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Two eyes, grey and tempestuous as a mid-spring storm, had watched from a little distance beyond the tree line as the classic black car grumbled into view, coming to an unsettled halt in one of the random spaces in a worn and oft used trek of the Rest Stop blacktop. An old and faded Chevelle rambling along not far behind, had parked nearby just afterwards, its bearded driver walking immediately over to the driver's side of the Impala. A brief conversation ensued. Soon thereafter, the black car's driver had made his way quickly up the little hill for the facilities.
Morning light, just beyond initial glow, now condescends to give way to haphazard sprays of the sunray at various points throughout the scenery. Yet she knows better than to bask in it.
Dawning days often being forgone catapults, orbit bound, into heights of new inspiration, only now make her grey eyes sparkle their faint flecks of silver: Two eyes intensely scanning over the green and gold landscape.
It's a tingling, or maybe a throb, she thinks. It's the sensation of a force moving and multiplying under the surface, which at any moment might explode into something radiating with light bright enough to shatter the air, or perhaps burst into enough confetti to cover the entire earth. It pulses behind her stormy grey eyes. Ah yes, it's a feeling not unlike… anticipation, she affirms, as she feels the whole of her body surge, quite eager to move forward within the flow of it all.
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All color and expression peaked, strained and overwrought, beneath heavy-lidded shell-shocked eyes and skin drawn tight, stares back the man Sam sees in the florescent lighted mirror of the Rest Stop men's room. He lifts his hand, breath stilling as he chances a touch to the smooth glass as if trying to assure himself the stranger looking back at him is truly his reflection. The hands touch in perfect unison, a light mist forming around his palm on the cool surface. Unable to reason why the pain his heart right now bears doesn't bleed out from everywhere within him, he reflects a moment on the many memories of the life that has lead him to this precise moment. He takes his hand away and takes the deep sighing breath he must have been holding in, before scrubbing hard at his hands and arms in the sink, trying not to see the crimson blush of the water as it disappears down the drain. He then splashes more, shockingly clean and cold, on his face.
Ah, no matter how dreadful life can get, there's always the potential of comfort, however remote that may be. Sam muses on the many implications of that thought as he takes several large throat-quenching sips from a water fountain in the common area of the little wooden building, then uses some loose change from his jeans' pocket to buy two coffees from the vending machines nearby.
He walks back out into the early morning sunlight on legs that feel like rubber. Set back from the highway, this place is almost pretty, he sees- with little patches of woods, a small trickling stream several yards to the left, and sundry picnic tables strewn about here and there in the shade. Still, for some odd reason, he momentarily feels his skin prickle. He takes a sip from one of the coffees and glances furtively around. The air's still hazy, morning dew not yet quite burnt up. At the edge of the gravel parking lot sits an old red Chrysler, the only vehicle here besides Bobby's car and the Impala. Bobby stands near the front panel of Dean's car, face pointed towards the gravel, shuffling his feet, rearranging tiny rocks with the toes of his shoes. He hasn't yet seen Sam emerge from the Rest Stop building.
Sam carefully turns when he hears movement in the grass just behind him. Not ten yards away stands a buck, its tall antlers almost winglike or ready to flap into motion, staring straight ahead with eyes as dark as night.
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