Frankly

Chapter 2

Bonjour! Hope you enjoy this late installment of Frankly. No where do I mention my owning of Supernatural, and I don't know where anyone would get that idea. Not that you all would think that. You're smarties.

Staring at the drive way like a dumb ass, I'm sure, doesn't look too sophisticated for me.

My mother's house is sitting in it's usual spot, as expected. It seems just as average as it did when Dean picked me up on Friday, so my refusal to actually open the door of the Impala puzzles everyone. Including myself.

Backpack strap in hand, I squint my eyes to look once more at my sun coated oldest brother. Not sure why, but I feel like something is about to change. Not with Dean, necessarily, but change somehow. It's similar to the feeling I got before Sam went out on his own for college. Like the comfortality of the present was soon coming to a close.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach was similar to hearing the announcement of an upcoming closing time just as you walk into the doors of a mall.

Nothing felt as awkward as meeting Dean's skeptical gaze, the type you get when you do something totally off the rocker. So I subconsciously lift my eye brows and blow out a long breath as I turn, gripping the door handle and push until it opens, climbing out of the low car. "See ya, Kid," Dean's voice floats to my ears before the door is fully closed.

A passive wave as I stare at my house is, truthfully, more than rude. But he still waits until I unlock the front door and walk in before he pulls off, protective as ever.

Mom peeks her head out of the kitchen when I shut the door, smile meeting grimace, her hands drying on a dish towel. "Hey, Chick."

"Aye." It's not much of a response, but it's what she's used to getting at this point.

My mom is an attractive enough blonde just approaching thirty six. Her hair wasn't always done, but her nails were always cut short and clean. She wasn't a particularly vain woman, but she was naturally pretty. With an air of simplicity and calm-ness surrounding her as she went about even the most complicated tasks. Her intellect was ultimately what fate used to bring on her downfall.

At twenty one, my mother was an intern in a Coroner's office, top of her class, and friendly to boot. Everything was going smoothly for her.

Until a "detective" rolled into town on a strange case. I don't think I need to spell out what happened next, because you should get the point. Bow-chicka-wow-wow and all that.

Either way I phrase it, the end result was messy. John Winchester isn't really a detective and you're royally screwed, Mom. Surprise: it's a girl!

'She kept an optimistic attitude through it all, though,' I think, taking the stairs two at a time.

At the top of the stairs, there are three bedrooms between a shared bathroom. The smaller of the three is, of course, mine.

While my mother's room is all books and sleek, adult style, mine is messy and dull. Clothes, both clean and dirty, cover every surface in the room, be it the tan carpet or the lime green furniture I've had since childhood. Even the antique vanity is smothered in debris. Nothing is safe from the madness of disarray. My eyes are still on the mess that my Mom will be sure to kick my ass for when she finds it, when my mind is suddenly seeing something else. A memory connected to the woman whose money bought the furniture in my war-zone of a bedroom.

"Mommy?" A little girl asks from the door way of the kitchen her mother currently occupied. "Is Grandma sick?" The woman doesn't move from her place at the stove. Her arms go around in a robot motion, her eyes far off.

"I don't know, Baby."

I shake my head. Thinking about that now wasn't going to help me, anyways. It never would. Sighing, my bag is thrown into an unknown corner of the room to be found at a later date.

That itching feeling is on the corner of my brain again. What's changed?

I go on through the next week with that feeling still there, and it occupies me so that I don't even notice when my father and brother's weekly calls are absent until two weeks later when no one is there to pick me up.

My mother is confused, too. Usually she would get a midnight call at some point to warn her of a change. It wasn't like both of them to forget me.

Mother and I share a look as she listens to the phone at her ear before gently placing it back on the wall mount. "I don't know where they are, Baby. Maybe they're just running late."

What's your definition of "late"? Thirty minutes or two weeks?

A month passes by without word of any kind.

A month until I see even a dream of one of my brother's, and it's the one I never expected.

"Sam?" I call out from my place on the bed. I'm in my room, but the walls and colors are horribly dream-like, and my second elder brother is curled up on my carpet, screaming in agony. "Sam!"

He doesn't answer me. He looks like he isn't even aware I'm here. Doesn't he know he's in my room? It's then that I see his eyes are rolled back into his head, and the rooms starts to move around me as I focus in on him.

Sam's screams get louder and louder until I finally sit up in bed, back in reality and out of breath. I have something lodged in my throat, like a warm liquid is pouring down it. Like someone made me top off a vile drink in my sleep.

I look around, though, and the room is clear. I'm awake. Sam isn't screaming on the floor, the Boogie Man isn't hiding in the corner. Nothing is wrong.

But no sleep finds me again that night.

At four in the morning I get up, pulling my dull brown hair into a pony tail and lace up my running shoes. It's going to be a long day.

My iPod is plugged in as I write a note for my mother in the kitchen. There's a key wedged in between two cracked bricks, but I don't want her to worry. I'm so focused on making my letters legible that don't hear my name being called over the angsty teenage music.

It's when a hand lands on my shoulder that I jump out of my skin.

"Dean?"

Blink.

That's all it takes and he's gone. No one is in the kitchen and I'm thoroughly freaked-the-fuck-out. 'Seeing things isn't normal, Frankie. Shake it off.'

So freaked out am I that I start my run without finishing my note to Mom.

'Nothing is normal anymore.' The thought is circling some lobes or something, because I can't shake it from my mind. Just like I can't shake the image of Dean's scared face. It couldn't have been real, but never in my life have I seen his face like that. 'His face isn't even supposed to make that expression,' it's impossible. I push myself to run harder.

The street lights are still on. It's dark out. It's also four-thirty in the morning. 'Maybe that's why I'm seeing things. Sleep deprivation.'

De rien, readers!

Also, special thanks to my three reviewers (SuzSinger, cliftney, and Lucifersdaughter).

SuzSinger: I love you, too. Glad you relate.

cliftney: They will keep coming. You keep reviewing, okay?

Lucifersdaughter: Know more, you shall. Hope you enjoy!