A/N: Did I say I'd write more? LoL, I meant less. *facepalm*
Her eyelids all of a sudden flickered open, and she could see the ceiling of the Impala again.
The car was lolling to a stop.
She lifted her head to see she was in the Impala... That Dean was turning the key out of the ignition, and Sam was stretching.
She watched the brothers get out of the car.
She heard Dean ask if her father was here, glancing at what he assumed was Wanda.
She heard herself respond that her father was gone, tonelessly and void of any emotion.
To be honest, she felt like a specter. She felt as though her actions were not her own. She felt she was just there to oversee what her body did. She watched herself depart the silently baffled men and make her way to her room.
She opened the door, and stopped at the threshold looking in the room, almost hopeful.
Hoping it would look different.
Hoping he would be there and say, "Thought you took off again, kid".
Hoping she could hug him for the first time since she was thirteen.
Hoping against hope that she could've had the chance to tell him she loved him.
Taking a large breath, she felt her feet become lead. She didn't want to walk into the room.
She reluctantly closed the door behind her and took a single step into their room.
Her eyes made immediate contact with the note, right where she had previously found it - under the only lit lamp in the room, placed there as neatly as possible.
Then, all she did was stare at it.
She could just make out his grammatical mistakes from here. The "you're" and the "too", despite the mess of his large, strong scrawling handwriting. She could see the words "I'm not afraid to die" clearly, as they were in their own paragraph, separated from the other words.
It was hard to discern how long she had been staring at it, but she jumped out of her staring contest when two soft knocks at her heavy door echoed in the dull, empty room.
She turned and opened the door slightly, greeted by the hulking figure of Sam.
"Yeah?" she greeted tonelessly.
"Uh," was Sam's response. "I-We... What do you mean your by saying your father's gone?"
She held up a finger, left the door, and b-lined to the two-page note.
She didn't read it. She hardly wanted to touch it, but she grabbed the papers and stared at them again, anyway.
She was stood between the two beds, rooted to her spot, staring.
She decided she needed to see the words again...
She took a small, stammering breath and forced herself to focus on the words in her hand.
"I love you."
"I'm not afraid to die."
She hadn't realized she had held her breath until she felt her nose flare as her lungs swiftly took in a breath.
She looked up and her eyes connected immediately with Sam's.
He stared back, wide-eyed, silent, and obviously very confused.
With another deep breath, she calmly walked towards the giant and grabbed his wrist.
She roughly placed the two pages into his open hand and crunched his fingers over the papers, causing the note to crumple.
"Take it," she said roughly. The desperation in her tone was obvious, though. "I don't need it."
She gave Sam a light push and nodded to the door of her room, refusing to relive the previous version of this moment - collapsed, weak, and sobbing like some lost child in front of him.
So she sent Sam away, she shut the door, and then she sat on the bed her dad often chose on hunts - the one closest to the door - and wept.
"Well, this sucks ass..." Dean said in disbelief, his beer on their nightstand, and Sam sitting across from him.
"Yeah," Sam replied thickly.
The brothers shared a heavy silence.
It seemed like a long silence before Dean spoke.
"Should we give this back to her, or..."
Sam couldn't answer - he didn't know. "She told me to take it," he replied with a small shrug.
"But, hold on..." Dean began, changing subjects as it occurred to him, "Wait, how did she know he was 'gone'-," he airquoted, "-before even stepping into the damn room?"
Sam looked off to the side for a moment, almost considering if he should tell Dean about what he noticed in the car.
"She... She seemed to nod off and wake back up - like - three times," Sam admitted. "The second time it happened, though, she looked like she had seen a ghost. You didn't see it, but she looked like she was about to cry."
Dean only looked at Sam like that was ridiculous.
"Sammy, I don't think that-"
"No, listen to me, Dean..." Sam interrupted. He hesitated, though, not wanting to bring up his visions to Dean again.
"I... It looked like she was waking up from... well, visions."
Dean became very still, very quickly, and stared at Sam.
"Is she one of 'em?" he asked very seriously, his eyes unblinking. "One of Azazel's 'special people'?"
"I-I don't know, Dean," Sam tried to say, but Dean spoke over him.
"If she looked like she was gettin' visions, don't you think that's a little odd to just find out on the road?" he asked, shaking his head. "She might be involved in our problem, like how you are."
Sam cringed lightly, shaking his head at Dean's point.
"Dean, I don't think so," he argued quietly. "Dean, we should at least ask before we go assuming how and if her mother died."
Dean shook his head at Sam before begrudgingly nodding, taking an angry swig of his beer.
She woke up in slow-motion.
Her eyes were bleary when she opened them.
She could practically hear her eyes move under the lids, they were so dry and puffy.
Her hair felt flat and heavy, and her body felt immovable.
Get your ass up, Ophelia, we have shit to hunt, she heard. She sat up instinctually, groaning mutely at her body's protests.
Shower's yours, I've been up for an hour. You look like shit, kid.
She bit back a remark, and stumbled to the bathroom, pulling off her clothes as she went.
Her boots gave her trouble, though, and she gave an angry yelp when she crashed down on the filthy bathroom tile.
She lay there, given up, looking horrible... Her pants to her knees, her shirt off and discarded, one of her boots on, and one of her socks off.
She could hardly even pick herself up, but she sat against the dirty toilet, and unlaced the boot.
When the boot finally agreed with her and slipped off, she stood, taking her pants off all the way.
She threw the pants out of the small, filthy room and caught her own gaze in the mirror.
It felt like she was looking at herself for the first time in years.
Her face was gaunt, her stomach was toned, yet some of her ribs were visible, and her collar bone was the most prominent feature of her body. Her arms were small, but toned from a lifetime of lifting salt and guns and other various weapons. Her black hair was long, and currently very greasy and limp. Her eyes seemed dull and lifeless.
With a deep sigh, she heard her father chuckle, How can you even shoot the guns I give ya.
"Easy," she spat at her reflection. "You don't gotta be fat to pull a trigger right," she jabbed, unclasping her bra.
She turned on the shower, undressing from any other article of clothing she missed, and washed the previous night off of her.