the wheel'? No, that couldn't be right, could it? Then again, if that was Dean, why hadn't he recognized her as well as the car? She shouted his name, pointing to herself, and then shouted her name, as if that would spark some sort of faint recognition as well. He faced her, a smirk appearing on his face, and she snapped the shot. He waited as did she, then turned on his heels and faced the white cross.
"Huh," she tilted her head, "could it be that simple?"
She punched the numbers to Bobby's phone and told him to get his ass to his computer,
"You're going to want to see this," she practically gushed, "classic Winchester."
Unbeknownst to her, she didn't only send Bobby the picture of Dean and the shop's mess; she sent it to Sam's email as well. While she was talking to Bobby as he fumbled with the computer, cursing the day they ever got him acclimated to modern technology, her cell beeped, indicating she had another call. She scanned the caller ID and it read, 'Sam'.
"Sleep well?" she tried her best to not sound apprehensive, but his voice, shrieked in high pitched falsetto,
"Where are you," he shouted, "better yet, where's my brother?"
"What are you hollering about," she kept her eye on the field and Dean while she scanned through the pictures on her laptop.
"That picture you just sent me," Sam growled, "of my brother."
"Damn it," Kenzie scrolled up and noticed she CC'd the email to Sam. "Now you're checking your mail?"
"Well, it's been awhile," Sam was irritated, "thought I'd catch up."
"Hold on, Sam," Kenzie forgot she had Bobby on the other line and switched over.
"Bobby?" she apologized, "I may have made a slight mistake."
"Whatchu' talkin' about girl?" Bobby's gruff voice seemed more agitated than usual. Her phone was beeping, and Sam was probably cursing her on the other end.
"Hold that thought, Bobby," she switched over, yet again.
"Sam, I…" she managed to get out before Sam cut her off, tearing into her.
"Last night, that crap you spewed about it all being a nightmare," she could picture him pacing the living room, "that it was over", again she could sense he was throwing a hand up the air, "what the hell was that?"
"Sam!" she shouted over the music, "Please, let me explain," she offered, not realizing that Dean had spun his head around and was staring at her as she spoke into her cell. His eyes brimmed with tears at the recognition of his brother's name. She couldn't help but sit frozen in the car seat, her finger snapping away photos that were immediately uploading to her laptop. She shot him as he inched his way further from the cross and closer to the edge of the field; she shot his face, the pure exhaustion, dire tragedy, and the pain, oh God, the pain.
"Sam," she swallowed as she sent him more photos of his brother, "Sam, please, there's something not right about this."
"Of course it isn't right," he hissed, "he's supposed to be dead!"
Tired of switching back and forth, she put both Bobby and Sam on speaker and they had a three way going on. She snickered to herself, 'three way'; Dean would have loved to hear that.
"Get outta there, darlin'," Bobby was urging her as Sam was urging her to do the same.
"You shouldn't have gone alone," he chided her.
"I'm not a child, Samuel Winchester," she growled, "I can handle my own."
"That's what I thought too," Sam sighed and Bobby intervened.
"Boy!" he hollered, "All you had to do was pick up the goddamned phone."
"Not now, Bobby," Sam was frustrated and sounded more like Dean than ever.
"I'm on my way back," Kenzie put the car in reverse and fishtailed it out of there, before Dean could get a foot closer.
"He sure as Hell isn't dead," she sped off, Dean's image faded in the rearview, "that's for damn sure."
Back at Kenzie's, Sam fell to his laptop, scrolling through the random shots she had taken of his brother; the extreme close ups of his face, a face that wasn't blemished nor beaten, but the eyes, his eyes were a mass of anguish. The last shot he couldn't help but stare at; it was as if he was staring into Dean's eyes and all that was staring back, was a lost soul. Dean was screaming on the inside and Sam was weeping on the outside.
"We'll get to the bottom of this," Sam swore to the picture, "I'm bringing you back home."
Kenzie pulled into her driveway, craning her neck to make sure she wasn't being followed, but anyone, or anything that resembled that dead brother of the man that was inside her house. She packed up all her stuff and hurried into the cottage, half expecting Sam to be standing guard, ready to fire at her more insults. Instead, he was sitting on her couch, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer. The television was on, but unfortunately for him, she didn't buy into the whole cable thing. He must have been watching the local news and weather for who knows how long.
"Sam?" she half whispered his name, but felt better when he returned her greeting with a smile.
"Sorry 'bout before," he shrugged, "I had no right to do that."
"No," she plopped herself down on the cushion beside him, pulled her knees into her chest and rested her head on his shoulder, "you had every right."
"I mean, I'm the one out there snapping photos of Dean," she creased her brow, "while you've been searching for a way to get him back."
"You made every attempt to reach out to me, Kenz," Sam slid his plate over to her, "I on the other hand, went MIA."
"Eat," he nudged her, "I made it."
She turned a sallow shade of green and pushed the sandwich away,
"No offense, Sam, but I'm not that hungry."
"Suit yourself," he bit into the sandwich and swallowed it within two bites, "so," he spoke between mouthfuls, "do you think it's some sick joke a demon is playing on us, or what?"
"The likely hood of the three of us seeing him," she started, but Sam choked and gave her a look that registered shock.
"Three?"
"Yeah," she shied away from him, "Bobby's been seeing him too."
"For how long?" Sam asked, pulling his laptop in closer and typing feverishly into it.
"Umm, I'd say about a couple of weeks, maybe less," she sat upright and looked over his shoulder,
"What are you doing?"
"Looking up weather charts since the first time you say you two saw Dean and comparing them to the fist time I saw him."
"When was that," she pointed to the screen, "exactly?"
"About a week or two ago," he slapped his hands to his thighs, "same time as this spike in the atmosphere."
"Storms coincide with the dead?"
"Believe me," Sam snorted, "you'd be amazed at the coincidences that be storms and what are in actuality a demon uprising."
"So does that mean," she couldn't say it, but Sam had no trouble with completing her sentence.
"If he's demonic?" he shrugged, but then sat back and closed his eyes, remembering back to how Dean acted hours before the Hell Hounds had come for him. How he was able to see demons before they even knew, how he was able to sense danger, and so on.
"Nah," Sam shook his head, shuddering at the thought that he was the one Lilith had wanted, because 'something evil lay dormant in him', but he shook that thought and his head, "I think he's just trapped."
"So how do we free him?" she inquired, ready to bring his brother back, if it meant it would bring Sam back as well.
"I have no clue." Sam sighed, "Get Bobby out here and we'll figure it out together."