A/N: I did a thing! I made my own picture thing! I'm proud of it. Woo.
It hadn't taken her long to reach Bobby's, but it certainly took her quite a while to get herself in the door.
She hadn't really kept in touch with Bobby. It must have been years since her and her father last spoke to him.
Would he accept her into his home? Would he be bitter? Would he chew her out?
Ophelia gnawed on her lip, gripping the ruddy (but still white) steering wheel of Wanda with an iron grip, engine still running and ready if she changed her mind.
She hadn't noticed the old man making his way to her car door until he knocked against the glass.
The window on the driver's side usually stuck, so instead of trying to crank it down, she turned the keys to kill the engine and opened the door.
She stood behind the opened car door, her hand resting on the window.
She stood silent for a few long moments, looking the old man over - as Bobby was no-doubt doing the same to her.
"I'll be triple-dog-damned," he muttered to himself. "Ophelia?"
She bit her lip again before stepping away from the car and closing the car door with a loud creak.
Bobby hadn't changed a damn bit, save for a small patch of gray on his chin.
Ophelia smiled the biggest smile she could (which wasn't impressive), and croaked, "Hey, Bobby."
She saw Bobby glance at Wanda and back to her, eyes a bit wide.
"Why don't you come in, doll. You look dead."
She slept.
She went upstairs and slept.
She didn't know how long, but it felt like a small forever.
All she knew was that she woke up to the sound of an engine rumbling up a gravel driveway.
She didn't move from the bed, though. She only rolled over to her back, tore her tight pants off under the blanket, and rolled to her other side, tucking the blanket over her shoulder again.
She faded into a dream.
She was unaware of where she was, but she was in a chair.
It wasn't too long until she heard a smooth voice call her name.
She couldn't look around, though, as her head seemed rooted in it's place laying uncomfortably against her own shoulder.
She could only stare ahead, but she could just make out where she was.
It was obviously a motel room. The shabby carpet was grimy, and the wallpaper was peeling at the baseboard.
She felt a coarse hand softly brush against her shoulder, which she now realized was bare.
Whereas she had just been in a chair, she was now laying on her back on a bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling of the motel room.
A shadowed figure was beside her, his face and features silhouetted entirely from her eyesight.
She moved her head to the side to see clearer, but despite the limited vision, his face was unfathomable in the darkness.
She felt her pulse speed up as the figure leaned down to her face. Was it fear or anticipation? She couldn't tell, but she knew that she felt a knot in her stomach - that feeling you get when you need to violently move your body to free yourself of the rock settling in your stomach.
The figure kept leaning further and further, until he was face-to-face with her. She could feel his breath brush against her face in short, controlled puffs.
The figure got up slightly, and positioned himself above her, and brought his lips to her neck, just under her jaw.
She jolted awake with a yelp, clapping a hand on her neck. She sat up quickly, breathing heavily, silently willing away the moist teeth marks she felt on her neck.
She bolted up from her bed, narrowly missing her discarded shoes, and threw open the door.
She was cold and tired, her exposed legs sprouting goosebumps in the drafty Singer house. She was trembling. She didn't know why, but she knew it wasn't from the cold.
She swiftly made her way to the bathroom and flicked the light on, not bothering to close the door behind her. She cleared her tangled hair from one side of her neck to the other, and desperately searched for the mark that she still felt.
Nothing, however, was present to account for the ache she still felt there.
With a slightly distressed exhale, she steadied her hands on the sink and tried to calm her breathing.
She didn't even hear the sound of footsteps on the creaky stairs over the roaring sound of her own heartbeat in her ears.
It wasn't until she looked up in the mirror and spotted a very confused and wide-eyed Sam Winchester that she audibly yelped. Her arms jerked and, like a cliché horror scene from the fifties, one of her hands landed on her heart as if she were a swooning actress in a movie of the aforementioned era.
She tried to voice her frustration at being so startled, but voted that closing the door of the bathroom was a better course of action, as she seemed to fully realize that she wasn't fully clothed.
"Ophelia?" she heard Sam behind the door. "Are you okay?" He knocked once.
Embarrassed, and - with a quick peek in the mirror to confirm - very much crimson, she held her frozen fingers on her ears in a vain effort to cool them.
"Sam, what the fuck are you doing here?" She barked instead, proud that it was void of a flustered tone or cracking words.
Sam was silent on the other side, and that aggravated her. She peeked in the mirror again. After confirming her complexion was the normal color again, she opened the door a crack.
Sam was still there, evidentially, as he backed away immediately from the door, still wide-eyed.
"Can you answer," Ophelia snapped. "Or at least go back downstairs so I can get back to my room?"
Sam retreated.
With a huff, Ophelia brought open the door and stomped into her room.