A short teaser chapter of what's to come. See you all soon and remember to rate and review!
Rock music blared from the ancient radio in the garage around two in the morning the next night, along with the steady sound of a wrench turning from under the Chevelle. The clinking noises ceased as Claire froze, hearing the garage doors open and the Impala's engine rumble in. She went back to work after making sure it was just the boys. A few moments later, she heard the car doors open and slam shut, and then heavy footsteps approaching her.
She slid out from under the Chevelle as Dean approached, and she stood, grabbing a rag and wiping the oil and rust and grease from her hands.
"Little late to be working," Dean remarked.
"Can't sleep," she replied, lifting a cola bottle to her lips.
"How's she coming?" Dean asked, looking the car over. He leaned over the open hood, looking surprised. He whistled lowly. "Damn. LS3-402 engine?"
"It's in good shape, huh?" Claire said proudly, looking at the engine she had scrounged the internet for. "Had Gavin pick it up on his way back from Sioux Falls. Looks like your man Bobby replaced the transmission right before he . . . passed."
"Yeah, he loved this car," Dean said, running his hand over the top of the car. "Always wanted to fix her up, paint her. He just never had any time." He glanced at Claire. "What's left on her?"
"Besides for a fresh coat of paint? Just the interior, mostly. Needs to be re-carpeted and re-upholstered. But she runs."
"I'll be the judge of that," Dean retorted, and Claire grinned.
"Alright, Winchester," she said, grabbing the keys from her bag and sliding into the drivers seat. Dean opened the passenger side door, the familiar creaking a comfort to him as he slid onto the worn seat. He'd spent quite a few miles in this car when he was a kid, and it felt odd to be back in the car after so many years.
The engine practically purred, sounding better than it had in years. Its rumble competed with that of the Impala, and Dean found himself stifling a grin as Claire tore out of the garage, turning the radio up to find it left on Bobby's favorite station, a Willie Nelson song crooning through the aged speakers.
And for once, as Dean rolled down the window and let himself relax as Claire cruised down the highway, worries behind them for the time being.
Sara was up early, around seven the next morning. She had dressed quickly, in a pair of worn jeans and a sweater, throwing her hair into a ponytail before heading for the kitchen. She moved quietly, not wanting to wake her sisters, and started brewing some coffee as she opened the news app on her tablet. She sat at the table, enjoying her coffee as she skimmed through the news.
She heard soft footsteps and glanced up, surprised to see Sam. He was obviously surprised to see her, too, as he looked a little embarrassed at his appearance – he was wearing a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and was barefoot. His hair was a wreck, and he knew it, as he immediately tried to smooth it out – he didn't even like Dean seeing his bed head.
"Hey," he said, clearing his throat as he moved towards the coffee pot. He glanced at her as he poured some into a mug. "You're up early."
"It's been a . . . stressful few days," Sara admitted. "I didn't know you were back. Where's Dean?"
"Asleep," Sam said, moving to sit at the table. "Claire got the Chevelle running, so they were out joyriding half the night."
"Makes sense – Claire's snoring is so loud, I thought she was being attacked by a bear," Sara said, and Sam smiled. "How was the case?"
"Really weird. People turning into cicadas. Long story," Sam replied, taking a drink of coffee. "What did you girls get into while we were gone?"
"We just cleared some things out of a storeroom," she replied, rolling her mug between her hands. "We found lots of things, some of it might really come in handy. Old Men of Letters logs, records. A really cool katana that Claire called dibs on."
Sam smiled, and glanced at her hands. "You healing okay?"
"I should be able to take the bandages off tomorrow," Sara said, glancing at the thick gauze. "They're mostly just stiff. I'm more worried about Claire's shoulder – it keeps swelling off and on, probably because she won't give it a break."
"I'll have Dean say something to her – she listens to him. Sometimes." They grinned at each other, and continued to drink their coffee in silence for several moments.
"Sam," Sara said after a moment, pushing some stray hair behind her ear. "I was wanting to ask you about something. It's sort of private, but I think you might be able to help me."
Sam frowned. "Sure, Sara. I'll do what I can."
Sara took a breath. "While I was looking through my mother's journal a few days ago, I found something. A business card – it was for a private detective agency. I thought perhaps she used them to try and find my father. But I called them. And I got an answer."
Sam's frown deepened as he noticed Sara struggling to continue. She glanced at him, and he nodded for her to go on.
"The man who answered retired a few years ago, but he remembered my mum's case. She thought she was being followed by someone, so she hired the detective to find out who it was. The detective was able to confirm that someone was following her, but – but he never got a good look at him. Just a glimpse."
Sam was suddenly very nervous – he knew where this was going. She's smart, he thought. Really smart.
"What did he look like?" Sam asked quietly, without looking at her – he already knew the answer, but there was one little shred of hope in him that he was wrong.
"He was . . . tall," Sara continued. "Usually he wore a long coat, and a hat that hid most his face. But, there was something . . . odd, the detective said. His eyes . . ." she took a shaky breath, eyes growing a bit wet. "Two weeks after my mum hired the detective, she was dead."
"Sara . . ." Sam started, having no idea how to go about this.
"And then," Sara continued. "The other night, I had this memory. It was so . . . vivid, I think I triggered it with my powers. And in this memory, I saw him, too. The man, the one following my mother. And I saw his eyes. They were . . ." she swallowed, feeling very nervous.
"Yellow," Sam said quietly, and Sara looked at him, eyes wide. Sam's face was a mask of emotion – he was concerned for Sara, but his face was a mixture of pain and exhaustion. He looked at Sara. "His eyes were yellow. Weren't they?"
Sara was shocked, but she nodded silently.
Sam sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Sara, I'm so sorry, but – Dean and I haven't been completely honest with you."