My eyelids rose and my eyes screamed in protest. Harsh sunlight attacked from the open blinds at the foot of my bed. Why could I never remember to close those damn things? Oh well, I needed to get my ass out of bed anyway. I hissed in pain as every muscle in my body ached when I sat up. I pushed the coverlet off my legs and torso, examining myself. As predicted, deep black bruises covered my shins and knees to accompany old scars and knots that were like friends to me now. I ran my finger over the deepest bruise of all; in its center was an ugly gash that had taken an hour to stop bleeding. It stung, but it didn't appear to be infected, I could stitch it up now that I was conscious. Hopefully, that dagger hadn't been cursed.
I stood and treaded tenderly to my grimy bathroom to start taking care of my wounds.
My humble abode was most definitely not that of any sort of normal 27-year-old, even a single one. There wasn't enough room to swing a cat, just one room maybe as big as a standard American kitchen. My bed was shoved into a corner beside the only window, and it wasn't made, as usual. The bathroom was old, tiled in puke green that reminded me a lot of the old high school hallways. Speaking of high school, I'd been dreaming about Dean Winchester again the night before…but I didn't want to think about that. Back in the bedroom, one wall was occupied by an old wardrobe, tattered and antique. It probably wasn't the cleanest place to keep my clothes, but I didn't really have a choice. And no one saw me anyway, I didn't exactly exist anymore. Not to the outside world.
The only other free wall in the room would have looked like a shrine of some sort. Maybe in some ways, it was, but for all intents and purposes, it was more of a memorial. A tribute. To someone I left behind and then only wanted to find.
The main background (though it was almost obscured by a collage of other papers) was a huge map of the United States, down to dirt road detail. Scattered across it was a rainbow of red and yellow, the heads of push pins on various roads and in different towns. Layered on top of that were news articles and magazine scans, or Internet printouts. Practically any news medium could be found on that wall. And finally, spread from corner to corner, photos of Dean Winchester. Security camera scans, video stills, newspaper clippings, police sketches, 'Wanted' flyers…every bit of him that had turned up over the past ten years was somewhere on that wall.
I groaned as I poured peroxide and alcohol over my leg, then gently wiped it dry and pulled out a medical needle and thread. Even with all I went through, who I was, I still found I had a low pain threshold. My trick when I was young had been to look away from needles, but since I was stitching myself up now, that wasn't exactly a wise course of action. Somehow, I managed to finish haphazardly. I cut the thread and pressed the palm of my hand onto the wound, breathing deeply. Hopefully, I would have a break for a while. I wasn't entirely sure I could handle another fight, at least not for a day or two.
Limping heavily, I moved back out into the bedroom, stopping in the center of the floor and putting my weight on my good leg, staring at Dean Winchester's wall. From coast to coast, his Impala had traveled, all manner of the Supernatural among his conquests. Wendigos, scarecrows, women in white, Bloody Mary herself, and that damned Shapeshifter…
I looked away sadly as my heart rose into my throat. I swallowed it back down as I crawled into bed and curled into the corner, the bedspread piled around me. I suddenly felt like doing nothing with my day, leaving all of my duties to rot. They were the reason for my despair, my loneliness. Why should I have to be the one who carried the burden? One in the world, and it had to be me. I had been happy, normal, maybe even in love…now what was I? A slave to some master I'd never even met.
I looked at the thick silver bands on my wrists, screaming up at me that they controlled my life, they made my choices, like the genie in Aladdin… I touched one of them gently with a fingertip, then dug my nails in under it, feeling the raw skin there and relishing painful aches. They reminded me that I existed, I could feel…that was allowed. My mouth twisted into a grimace and I looked at the wall again.
For so long, I had hoped something would bring him here. Somehow, this place would call to him again. Realistically, he had no reason to come, this was one of the most demonically-clean places in the country. The push-pins circled and grazed, but never arrived. I had wanted him to come so I could explain myself, now that I knew his secret and that he could –would- understand mine.
But I did not hope for any of this anymore.
Dead men tell no tales, hear none, drive no cars, and kill no demons. And Dean Winchester was dead.