After that, once or twice a week, Amelia would grab a short nap in the motel room, always with her hands underneath her, always with Sam present. Most of the time he managed to wake her up before the nightmares got too bad. Some times he ended up trying to comfort her as she fought through a panic attack. Sam never asked her what she dreamed about, and she never supplied. Once she started a tiny fire, but managed to put it out before he noticed. The headaches slowly improved, and she started practicing with fire again. One day, quite by accident, she discovered that in addition to making fire and flames, she could also manipulate the heat of objects, which entirely broke thermodynamics. That was much easier to practice than fire, and sometimes sitting in the backseat of the Impala, she would melt ice cubes for hours on end. She found it very cathartic.
In December the trio investigated a case involving decapitated bodies and missed Christmas at Bobby's. A ghost broke Dean's arm in January, pissing the hunter off completely. At least until the drugs kicked in.
"C'mon S'mmy," Dean whined, in the front seat of the Impala. "Lemme drive, man."
Amelia pulled a pillow around her head. He was insufferable when he high on drugs.
"You'd crash the Impala," Sam reminded him. "Wouldn't want that now, would we? Go to sleep."
"Wanna drive," Dean argued, already starting to fall asleep against the window.
They were somewhere in Colorado, headed towards South Dakota and Bobby's to recuperate. Sam had been driving for hours, ever since New Mexico, but his patience never wore thin with his brother. Finally, he couldn't drive any more, and started looking for motels to crash at for the night.
"I could drive you know," Amelia suggested from the back seat, without any hope of her offer being taken up. "I'm totally rested up."
Sam glanced in the rear view mirror, considering it. "Dean would kill us both if he found out."
"I don't want to be in same car as drugged Dean any longer than you do," she muttered, but resigned herself to a long night awake in the motel while the brothers slept.
"Well, hopefully he doesn't wake up," Sam said, making his decision, and stopped the car on the side of the road so they could switch spots. "Drive safe," he said, once he was sprawled out in the back seat, already drifting off.
"Yep," Amelia said to no one in particular, and put the Impala in gear. The accelerator was touchy, or maybe that was Amelia's way of putting the car through its paces, but she made very good
time through Colorado. And into Nebraska.
She glanced back at Sam, who drooled against the window. Dean was passed out in the front seat. Perfect.
Amelia settled down in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the bench seat. The Impala was certainly different than her Firebird, but she could appreciate the car. And it could definitely roll down the highway.
"'Meel-ya?" Dean grunted, staring at her unevenly.
Crap! "Oh, you're awake," Amelia tried not to panic. "How're you feeling?"
"Ok?" he continued studying her. "Yer drivin'!"
"Yep," she used her best nonchalant voice. "Because Sam's sleeping, and you're sleeping."
"Wait," he pondered this. "I'm sleepin'?"
Dean Winchester did not react well to pain killers.
"Yes, Dean," Amelia told him in all seriousness, "you're sleeping. Now would you mind being quiet so I can concentrate on driving?"
Dean considered this for a few miles. "I'm sleepin' right now... But why're you driving' my baby?"
"You're sleeping, you can't drive."
Dean didn't talk for so long that Amelia thought he had fallen asleep again. "Yer ok, y'know. But that don't mean ya cahn jest drive mah baby," he slurred, half asleep. "Sammy... Sammy deserves some'un, y'know... Tough life. I dunno if it's you 'r not... 'E's a good kid. Won't be mad if ya... if ya... y'know..." Dean drifted off to sleep.
Dean wouldn't mind if her and Sam got together? Sam was nice, as far as men went, sweet, caring... She felt bad lying to him about the demon blood, about the nightmares, because he was so sweet. But he was still a hunter. He had given his life to chasing down monsters. At the least, she didn't want him to treat her any differently, at the worst she hoped he wouldn't help Dean kill her when the time came. No, she wouldn't get close, not now, that meant they would find out quicker, and she was fine with how things were at the moment. Amelia still considered that bit of information for the next few hundred miles, until she pulled off the interstate into a small town, and drove up in front of a certain house with a for-sale sign in the front yard. Three in the morning, beautiful. Probably would get arrested for suspicious behavior if nothing else.
Sam stirred in the backseat as she got out and walked up the sidewalk. Amelia took out her lockpicks, and soon had the deadbolt turned. She was working on the doorknob when she heard the door of the Impala creak.
"Amy?" Sam's sleepy voice called out. "What the hell are you doing?"
She glanced back. Sam had his feet on the curb and was climbing out of the car.
"Just stay back Sam," she warned him. "This is something I have to take care of myself. You'll just mess it up if you try to help."
"But," he took a good look at the house, and drew a sharp breath as he recognized it, "this is where your family was killed."
Amelia stepped inside and slammed the door. Darkness and silence pressed around her, and she took a few deep breaths to steady her heart before fishing out her flashlight and flipping it on. The carpet had been changed, no doubt due to the last carpet being soaked in blood. She took another breath, but this time she could see her breath hanging in the air. She hadn't been wrong, then. That distracted her from thinking about the bloody floor.
Dark laughter echoed through the house. Steeling her nerves, Amelia stepped forward, flashlight in one hand, salt in the other.
"Hey dad," she called out, sing-song and bitter. "I'm home."
A vague shape fluttered to her left, and she jerked the beam of her flashlight towards it. Nothing. She continued her walk through the dark house.
"Where'd ya go?" she prodded. "Not going to tell me what an awful daughter I am?"
She felt a sudden rush of frozen air on her back, then something tossed her forward and she crashed into the far wall with a grunt. Amelia spun, salt at the ready, and saw her father, glowering in the middle of the room, outline quivering in anger. Even on his ghost she could smell whiskey. He disappeared a second later, and a coffee table flew across the room.
"I crashed the Firebird," she shouted out, laying down some salt. "Burning heap of wreckage. Made it to 140 though. Pretty exciting-"
Her father's ghost appeared in front of her, and slapped her across the face with his cold hand.
"Stupid, worthless girl," the ghost roared, slapping her again, "you never appreciated what I did for you!"
Without a word, she took the beating, like she had taken every beating before.
"I worked for you, and you repaid me by making trouble with that stupid brother of yours, and running away when I was working!"
Again her father yelled in anger. Blood ran down Amelia's face, and she could taste blood in her mouth from a split lip. She dangled, limp, from his grasp, eye already swelling shut.
"What the hell did I do to deserve you?!"
He leaned forward, and tossed her against the wall again. Amelia slumped to the floor, and groaned, holding her head. Her father took a step forward, fact contorted in rage. Another step, and he was almost to her.
"I should have killed you a long time ago," he growled reaching out, and the salt line stopped him.
Amelia raised her head, with a bloody smile. "Got you," she spat out a mouthful of blood. "Try getting out of that, you bastard. Circle of pure salt." She tossed a handful at him, for good measure, and he screamed in pain before he disappeared disappearing.
She used the wall to stand up, dabbing at her bloody lip.
"Anyone else home?" she called out to the now quiet house.
After a few seconds, laughter again echoed around the house. Not the laughter of an angry ghost, though.
"Marie," Amelia called out. "Marie? Your aunt's here, where ya hiding?"
She heard tiny little footsteps, and stepped out into the hall. "I'm not going to hurt you Marie."
Suddenly a small shape rushed out of the darkness, and latched itself around Amelia's leg.
"Hey there," Amelia smiled down at her niece.
The little kid looked up at her, and beamed. "Auntie Amy!" the ghost hugged her leg, cuddling against her.
"Sorry I was gone for so long, kiddo," she told the little ghost. "Kind of creepy here, huh?"
Her niece shuddered, and disappeared.
"I'm sorry, Marie!" Amelia called out, and she heard tiny weeping from upstairs.
"I'm so sorry," she closed her eyes and took a breath to steady herself. "It's better this way."
She glanced around the house for one last time, her father, raging but trapped inside the salt line, her niece skittering around.
"Bye Marie," she said, softly. "And burn in hell, you bastard," she called out to her father, who still struggled against the salt.
Taking a breath, she raised her hands. Fire rushed out eagerly, attacking the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The wood took the flame, and soon crackled from the heat. She walked to the door, still burning, lit darkly by the hungry orange flames.
Releasing the flames which would burn the house to the ground on their own now, she tossed the front door open. She strode from the house, letting it burn behind her. Sam and Dean stood slack jawed by the Impala, and she would have joined them, never looking at the house again, had not a gentle, hesitant touch on her shoulder stopped her. More a question than a touch really, ready to pull away at the slightest sign it wasn't wanted. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stopped so short she nearly fell on her face. But the hand grabbed her shoulder, providing just enough pressure to keep her upright. It had to be a dream, but when had anything halfway decent ever happened in one of her dreams?
Amelia turned, heart fluttering like a dying thing, and there he stood. Paul, smiling at her sadly, hand hovering over her shoulder.
Not bothering to hold back her sob, she threw her arms around him, and then his arms were around her. The only touch in the whole world she had ever trusted.
"Hey Aim," he whispered, and she was five years old again and her father had just screamed at her for not the first time, and the only place in the world nothing could harm her was Paul's arms. He would hold her until she fell asleep, and would continue holding her until she woke up again.
His cold, ghost fingers wiped some of the blood from her mouth. "I tried to keep him from hurting people," he told her. "But I wasn't strong enough. That poor woman who moved in here got beat up."
She shook her head, her face buried in his shoulder, and she never, ever wanted to lose him again. "He's not hurting anyone ever again, Paul," she told him. "I've learned a few things since you... since you died."
Paul stroked her hair. "There there, little sister," he comforted her as she started sobbing again.
"I missed you, Paul," she told him, tears running down her face for the first time in forever. "God, I missed you so much."
"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm here. I can protect you now. You don't have to be scared."
Her breath hitched again. "You can't stay Paul," she reminded herself as much as him. "You have to move on."
"No!" he shouted, and he stepped back so he could look into her eyes. "I'm staying. I'm your brother, it's my job to protect you!"
"Paul," she clutched at him, trying to make him see. "I don't want you to go, but, I've seen ghosts. Whatever they start out as, they always turn!"
"I'm not leaving you!" he yelled, and his hand gripped so tight it left bruises on her arm. "Are they going to protect you?" he nodded to Sam and Dean, and his voice dropped, pleading with her. "They drink as much as he did, and you're scared of them, aren't you?"
He was picking up on her emotions, somehow, her fear that they would discover her secret. "I can help, whatever is happening, you know I'll help you no matter what." Paul wiped the tears off her face. "I'm your brother, I'm not changing into anything else."
For a few wild seconds, his hand cradling her face, Amelia let herself consider it. Her brother, always beside her, to wake her up if she was having a nightmare, to always have her back no matter what. Never alone. His ghost powers could be useful in a hunt. Nothing could hurt her without going through him first. Paul, whom she loved more than anything in the world. She could be safe, protected. God, she wanted him back more than anything in the world, but her arm throbbed.
But she shook her head, her heart shattering in her chest, and held out her arm, so the bruises that his ghost-fingers had left were clearly visible in the flickering light of the burning house.
"You're already changing Paul," she told him, miserably.
When he saw the bruises, his eyes went huge in shock, and he took a step back, holding up his hands. "Aim, I'm so sorry. I'm... I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I know," she whispered, mopping off her face wearily. "I know Paul."
She nodded to the house, where they could hear the angry roars of their father and the frightened screams of Marie as they burned.
"You need to be with your daughter," she laid a hand on Paul's cold arm. "She's scared. I'm going to be alright. I promise."
"Aim," Paul's face twisted up, and he pulled her in for one last desperate hug. "Aim."
"I love you Paul," she told him, and then his arms were gone and he was gone and she felt so, so cold. She opened her eyes and for a second saw him in the doorway, a darker silhouette against the fire raging inside the house. He smiled sadly over his shoulder, raised his hand, and the door flew shut.
For a second, Amelia battled the desire to bolt up the sidewalk and join him in the burning house. She couldn't lose him again, her brother, her other half. If he couldn't live, then she wouldn't live, and she would burn with him like she did in her dreams every night. But she forced herself to turn from the house, hands in tight, bloodless fists, and walked back to the Impala. She didn't say a word to Sam or Dean, just leaned up against the side of the car and watched the house burn. Her father's screams she enjoyed, and Marie's cries she could grit her teeth and bear, but when Paul started to scream, Amelia shook.
"You don't have to stay," Sam told her, and she nearly slapped him for that.
"It's my brother," she snapped. "My family."
He backed off after that, letting her be.
After a few minutes, she heard Dean beside her.
"Here."
She glanced at him, and the square bottle of whiskey he offered her.
"Dean," Sam warned, but with a bitter smile, she took the bottle from his hand.
And as her family burned, Amelia raised the bottle to the house in a sort of salute, and put it to her lips, drinking deep of the fiery liquid.
They let her stay a few more minutes, drinking the whiskey, until the screams stopped and the windows burst out.
"We have to go," Sam told her. "The fire department and police will be here any minute."
She let them take the bottle, and stow her back in the car. After Dean shut the door, Amelia curled up against the window, staring outside numbly.
"Amy-" Sam started, pulling the car out into the street. Tired, oh so tired, she turned from the window and cut him off with a single look.
"I kept an eye on the house, saw some weird activity, and decided to check it out when we were close, end of story. If you ever bring it up again," she warned, and not able to think of a proper threat, left it unfinished. Amelia returned to staring out her window as the wonderful numbing affects of the alcohol crept up on her.
"Yer face's bleedin'," Dean told her, reaching over the seat with a wet cloth. He dabbed off the cuts on her face. "Don't needa bandage," he declared, and flopped down on the seat again. Soon his snores filled the silence, and as the warmth of the whiskey spread over her, Amelia drifted off, too.
I did warn you! Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think. :)