CHAPTER 3
Anna pressed her foot down on the accelerator, peeling out of the rounded driveway and tearing down Bradley Street as fast as her car would take her. She drove recklessly, too fast considering the fact that everything was out of focus, her vision blurred by the tears that wouldn't stop coming. She hitched back another sob, angry at herself for losing it like this. It was lucky she had the streets memorized, or she would've crashed more than once.
It wasn't really her anymore. You couldn't just let her keep hurting people. You had to do it. She tried to justify the fact that she had just destroyed the spirit of her own Grandmother, to convince herself that she'd done the right thing. It wasn't working.
Anna slammed a fist against the steering wheel, willing the tears to stop momentarily, but not bothering to wipe her face dry. She'd be crying some more anyway when she got home.
She slowed her car to a reasonable speed, sighing heavily as she turned onto her street, the corner of it bearing a sign that boasted "Norwich Drive". She parked along the curb and pushed down her emergency brake. She left her hand there on the handle, looking at it for a second. She breifly recalled the feel of another car's emercency brake, and her memory brought the smell of leather and the sound of deep laughter to her mind. She blinked once, hard, and pushed the images away. Face stony, she got out of her car and grabbed her duffel from the trunk before she headed up the brick walkway to the front door of her house.
The fairly new two-story was broad and tan, with a small lawn that needed trimming. The windows all had shutters on the inside, the unmistakable gray box of an alarm system was set on the far side, and the sounds of a running poolfilter hinted as to what was in the backyard. The three-car garage doors were shut, and judging from the spider webs at the corners of them, the garage itself was rarely front door's brown finish was scratched around the shiny black door handle and lock, as if both had recently been removed inexpertly and replaced.
Anna dragged her feet up the walway, hating the knowledge that the house would be empty when she got inside, but perhaps it was better that way; nobody needed to see her go on a real crying jag. With her duffel still slung over her left shoulder, she fumbled her keys with her right hand.
Side door, office, gate....what was that? She paused in her search for the right key and listened, stilll facing the door and jiggling the keychain in her hand a bit, but listening intently. There. She heard the familiar sound of an almost silent footstep. Another one.
Her expression hardened and she purposely made sure to keep her shoulders relaxed. She made a fist around her key chain, so that the keys were sticking out from in between her fingers, and she waited for the quiet steps to get close enough. She reached toward the lock as if she was about to unlock it.
Gravel crunched under a light footstep no more than three feet behind her, a nearly unintelligible sound.
She whirled and struck out, hard. Her eyes widened when she saw the face she was punching, but she didn't hesitate and she didn't stop herself.
If anything, the sight of Dean Winchester's shocked expression made her all the more furious.
* * *
Everything was black.
It was inky, like dyed liquid; a stain of darkness. He blinked. there were spots in the black, little twinkling specks. Stars, his mind informed him. Stars? But then that meant he was on his back. Outside. On the ground. Why am I flat on my back on the ground at night? Dean blinked again, and he became aware of the rest of him, and he did a mental checklist before he attempted moving. He was still clothed so that was good. He could feel his jacket collar fluttering lethargically in an oddly warm breeze, and he could hear a slight grating and crunching sound every other second. Pulling himself up, feeling heavy for some reason, he managed a half sitting position before he froze.
He was in the middle of a driveway on a residential street, a large, tan house in front of him with shuttered windows and a brick walkway to the left...
A walkway that a young woman was trudging up to the house, just far away enough that she wouldn't see him in the darkness.
Dean's stomach dropped to his feet and his heart leapt into his throat. His lungs suddenly constricted and his limbs failed to obey him as he recalled what he had been doing and where he must be.
The street...candles...thirty-three...Sammy...oh my god.
"Oh my god," Dean gasped out, and he suddenly wanted to cry out, to scream, to yell for her to turn around, to make it real and certain, so that he could stop hoping and wishing and hating himself, so that he could see if it was her, please let it be her, it had to be her-
"Wait," he breathed, again unable to make it louder than the smallest whipser, and he scrambled to get up; she was already out of sight, at the house's door now.
Dean didn't know what his expression looked like, he didn't think about collecting himself, about the fact that the knees of his jeans were dirty and his eyes were wild. He didn't care that his mouth was hanging open and and he was blinking back warm, salty, wetness. He just went, not thinking about his steps as he walked toward her, wanting to run but afraid to, somehow only able to stride slowly and cautiously.
He rounded the edge and saw her, even if it was just the back of her. The porch light showed the front door and she was fumbling the keys to put in the lock, a dirty duffel bag over her left shoulder. Her hair was dark, longer than he remembered, and that made him panic at first. But then he took in the way she stood, and he recognized it. She stood in her snug jeans with one leg straight and the other bent, the shoe balancing on its toes. Her head titled slightly to the side, and her shoulders were relaxed under her blue jacket. He could just see the edge of a dark green t-shirt underneath, and her hair played in waves, hiding what he might've seen of her face.
Dean found he couldn't speak, and he didn't know what he would've said anyway. He stepped closer to her, afraid to make any sound, afraid that she might turn around and be someone else, someone strange and foreign, someone that would never be as beautiful or warm or comfortable as she was.
He was just over two feet away when he stopped, not sure what to do, to say, how to ask if it was her at all, if even she remembered, if she hated him, if she knew how sorry he was, that he loved her...
A second passed.
Then she whirled so fast she blurred and he barely had time to comprehend the movement before he realized a key-filled fist was coming straight at his face.
"WHOA!" he barely stepped back in time, but she didn't stop whirling, and her foot followed her fist, then another fist, and the foot again, and they were fighting, and he didn't know why they were fighting, but she was really good at it, and she cussed at him, and he didn't know what to do because she hit like a two-hundred pound man, and oh man that one hurt, and he ducked and blocked but didn't strike back because it was her for crying out loud and OW!
"Anna, Anna wait!"
"YOU FREAKY SON OF A-"
"OW! What are y-"
"-UNNATURAL PEICE OF-"
"It's me, it's Dean! Anna!"
They parted and stood several feet away from eachother, circling. Anna was like a cat, her movements lithe and smooth, crouching in a predatory way. Dean however, had never felt more awkward in his life. His instincts told him to get into a protective stance, use his height advantage, prepare to swing at her from the left and sweep a leg under her feet; the rest of him was wondering what the heaping heck was going on.
"Anna-"
"Shutup." Dean stared at her. They kept circling, and he put his hands out in a peacemaking guesture.
"Anna, wha-"
"I said SHUTUP," and then, seemignly as an afterthought, she called him something that would have made Sam blush.
"Anna, it's me, Dean. What're you talking ab-"
"Say one more word and I swear you will have so much more to worry about that what I do to your remains." Dean's mouth fell open. He started to tell her that she was crazy, but he thought better of it, shutting his mouth with a click. She still had her keys in her fist, after all.
"Now," Anna ground out between clenched teeth, "why don't you go back to haunting whatever little shack it is that you've grown oh so attatched too,"she slowly pulled a rather new looking sawed-off from her duffel. Dean's eyes widened as she continued, "and I'll meet you there after I've salted and burned your bones."
Dean decided he needed to say something before she shot him.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Anna I'm not a ghost or spirit or anything!" he chuckled once, nervously, "I mean, how would I make myself look like me just to get at you? Huh?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," she snapped back, and Dean was taken aback by the venom in her voice, something that seemed very wrong coming from the face that was so beautiful even furious. then he took in the meaning of her words. It wouldn't be the first time? What is she talking about?
He took an unconscious step toward her, he moved without meaning to, and she raised the gun to chest level and aimed, her finger inching toward the trigger. Dean's mind suddenly went into overdrive, and he thought lightening fast. She thinks I'm a spirit or something that deserves to be shot, she's aiming the gun, she doesn't believe what I say, she's going to shoot me, I need to give her some proof, holy heck think faster Dean she's going to kill you, what proof could I possibly - Oh.
And in the space of a blink, it was clear what Anna needed to see to know that it was really Dean. It was clear what proof Dean could offer that Anna would take seriously and not write off as a trick.
Dean reached his hand down the neck of his t-shirt and pulled out the chain that hung around his neck, the chain that had hung there since April, the chain that Anna had given him, a chain bearing a broken "Schlage" key.
Anna's finger's halted half-squeezed on the rigger of her sawed-off. Dean kept very still, simply holding the necklace where she could see it and it's pendant.
She stared at him, unmoving, maybe not even breathing. The night seemed to quiet around them, as if the pregancy of the pause were more than just the two of them, more than just two dimensions colliding, more than two lives meeting, more than a reunion of the most meaningful kind.
Time seemed to freeze and Dean allowed himself to take in the realization while Anna took in her own.
She was alive.
She was alive.
She was alive.
And Dean had no desire to cry, no worry or doubt to speak of. His Anna was there, and she knew it was him, and he was throughly, incadescantly happy.
He dropped the necklace and moved to pull the girl he loved into his arms.
* * *
Anna was furious. Hot rage rushed through her as she stared down the thing that was pretending to be Dean, just like that spirit in Corona had done not two months ago. That had been one of the hardest days, seeing him and knowing that it wasn't him. She could still remember how it had ached...
She didn't hesitate this time, didn't allow herself to feel a thing other than the absolute anger, using it to fuel her energy, a kind of venom boiling like acid in her mouth as she spat words at the thing and reached for her gun.
She didn't bother grabbing the one loaded with salt. She went straight for the sawed-off with iron rounds.
She'd been about to fire when he moved, his hands going down his shirt of all places and bringing up something small and metallic.
She froze instantly, her finger half-queezed recognizing it without having to think or remember.
And the world dropped from around her.
She stared, and she could hear a ringing in her ears, and she couldn't seem to breathe, or move for that matter.
Her necklace twirled lightly, the broken key hanging from it caught the porchlight and gave a dull reflection.
And she couldn't help herself, because there was no way anything could have that necklace, no one even knew...
She met his eyes. She saw the truth there.
It was really him. Dean was there, three feet away from her, real, whole. Here.
She let the gun fall out of her hands which she realized were shaking, and didn't hear it clatter to the floor, her ears were still ringing. She stumbled, and fell back a step until she was pressed against the front door, still facing him, still staring, still unable to say or think or do anything. She felt herself sliding down the door until she was seated on the doormat, her legs awkwardly bent beneath her trembling body and she never took her eyes away.
He spoke, and now that she knew it was really his voice, it seemed like the most glorious sound she'd ever been blessed to hear in her life.
"It's really me, Anna. It's me."
She hiccupped once, a half-choked sob, and he crossed over to her in two swift strides, kneeling and pausing with his face just inches from hers. He stared much as she did, except he was wearing a small smile. He brought his warm hand up to her face and wiped away a tear that had just streamed down her cheek with his index finger.
At his touch, Anna found the ability to move again, and she closed her eyes, exhaling before she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close. He wrapped his own arms tight around her, holding her while she sobbed into the shoulder of his leather jacket. He didn't shush her, didn't say anything, just held her and brushed his lips against her cheek.
And they sat there on the ground outside of her front door wrapped in each other's arms, Anna clutching him and sobbing while Dean memorized the feel of her, the smell of her, the reality of her with him.
For Dean, his relief was in finding that Anna was alive.
For Anna, Dean finding her made it worth being alive.