Let me in your room
I've seen the rest of you
But I know there's something more in your room
I'm right outside your door
Show me things you've never shown before
…
You can be yourself
You don't have to hide from me, I won't tell
I know everyone you've ever trusted has let you down
And you don't want to come out
And show me, show me
…
You know every part of me
I let you in, I let you see
All the dark and every color of my room
Let me do that for you
And tell me all about your past
Why you painted those walls black
Baby, it's all right, you're safe in here with me
Open up so I can see
A few pictures from your past
And those walls you painted black
And the secrets that you keep under your bed
An unopened letter from your dad
A poster of your favorite band
It don't matter, I'll take every part of you
All you have to do is let me in your room
Halestorm – In Your Room
For the first time in a long while, I was reading a book that didn't involve spirits or demons. Nothing supernatural, really. Except maybe the main character's physic. The paperback had been sitting at the bottom of my bag for months, slowly collecting dust and curling at the edges. Since this morning was quiet, I sat cross-legged on my and Dean's bed and decided to crack it open and get lost in another world for a little bit. It had gotten to a rather… suggestive part of the story. I was so engrossed, pinching my bottom lip between my thumb and forefinger, so when Dean started talking, all I could hear was what adults in Charlie Brown cartoons sounded like: wah, wah, wah, wah.
A balled-up napkin hit my arm and landed on the open book. I looked up at Dean, unable to hide my annoyance. "What?"
"Are you listening to me?"
"I'm reading." I scrunched up the napkin and hurled it back.
Dean watched it hit his chest and tumble to the floor. "Well, I've been cruising some websites, and I think I found a few candidates for our next gig," he presumably repeated. I vaguely remember hearing something similar intermingling with the mumbles my brain turned his voice into while focused on the far too in-depth way this author was describing the male leads' abs.
I dog-eared the corner of the page and tossed the book aside. "Go ahead."
"A fishing trawler found off the coast of Cali—its crew vanished. And some cattle mutilations in West Texas."
"You interrupted me for some missing fishermen and dead cows?"
"The missing fishermen could be a spirit, and the dead cows could be werewolves," he argued indignantly.
I huffed, blowing away a stray lock of my bangs that had fallen into my face. He was right, of course. I pursed my lips, contemplating whether or not I'd tell him so. "Could be," I finally said. That's all he'd get, I decided.
"Could be." He smiled slyly, knowing precisely what I was thinking. "And–" Dean's eyes drifted across the room to Sam, whose nose was buried into a small notepad, scribbling furiously. "Hey," he called him. "Am I boring you, too, with this hunting evil stuff?"
"No. I'm listening," Sam mumbled, rolling the pen in the air as he added, "Keep going."
"A Sacramento man shot himself in the head. Three times." Dean held up three fingers for emphasis.
"Three?" I repeated in shock.
"Yup," he confirmed, popping the p.
"Well, that's way more interesting than missing fishermen and dead cows," I joked, and Dean's head bobbed in a playful nod.
Despite his claims to be listening, Sam hadn't made a single gesture that would indicate he had heard any of this. Dean waved a hand in the air, attempting to get his attention—still nothing. "Any of these things blowing up your skirt, pal?"
"I've seen this." Sam waved the notepad and launched from the bed, going to his bag to rummage through it.
"Seen what?" I asked. He pulled out John's journal, plucking a photograph from the interior pocket, and held it next to his drawing.
Dean drank from his cup of coffee, watching Sam under lowered brows. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I know where we have to go next," Sam announced breathlessly, like he'd just run a marathon.
"Where?"
"Back home—back to Kansas."
Dean's breath skidded, but he scoffed to cover it. "Okay, random. Where'd that come from?"
"Alright, uh–" Sam brought the items in his hand over to the table. I craned my neck to see. "This photo was taken in front of our old house, right?" He put down and pointed to the picture of John, Mary, and the boys from the journal. "The house where Mom died?"
That photo was one I always found myself going back to since we'd recovered John's journal. They all looked so happy, so full of life. Mary, with her sky-blue eyes and long, tousled blonde hair, was every bit as beautiful as John described in his drunken stupors. 'The Winchesters; John, Mary, Dean, and Little Sammy' was written on the back. It was difficult, but I tried not to linger on the date scribbled in the corner. October twenty-fifth, nineteen-eighty-three. Just a week before their lives crumbled. Sam slapped the notepad down, forcing my attention from the picture to the page. It was a drawing of a tree, eerily similar to the one in the photo's background.
Dean tentatively picked up the picture of his family. "Yeah? What about it?" he answered, unsure where Sam was going with all this.
"And it didn't burn down, right? I mean, not completely; they rebuilt it, right?"
"I guess so, yeah. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Okay, look, this is gonna sound crazy, but… the people who live in our old house—I think they might be in danger."
"Why on earth would you think that?" I wondered.
"It's just, um..." Sam avoided eye contact with me. "Just trust me on this, okay?" he implored, crossing the room to his bag again. He wasn't packing; there was nothing left to look for. He just wanted a distraction, but we deserved more than a simple trust me.
"Wait, whoa," Dean stood, "trust you?"
"Yeah."
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and planted my feet on the floor. "This is a little sudden, don't you think, Sam?"
"It's weak, is what she's trying to say," Dean said blatantly. I couldn't argue; he was right. It wasn't enough. "You gotta give us a little bit more than that."
"I can't really explain it, is all," Sam argued feebly.
"Well, tough. We're not going anywhere until you do."
Sam looked to me for help, but I wouldn't give it. I folded my arms, proverbially standing my ground beside Dean. Picking up and traveling all the way to Kansas on a whim wouldn't happen all because he claimed it needed to. Not without an explanation. "I have these…" Sam sighed. "Nightmares."
"I've noticed."
"Nightmares about what?" I asked.
"Things."
"That's real specific," Dean complained.
"Well, sometimes… they come true," Sam spoke so quietly that I wasn't sure I heard him correctly. His nightmares came true? That was impossible unless you were psychic, and they were rare. There's no way Sam could be… that.
Dean released a heavy breath. "Come again?"
"Look. I dreamt about Jessica's death for days before it happened."
All the air in my lungs leaked like a stuck balloon, and my folded arms loosened, falling to my lap. "You did?" I asked hesitantly. Sam nodded, jaw clenched tightly. I found myself angry at something over and done with. That's why Bloody Mary came for him? That's bullshit.
Either Dean didn't buy it, or he was trying his hardest not to. "People have weird dreams, man," he said, sitting heavily on the bed beside me. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence."
"No, I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire—everything, and I didn't do anything about it 'cause I didn't believe it." Sam's emotions built. I thought they'd explode, but he reigned them back. "And now I'm dreaming about that tree, about our house, and about some woman inside screaming for help. I mean, that's where it all started. This has to mean something, right?" Sam waited for an answer, but Dean remained silent, and my voice was stuck in my throat. I didn't know what to say. It felt like my spirit had left my body and hovered over the room. Worse than his revelation being terrifying, he kept it from us for so long.
Dean finally mustered a reply. "I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know, Dean?" Sam questioned, hurrying to sit across from us. "This woman might be in danger! I mean, this might even be the thing that killed Mom and Jessica!"
"Alright, just slow down, would you?" Dean abruptly stood, jostling the mattress and snapping me back into my body. At the table, he collected his thoughts before turning to Sam. "I mean, first, you tell us that you've got the Shining? And then you tell me that I've gotta go back home? Especially when…" he trailed off, choking up. I wanted to go to him, but ultimately, I knew it would only make him more uncomfortable—so I stayed where I was.
"When what?" Sam prompted innocently.
"When I swore to myself that I would never go back there." Dean swallowed his emotions and turned away to stare at the photograph on the table. When Sam opened his mouth to say something else, I reached across the gap between the beds and tapped his knee. Thankfully, he understood I was asking for space and went outside. I waited until the door was shut before joining Dean, gently running my fingertips across his shoulders, trying to offer comfort however I could. "Why are you not freaked out that he thinks he can see the future?" he asked.
"I mean, I am-!"
Dean stiffened with trepidation. "If you say but, so help me, God," he pleaded desperately.
"Okay, I won't." I bit my lip, and he scoffed. Comforting him with lies would be useless for everyone. "It could be true, Dean."
"So, you believe him?"
"There are psychics all over the world."
Dean shook his head. "Sam isn't psychic!" he argued and stomped to the foot of the bed, where he paced back and forth.
On his third pass, I reached out and grabbed his arm. "Just calm down, okay?"
"I am calm," he insisted in the least calm voice. I lifted a challenging eyebrow. He sucked his teeth, conceding. "Sam can't be psychic."
"Because you really think he can't, or because it scares you?"
"Uh, yeah, it scares the shit out of me," he admitted, not missing a beat.
"Me too, but are we really going to sit here and say it's a coincidence he dreamt about Jessica dying?" I asked. Dean didn't answer and dragged his teeth across his bottom lip in thought. I could see the answer in his eyes—no. We couldn't pretend it didn't happen. I took his hand. "Listen, whatever we do here, it's your call. If you don't want to go back there, we don't go."
"Even if his nightmares come true?" Dean asked in a shaky voice. "You're not worried about those people?"
"I'm worried about you. Would you be okay?"
Dean swallowed audibly, jaw clenching so tightly it appeared painful. "I guess we'll find out," he stated, trying to walk away. I gripped his hand tighter to keep him beside me.
"No, we will not. If you can't do it, it doesn't happen. It's that simple."
"Sam's gonna have a conniption if we don't. And you," he threw out the hand I wasn't holding, "believe him. We gotta go."
"Fine. But I don't know if you should be going back there. You're not ready for it, and that's okay."
"So, you're saying–?"
"Sam and I will go. It'll be nothing. We won't even be gone a day, and I won't let him drive the car," I added playfully, hoping to make him smile. It worked, but barely.
"I can't let you do that."
"You can."
For a moment, he looked as though he was considering it until he shook his head. "No. I'm coming," he decided weakly, breaking away from me to collect our things. The vibrancy that had been in his eyes all morning dulled. We were miles away, and the very idea of going was already doing this to him. I shouldn't be surprised; I knew how much he feared that house, that town… hell, the whole damn state. I promised myself that whether something was happening or not, by the end of tomorrow, we'd leave Kansas. A hunter sacrifices a lot to save perfect strangers, but I wasn't willing to sacrifice him.
At our last stop, about an hour away, I offered to drive. I expected a no—that Dean would want to be in control of something—but, surprisingly, he said yes, tossed me the keys, and got into the passenger seat. Sam climbed into the back, and we set off. Over the years, I've always wondered what the place that shaped John before he hardened was like and if I could get a glimpse of the person he was before by being here. Instead of the quaint, small-town magic most people probably felt, all I could sense was the heartache that overwhelmed Dean. I couldn't get past his sadness far enough to see its beauty, and my silent wish to visit this city was eradicated. The lump in my throat only grew the closer we got. And when I turned down the street, it blocked my airways altogether. This was it. The house. The one I'd only gotten a glimpse of in a picture but felt like I knew nearly everything about. I almost regretted being behind the wheel until I caught a glimpse of the panic-stricken look in Dean's eyes as he stared at the place he briefly called home. What I was going through couldn't compare. Still, I hurried to put the car in park before accidentally careening into the neighbor's living room.
"You gonna be alright, man?" Sam asked his brother.
Dean's fern-green irises had nearly turned black from his widened pupils. "Let me get back to you on that," he replied. Unlike the man sitting beside me, Sam was unphased by the home across the street. In fact, he was eager to hop out of the car. This was just another building to him—another family to save. As far as he was concerned, nothing tied him here.
I touched Dean's shoulder, and he jumped, creaking the Impala's leather seat. "Maybe we should go," I suggested. "Sam can handle it."
"No. I'm fine," he replied hesitantly. I wanted to argue that he was the exact opposite of fine but instead requested that he look at me while I let my hand run down his arm. He pried his eyes from the house's upper right room and met mine.
"Whenever you want to leave, we're gone. I don't care what's happening. I'll drag you out if I have to."
He cracked a smile. It didn't matter how small, as long as it was there. "I know."
"You ready?"
"No," he answered honestly and filled his lungs with a calming breath. "Let's go."
By the rear end of the Impala, Sam waited for us to cross the street. Walking up the small path to the front door, I found my eyes drifting to the bright green front lawn, trying to conjure images of John and a tiny Dean playing outside. I wanted to—but it was impossible for me to imagine John as that type of father. Finally reaching the dark red door, Sam was the one to knock. A woman a few inches taller than me answered, her blonde hair thrown up in a disheveled ponytail. "Yes?" she asked, suspicious of the strangers on her doorstep.
"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," Dean smiled politely. "But we're with the Federal–"
"I'm Sam Winchester," he let the truth tumble from his mouth. "This is my brother, Dean, and his girlfriend, Tori. Dean and I—we used to live here. We were just driving by, and we were wondering if we could come see the old place," Sam finished with a tentative smile.
"Winchester…" she trailed off in thought. "Yeah, that's so funny. You know, I think I found some of your photos the other night."
"You did?" Dean asked, surprised.
"Yeah, come on in." She stepped aside for us to enter. "I'm Jenny."
"Nice to meet you," Sam said, being the first to walk into the house. Maybe it was because I knew what happened here—and cared so deeply for the people it happened to—I couldn't just stroll in. I hesitated. It wasn't pronounced enough for Jenny to notice, but Dean did. He put a hand on the small of my back and guided me through the doorway. The last thing I wanted right now was for him to help me; it should be the other way around. But judging by the look of relief on his face when he touched me, that small gesture did something for the both of us.
"Do you live around here?" Jenny asked.
"No, we're on a road trip," Sam replied. "Just passing through."
Most of her and Sam's small talk faded into the background as we ventured through the small foyer and into a hallway leading to the kitchen. I wondered if it had changed since they lived here. The haunted look in Dean's eyes answered my question. Not much. The boys and I stopped at the end of the kitchen table where a little girl—no older than eight—with long brown hair sat, pencil in hand and several papers strewn around the surface. Across the room was a playpen with an excitable toddler inside bouncing on his feet and shouting, "Juice!" Over and over again.
Dean leaned into my side for support. As much as he tried to hide it, nervousness steadily built in him.
"That's Ritchie. He's kind of a juice junkie," Jenny introduced and grabbed a sippy cup out of the fridge to give to her son, saying, "But, hey, at least he won't get scurvy," in a playful voice. He chuckled and happily plopped down, happily drinking his juice. Jenny returned to the table, brushing a hand through her daughter's hair. "Sari, this is Tori and Sam, and Dean. They used to live here."
"Hi," Sari smiled shyly. Sam returned her smile and said hi.
"Hi, Sari," I said.
Dean waved at her and further slid his hand around my waist beneath my jacket. "So, you just moved in?" he asked Jenny.
"Yeah," she replied, pushing her bangs behind her ear. "From Wichita."
"You got family here, or… ?"
Jenny's lighthearted expression fell slightly before she picked it back up, "I just… needed a fresh start, that's all." She planted her hands on her hips triumphantly. "So, new town, new job—I mean, as soon as I find one," she snickered and busied herself by picking up the empty glass in front of Sari to bring to the sink. "New house."
"So, how are you liking it so far?" Sam asked, looking at the woman in awe.
"Well, uh, all due respect to your childhood home–" Jenny turned and leaned against the counter. "I mean, I'm sure you had lots of happy memories here," she quickly added. Dean let out a sharp breath you couldn't have heard unless you were standing as close as I was. I loosely crossed my arms so that I could subtly squeeze his fingers resting on my hip. "But this place has its issues." Jenny finished sheepishly.
"What kind of issues?" I asked unenthusiastically. It could be nothing… but when is it ever?
"Well, it's just getting old. Like the wiring, you know? We've got flickering lights almost hourly."
"Oh, that's too bad," Dean said with a tight smile. "What else?"
"Sink's backed up; there's rats in the basement." She stopped herself in realization when Dean pulled a face and smiled apologetically, wringing her hands. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to complain."
"No," he shook his head, unoffended. Although being here caused him discomfort, he slid back into the role of a hunter with ease. "Have you seen the rats, or have you just heard scratching?"
"It's just the scratching, actually."
"Mom?" Sari turned in her chair, facing Jenny, who knelt beside her daughter. "Ask them if it was here when they lived here." Jenny sighed but gave a permissive nod.
"What, Sari?" Sam asked the unexpectedly skittish little girl.
"The thing in my closet," she expressed adamantly. Something in her closet? I thought to myself. Mary's death, Sam's nightmares, now this? It couldn't be a simple coincidence.
"Oh, no, baby, there was nothing in their closets," Jenny told her and peered up at the boys hopefully. "Right?"
"Right. No, of course not," Sam reassured. Dean shook his head but otherwise remained stuck in his thoughts.
Jenny rubbed Sari's back. "She had a nightmare the other night," she explained.
"I wasn't dreaming." Sari gripped her pencil tighter. "It came into my bedroom, and it was on fire."
It certainly wasn't easy hearing something like that and not reacting. I kept my expression as neutral as possible, hoping I only felt all the blood drain from my face but that it didn't show. A figure… on fire in this house?
Jenny sighed, torn between comforting her daughter or worrying about her mental well-being. "It was just a dream, honey," she tried to convince her.
Sari huffed a quiet "No, it wasn't" and returned to her papers.
Sporting an awkward smile, Jenny pushed to her feet. "Is there any part of the house you'd like to see?"
"Actually–" I checked my watch for show. My mind was so frazzled I couldn't retain either hand's position. "We should be heading out," I said. Sam shot me a frustrated look that I promptly ignored. What the hell did he want us to do, start a full-on investigation right here and now? No, we had to leave these suffocating walls first. Jenny seemed more than happy to get rid of us, and I didn't blame her; she was under a lot of stress, and the last thing she needed was us busting out the old: "Your house is haunted" card.
"You hear that?" Sam asked eagerly, not even two seconds after Jenny shut the door. "A figure on fire."
"And that woman, Jenny, that was the woman in your dreams?" Dean asked, throwing a disgruntled hand at the home shrinking behind us.
"Yeah, and you hear what she was talking about?" Sam spoke fast and fervently, closing in on Dean's personal space and squishing me between their bodies. So much for fleeing that suffocating feeling, I thought. "Scratching, flickering lights—both signs of a malevolent spirit."
"Alright." I used my forearm to push his chest and give us space. "Calm down, Sam."
He scoffed breathlessly. "Calm down?"
"Yes, calm down!"
"How–?" he questioned, looking at his brother when I didn't respond. "Dean?"
"I'm just freaked out that your weirdo visions are coming true," Dean mumbled swiftly, his panicked eyes fixated on the Impala.
"Well, forget about that for a minute." Sam tossed his brother's concerns away as though they were trash. "The thing in the house, do you think it's the thing that killed Mom and Jessica?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I mean, has it come back–?" Sam overtook Dean to stop his stride, "Or has it been here the whole time?"
"Maybe it's something else entirely, Sam," Dean said heatedly, his composure crumbling with exhaustion. "We don't know yet."
"Well, those people are in danger, Dean. We have to get them out of that house."
"And we will."
"No, I mean now."
"Now?" I folded my arms incredulously. Not only was he becoming far too pushy, but he was also ignoring his brother's grief, and it got under my skin. "What are you gonna do, run in there and tell a stressed-out single mother that her house is haunted and we're the Ghostbusters?"
"Yeah, maybe."
"That's ridiculous, Sam. You're not thinking clearly, okay? We need time."
"Time for what?"
"To find out what we're up against."
"Yeah, well, while we're doing that, they could get hurt!"
"Okay, Sam, what are you gonna do?" Dean interjected bitingly. "You got a story that she's gonna believe?"
Ultimately, Sam quieted down as he allowed reality to set in. "Then what are we supposed to do?"
"We just gotta chill out. That's all. Do the same thing we always do; figure it out."
This time, when Dean jumped into the car, he got behind the wheel. Sam gestured for me to sit in the passenger seat, so I did and left the back to him. He didn't take his eyes off the house until it was well out of view. At the nearest gas station—a small place with two gas pumps and a tiny, run-down convenience store attached—we stretched our legs while the Impala filled with fuel. I leaned against the driver's side door, staring at an old wasp nest in the corner of the overhang. How long had it been there? It looked pretty old.
Dean spoke out of nowhere. "If this was any other kind of job, what would we do?"
Sam sat on the trunk, staring out into the near-empty street. "We'd try to figure out what we were dealing with. We'd dig into the history of the house."
"Exactly. Except this time, we already know what happened."
"Yeah, but how much do we know? I mean, how much do you actually remember?"
"About that night, you mean?"
Sam nodded, his expression gentle. "Yeah."
Dean's eyes flickered to mine before hitting the Impala. It'd taken time before he opened up and told me about that night. If it were hard for him to talk about ten years ago, it certainly wasn't any easier now. "Not much," he finally answered. "I remember the fire… the heat," he swallowed hard, "and then I carried you out the front door."
The whole thing was sad, but that detail always broke my heart the most. Dean, who was just a child himself, was responsible for carrying his baby brother to safety. From the moment I heard it, that image never left me. I wished someone could've been there to take that burden from him.
"You did?" Sam asked, stunned.
"Yeah, what, you never knew that?"
Sam's expression remained unreadable despite the layer of sadness in his voice. "No."
Dean cleared his throat and leaned against the hood beside his brother. "And, well, you know Dad's story as well as I do. Mom was… on the ceiling. And whatever put her there was long gone by the time Dad found her."
"And you're sure he never had a theory about it?" I wondered. I posed the same question to John before, but all I got back was a simple "No." He rarely talked about Mary, and whenever he did, it put him in an even lower mood than normal. It was a topic I strayed away from unless someone else brought it up first.
"If he did, he kept it to himself," Dean said. "God knows me and Sam asked him enough times."
"Well, if we want any chance of figuring out what's going on now, then we have to try and get to the bottom of what happened back then. Maybe…" I trailed off, unsure how either would take the thought swimming around my head. "Maybe it's the same thing."
Predictably, Sam agreed. "It could be."
Dean was a bit more reserved and took the tactical approach. "We'll talk to Dad's friends, neighbors, people who were there at the time."
I nodded in agreement, and the plan was set. As I went to remove the gas pump from the tank, Sam spoke again, but quietly, this time. "Does this feel like just another job to you?"
Since I was behind Dean, I couldn't see his face, but his tense shoulders drooped inward. "I'll be right back," he mumbled, standing up. "I gotta go to the bathroom."
As he passed, he gave me what he probably hoped to be a reassuring smile, but looked far more like a strained grimace. I almost said something but stopped myself and watched him go. Dean breathed differently in this down; his chest didn't rise and fall with its usual ease. Everything was strained, and I couldn't do a damn thing to alleviate it.
"You're gonna follow him, aren't you?" Sam asked.
"Yeah," I replied and instructed, "Stay here." I followed Dean's bootprints around the side of the building where the bathrooms were, carefully dodging stray car tires and puddles, knowing a splash would alert him to my presence. Just as I anticipated, Dean was standing outside. What I wasn't expecting was his phone in an iron grip pressed tightly to his ear. I hurriedly ducked back a stack of shredded tires and oil barrels.
"Dad?" he cracked. Was he calling his father? And John answered? I couldn't even count how many voicemails and text messages we'd sent over the course of the last six months, only to be left in the dust. "I know I've left you messages before," Dean continued, and my hope sank. Of course, John wasn't on the other end of that call. I feared he never would be. "I don't even know if you'll get them. But Tori and me, we're with Sam. And we're in Lawrence. And there's something in our old house. I don't know if it's the thing that killed Mom or not, but..." he stopped, trying to keep himself together as his voice broke.
My heart shattered into pieces. Knowing he needed space to do this did nothing to quell my desire to sprint across the lot. "I don't know what to do," Dean said, voice thick with emotion. "So, whatever you're doing, if you could get here. Please. I need your help, Dad."
The desperation in his voice forced unpermitted tears to roll down my cheeks, dripping onto the front of my jacket. Dean wiped away a few stray tears of his own and stuffed his phone into his pocket. I no longer cared about keeping a low profile; I couldn't stand idly by and let him hurt alone. I moved out from behind the tires, uncaring where my feet landed, and wrapped my arms around his torso. He stiffened for a moment before turning and melting into my touch.
"Were you listening the whole time?" he asked with a hint of trepidation but still wrapped his arms around me.
I nodded against his chest. "Sorry."
"I shoulda known," he chuckled lightly.
"Yeah," I snickered. "Probably."
Dean gently lifted my face upward so he could look into my eyes. "What am I gonna do with you?"
"Nothing we have time for right now," I quipped, but my playful air didn't stay long when the tear stains on his cheeks glimmered in the setting sun. "Maybe we need to rethink this… hunt." I barely got the word out. This didn't feel like a hunt. It felt like scraping at old yet unhealed wounds.
"And do what? Leave?"
"We said we would."
"If it turned out there was nothing. But something's going on." He fixed his eyes above my head. Something steeled his resolve. "We gotta try."
"Okay," I relented. "But if all this gets to be too much—"
"You'll be the first to know."
"Good," I said with faux authority. "I love you."
Dean's lips pulled into a lopsided grin. "Me too," he said, bending down to kiss me.
We returned to the Impala, where Sam patiently awaited, and set off for our first stop: a mechanic shop John used to co-own called Guenther's Auto Repair. The now solo owner, Mr. Guenther, led us through the maze of cars being worked on. The garage smelled of stale oil, iron, rusted paint, and burning rubber—the kind so strong it clung to your clothes. All the grease splatter reminded me of times I watched and helped Dean work on the Impala. Initially, he had guidance from his father, but eventually, I think he got even better at fixing it than John. Dean loved it, and I loved to have an excuse to be near him. It was obvious of me, but he never seemed to catch on. If he did, he didn't show it. I even learned a little along the way. As we got older, my reason for sticking around whenever he ducked under the hood didn't change. I just wanted to be close to him and the things he loved.
"So you and John Winchester, you used to own this garage together?" Dean asked the dark-haired man clad in an oil-stained work shirt.
"Yeah. We used to, a long time ago. Matter of fact, it must be… twenty years since John disappeared." Mr. Guenther fidgeted with the tool in his hands. "So, why are the cops interested all of a sudden?"
"We're re-opening some of our unsolved cases, and the Winchester disappearance is one of 'em," Dean explained breezily.
"Oh." He nodded. "Well, what do you wanna know about John?"
Everything, I thought. "Anything you remember," I said. "Something that stuck out to you before he went missing?"
"Well… he was a stubborn bastard, I remember that," Mr. Guenther let out a huffing laugh, happily reminiscing about his old friend. I found it hard not to smile along with him. "And, uh, whatever the game, he hated to lose, you know? It's that whole Marine thing. But he sure loved Mary. And he doted on those kids."
Dean quieted upon hearing the person his father used to be. I could almost see the life they used to have before it was ripped away playing out in his eyes like on a film reel.
"But that was before the fire?" Sam asked, more concerned with getting to the point of our visit. Stories of their family moved him, but far less so than Dean.
Mr. Guenther nodded. "That's right."
"Did he ever talk about that night?"
"No, not at first." The man folded his arms and caressed his chin thoughtfully between rough fingers. "I think he was in shock."
"Right. But eventually—what did he say about it?"
"Oh, he wasn't thinking straight. He said something caused that fire and killed Mary."
"Did he ever say what did it?" Dean asked. I wished for the smallest chunk of new information—something John had withheld from us but told a close friend in a flit of grief years ago. Mr. Guenther looked at Dean like he was crazy. I suspected he used to look at their father the same way.
"Nothing did it," he said. "It was an accident. An electrical short in the ceiling or walls or something. I begged him to get some help, but..."
"But what?" I asked.
"He just got worse and worse. He started reading these strange old books. And he started going to see this palm reader in town."
"A palm reader?" Dean repeated in shock. "Do you have a name?"
Mr. Guenther scoffed, "No."
An employee called out for Mr. Guenther from the back of the shop. It sounded fairly urgent, so we thanked him for his time and left. Before we stepped out, he wished us luck figuring out what happened to John and his kids. It was nice to see someone care so deeply for them despite all the time that passed. Finding the nearest payphone, Sam and I started scanning the phonebook for local palm readers. So far, everything seemed implausible; the John I knew wouldn't see a palm reader, let alone one named Madame Karma.
"Anything?" Dean wondered from his spot, leaning against the car.
"There are a few psychics and palm readers in town," Sam said. "There's someone named El Divino. There's uh–" he laughed, "The Mysterious Mister Fortinsky. Missouri Moseley and some dude named–"
"Wait. Missouri Moseley?" Dean interrupted. "Why does that sound familiar?"
"It does?" I wondered.
"Yeah. That's a psychic?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Sam said, unsure where his brother was heading with this. Dean reached into the backseat, pulling John's journal from the duffel bag on the floor.
"Why, what's the matter?" I asked, leaving the open phonebook to look at the journal.
Dean pointed to the first line on the first page. "Read that."
"I went to Missouri, and I learned the truth," I read, stunned. I flipped through that book countless times since it was left to us and never lingered on that initial sentence. It seemed to fit right in with the rest of John's cryptic messages.
"I always thought he meant the state," Dean said with a small but triumphant smile. Finally, we were getting somewhere. The road we long thought closed was opening right before our eyes.
On a small green couch in the waiting room of Missouri Mosley's Palm Reading—a two-story building that appeared to be her home—Dean anxiously flipped through one of the many magazines stacked on the coffee table. I found myself admiring the crystals and dream catchers decorating the space. So far, the only interaction we'd had with Missouri was her telling us she'd be with us soon after the bell above the door rang when we entered.
"Alright, then, don't you worry about a thing," Missouri chirped as she escorted a timid man to the exit. "Your wife is crazy about you," she chuckled softly and closed the door behind him. Missouri leaned on the doorjamb with a huff and turned to us. "Poor bastard. His woman is cold-bangin' the gardener."
The smile on my face fell in an instant. "What?"
"Why didn't you tell him?" Dean asked, just as stricken with shock as me.
"Honey, people don't come here for the truth," Missouri said. "They come for good news."
"Then how do we know we can trust you?" I questioned skeptically.
A small, reminiscent smile tugged on the corner of her lips. "'Course you would ask me that, Victoria," she said. My spine involuntarily straightened as my name left her lips. Sam hadn't mentioned our names when we called; there was no way for her to know that. "Oh, don't look so surprised." She waved us along, disappearing through a beaded doorway. "Come on already; I ain't got all day."
We scrambled off the couch and into the living room, where Missouri waited with a warm smile and her hands planted on her hips. "Well, Sam and Dean," she chuckled happily. It was the boys' turn to be taken aback. "Lemme look at you. Oh, you boys grew up handsome. And you," she pointed at Dean with a friendly laugh, "were one goofy-looking kid, too."
Sam snickered at the comment, but Dean's face screwed in a mixture of wide-eyed shock and insult. I bit my lip to stifle a giggle and looked down so he couldn't see. "And you," Missouri said. I peered up, confused that she was addressing me. "You and those baby blues," she said fondly. "I knew you'd turn out beautiful."
"I'm sorry?" I asked. I didn't remember her at all.
"You wouldn't," she answered my unspoken question knowingly. "Oh, you were just a tiny little thing. Could damn near fit in the palm of my hand." Seeing my bewilderment, she explained, "I knew your Mama and Daddy. Good people." Missouri touched my shoulder, and her happiness faded. "They loved you very much; don't ever forget that."
My eyes welled up, but I somehow stopped them from overflowing. Other than the Winchesters, I hadn't known anyone else who knew my parents. "Thank you," I muttered.
With a final squeeze, she let me go and moved on to Sam, taking his hand in hers. "Oh, honey… I'm sorry about your girlfriend. And your father," she looked between the boys, "he's missing?"
"How'd you know all that?" Sam asked breathlessly, too flabbergasted to reign it in.
"Well, you were thinking it just now."
"Where is he?" Dean questioned urgently. "Is he okay?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know? Well, you're supposed to be a psychic, right?"
"Boy, you see me sawin' some bony tramp in half?" Missouri scolded abruptly. "You think I'm a magician? I may be able to read thoughts and sense energies in a room, but I can't just pull facts out of thin air." She gestured to the couch. "Sit, please." Feeling far too reprimanded to move on his own, I grabbed Dean and led him to the couch. Missouri took the armchair across from us. She'd barely settled in when she pointed a finger at Dean and said, "Boy, you put your foot on my coffee table, imma whack you with a spoon!"
"I didn't do anything!" he argued.
"Well, you were thinking about it," she retorted, not missing a beat. Sam laughed, doing nothing to hide his amusement at the reprimanding this complete stranger gave his brother.
I leaned into Dean's side. "Were you?" I asked. He simply flashed his eyebrows, telling me yes, he was. I snickered. When I noticed Missouri watching us, I cleared my throat and sat up straight. "So, you can read minds?"
She nodded once."Sure can."
"Does it ever get… I don't know, annoying?"
Missouri chuckled, "Sometimes."
"Okay, so… our Dad," Sam began tentatively. "When did you first meet him?"
"He came for a reading a few days after the fire. I just told him what was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say… I drew back the curtains for him."
"And you told him about hunting?" I asked.
"Not quite. I explained to him what was out there. He wanted to know what he could do about it." Missouri's eyebrows furrowed with trouble. "There isn't much I do 'far as hunting goes. So, I got in touch with your parents."
"So you were how they knew each other," I said. Missouri nodded.
Whenever I asked John how he and my parents came to know each other, he refused to go into any exact details. Now I knew why—the reason they met caused too many painful memories. He would simply say that they had worked together a long time ago. Naturally, my follow-up question was if they did the same thing as he and his family. He told me the truth; yes, they were hunters—retired, though you never really retire from hunting. The news should've shocked me, but after what I'd seen, I was numb. The more I thought about all those years, the more it made sense. No extended family came over for the holidays, and no pictures hung on the walls apart from the ones we'd taken. Mom and Dad always said it was just them, and then I came along. After that, it was just us. I always suspected my parents kept things from me… just nothing of this magnitude. They only wanted what was best for me, and I shouldn't have been angry, but I held a certain kind of resentment for a while. If they told me, if only I had known more back then, maybe I could have done something to stop what happened.
"He drove out there the next day," Missouri said, pulling me from my thoughts. "Brought you boys along, too." She gestured to Sam and Dean.
My memories before age four were slim: a whirlwind of movements with brief flashes of a set of green irises that had a ring of toffee at the pupil. Sounds that ricocheted like bullets between a soft voice singing Songbird by Fleetwood Mac. I didn't know what the song was until I was humming it years later, and Dad told me. That's all I could conjure, but somehow, Missorui's words invoked long-buried memories of my toddler self. Although the images were hazy and choppy, there was no doubt who was in them. A much younger, less withered John held a baby carrier with one hand and Dean's tiny fist in the other as they walked into our living room. Like an image on an old TV, it flickered and left me but lasted long enough to hit how they'd walked into my life and never truly left—not for long. I didn't notice I'd zoned out until Dean touched my leg. Our eyes met, and it was as though my memory reflected in his gaze.
A set of eyes boring into me called my attention to the psychic, who was watching us closely. Again. "So, what about the fire?" I asked, wishing to take her intense stare away. "Did any of you figure out what caused it?"
"Not quite," Missouri said, tightening her hands. "Your parents weren't sure what it could be. And your daddy–" she looked to the boys, "Took me to your house. He was hoping I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing."
"And could you?" Sam asked, on the edge of his seat.
Missouri's mouth twitched into a fine line. "I don't–"
"What was it?"
"I don't know," she whispered and exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "But it was evil. Pure evil." Gathering herself, Missouri wondered, "Why bring all of this up now?"
"Some things have happened recently," I said. Keeping it vague was useless, but it was what I was used to. "We think somethings going on."
"In that house?"
"Definitely," Sam said steadfastly.
Missouri leaned back in her chair, interlocking her hands into a tight ball. "I don't understand. I haven't been back inside, but I've been keeping an eye on the place, and it's been quiet. No sudden deaths, no freak accidents. Why is it acting up now?"
"I don't know. But Dad going missing and Jessica dying and now this house all happening at once—it just feels like something's starting."
Dean grimaced. "That's a comforting thought," he mumbled, mostly to himself.
"I need to see that house," Missouri announced, pushing to her feet.
"Right now?" I asked, standing along with her. "The woman that lives there, she's a single Mom. She's going through a lot–"
"And they could be in danger," she said. I didn't even bother to look behind me at Sam, knowing all too well his expression would read I told you so. With Missouri tagging along, she and I shared the backseat of the Impala. It was odd having someone here with me that wasn't Sam. In our teenage years, it was rare that he and Dean switched places. He never sat up front with John unless one of them was in trouble. Sam and I spent plenty of hours cramped back here listening to my CD collection. The first time I got in the backseat after he left, I realized how big the space actually was.
Dean knocked on the door at the house, and Jenny answered, looking even more frazzled than before. Ritchie was propped on her hip this time, clutching a sippy cup. "What are you doing here?" she asked, polite yet exhausted.
"Hey, Jenny," Dean smiled charmingly. "This is our friend, Missouri. If it's not too much trouble, we were hoping to show her the old house. You know, for old time's sake."
"You know, this isn't a good time. I'm kind of busy," Jenny said apologetically, ready to close the door.
"Listen, Jenny, it's important–" a loud smack cut off Dean's words. "Ow !" he cried.
"Give the poor girl a break. Can't you see she's upset?" Missouri berated him, her hand swinging down to her side. I turned around to find him rubbing the back of his head. I swear if she hit him– "You'll what?" she prompted me to finish my unspoken thoughts. I flushed with irritation, and Missouri raised a challenging eyebrow. Jenny watched the scene unfolding before her with sheer confusion. Missouri turned to her with wistful, caring eyes. "Forgive this boy; he means well. He's just not the sharpest tool in the shed, but hear me out."
"About what?" Jenny asked tentatively.
"About this house."
"What are you talking about?"
"I think you know what I'm talking about. You think there's something in this house, something that wants to hurt your family. Am I mistaken?"
Jenny spoke through her teeth, still hesitant but far more accepting than before. "Who are you?"
"We're people who can help, who can stop this thing. But you're gonna have to trust us, just a little."
Although she was apprehensive, Jenny let us in. We followed Missouri through the house to where she got the strongest feeling—an upstairs bedroom painted light blue. Two cardboard boxes labeled clothes and toys were stacked beside white closet doors. A small bed adorned with colorful sheets and flower pillowcases was on the far end. Stickers clung to the lampshade on the nightstand, the side of a white bookshelf, and the entirety of a white desk with a computer sitting on it. I assumed it was a child's bedroom, most likely Sari's.
"If there's dark energy around here, this room should be the center of it," Missouri announced faintly.
"Why?" Sam asked.
"This used to be your nursery, Sam. This is where it all happened," she revealed. Almost like a reflex, I looked to the ceiling, half expecting to feel a sudden burst of heat when my eyes dragged to the very center. After a few seconds, when there was nothing, I finally looked away. Sam's eagerness faded into the background as he took in space. I touched his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Dean turned on his EMF meter, its high-pitched frequency filling the otherwise silent room. "That an EMF?" Missouri asked him.
"Yeah," he replied.
She pursed her lips. "Amateur."
"Well, we can't all be psychic," I said with a shrug.
"I don't know if you boys should be disappointed or relieved, but this ain't the thing that took your Mom."
"Wait, are you sure?" Sam asked; "How do you know?"
"It isn't the same energy I felt the last time I was here. It's something different."
"Then what is it?" I wondered.
Missouri opened the closet. "Not it," she said as she stepped inside. "Them. There's more than one spirit in this place."
"What are they doing here?" Dean asked.
"They're here because of what happened to your family." Missouri looked uncomfortable with her position in the closet and crossed the room to stand in front of us. "You see, all those years ago, real evil came to you. It walked this house. That kind of evil leaves wounds. And sometimes, wounds get infected. This place is a magnet for paranormal energy. It's attracted a poltergeist. A nasty one. And it won't rest until Jenny and her babies are dead."
"But you said there was more than one spirit," Sam said.
"There is. I just can't quite make out the second one."
"Well, one thing's for damn sure—nobody's dying in this house ever again," Dean said fiercely. "So whatever is here, how do we stop it?"
Sprawled across the table were several different-sized jars filled with various powders and shavings. Each of us took tiny pinches out of the jars and packed them in small swatches of cloth. I'd heard hex bags were the enemy for ten years, and here I was making them. Missouri convinced me that these did no harm, only good. That quelled my nerves, but not enough. I angled my chair so Dean's left leg was between mine. With all this stress, I just wanted to be close to him.
"So, what is all this stuff, anyway?" Dean asked, picking up a clump of small, dark brown leaves.
"Angelica Root, Van Van oil, crossroad dirt, a few other odds and ends," Missouri explained.
"Yeah? What are we supposed to do with it?" he wondered, touching his fingers to the tip of his tongue to taste the herbs. I slapped his hand away from his mouth.
"Don't do that!" I hissed. Dean shot me a sheepish smile and got back to his task.
"We're gonna put them inside the walls in the north, south, east, and west corners on each floor of the house," Missouri answered.
"Punching holes in the drywall. Jenny's gonna love that," Dean commented, shooting me a glance.
Missouri looked up at him through her eyebrows. "She'll live."
"And this'll destroy the spirits?" Sam asked from his spot, standing at the head of the table.
"It should. It should purify the house completely. We'll each take a floor. But we work fast. Once the spirits realize what we're up to, things are gonna get bad." Things get bad before they get better, right? In my experience, they get bad before they get worse.
Somehow, using her calming effect, Missouri convinced Jenny to take her kids to the movies while we did what we needed to do. That poor woman was completely unaware four perfect strangers were about to give her house the worst makeover imaginable. But as Missouri said, she'll live. Dean handed me a hatchet, looking deep into my eyes. "Be careful," he implored, refusing to release the handle we both had a grip on.
"Always am," I winked, copying his typical answer whenever I told him to watch out for himself. With a roll of his eyes, he let go, and we went our separate ways. Missouri went to the basement, Dean stayed in the kitchen, Sam took the upstairs, and I ventured into the attic. As I passed the third bedroom, it hit me that it must have been Dean's. I took a moment to peer inside. Though the room was now Rithchie's, I imagined it didn't look much different when it was Dean's space. The walls were a soft blue, with the curtains a shade darker. A tiny toddler bed had multiple stuffed animals on its brightly colored comforter. A blue lamp sat on the nightstand, and a dresser in the same dark brown wood lined the wall closest to the door. There was a colorful toy box atop interlocked foam play mats littered with building blocks and even more toys.
Somehow, picturing Dean as a toddler sitting in here contentedly playing with his toys came much easier than I anticipated. It made me smile until the weight of the hatchet in my hand called me back to the present. With one last look, I pulled myself from the room. The attic space was tight; I couldn't stand even if I wanted to and resorted to crouching through the dusty area. I felt like a crab walking for the first time. Finding the northernmost point of the room, I tapped the wall, trying to find a hollow point to stick the package of herbs into. I hated the idea of destroying this house and vowed to do as minor damage as possible. Close to discovering a good spot, the ladder creaked behind me. I expected to find Dean poking his head in to check up on me, but instead, I was met with nothing except the attic hatch slamming shut and the lock clicking.
"Shit," I whispered. How the hell am I gonna unlock that? A crinkle of plastic made me look up. Behind a crumpled-up tarp draped across a set of boxes, a hammer whipped out of the darkness, aiming straight for me. I threw myself out of the way. With a loud clunk, the claw end of the tool embedded into the wall, narrowly missing my temple. My flashlight had catapulted out of my hands and rolled too far away for me to find. Now, my issue was no longer how I got out of here but that I made it out at all.
More things moved on the other end of the crawlspace. Before the spirit had the chance to hurl a power tool at me, I grabbed the hammer lodged in the wall and used all my strength to press its handle downward. It ripped a sizeable gap large enough to toss the cloth bag into. So much for my gentle hole-punching approach.
Once it was said and done, the air was still thick, so I didn't let my guard down. I discarded the hammer and gripped my hatchet tightly, stumbling over beams back to the exit. I pushed the hatch, but it wouldn't budge. A loud, echoing bang came from the floor below, followed by Dean shouting Sam's name. Even in the dark, I could see the attic lock shimmer in the sliver of hallway light coming through the gaps. I swung the hatchet at it once, twice, and three times before it gave way, and the door loosened with a heavy groan.
Dean's loud, frenzied movements led me to Jenny's bedroom. Sam wheezed on the floor with a cord from a nearby lamp wrapped around his neck multiple times. His brother was beside him, trying desperately to remove it. I skidded to my knees on Sam's other side, but even with Dean and I pulling, the cord wouldn't budge. Sam was turning a light shade of purple, blue veins popping in his neck and forehead as he struggled to keep his bloodshot eyes open. Dean snatched the cloth bag from his brother's limp hand and scrambled to his feet, using the toe of his boot to begin wildly kicking a hole in the wall. My nails scratched Sam's skin as I forced the tips of my fingers beneath the cable. It loosened for a split second, long enough for him to gasp in a breath that got stuck halfway when the cord tightened up even more. I was so focused on him that the bright white light that filled the room nearly blinded me. I tucked my face into my chest and shut my eyes to shield them. Once the light dissipated, the cord beneath my fingers finally loosened, allowing Sam a low, rasping breath.
In an instant, Dean was by us again, helping me unwrap the cable from Sam's neck. When his brother was free, Dean pulled him into his arms and held him tightly. The fear that overtook me was probably nothing compared to the alarm bells going off in Dean's head when Sam was in danger, and that was saying a lot because my heart was ready to thrash out of my chest.
With his arm clasped in my hand, I rested my forehead against Sam's shoulder, trying to calm my quick pulse. We stayed that way until his skin returned to its normal color, and his wobbly legs were steady enough that he could stand. Dean didn't stray too far from him as we ventured downstairs. "Did anything happen to you guys?" Sam croaked. After his near-death experience, I felt it wrong to complain, so I shrugged, and he cocked an eyebrow.
"It wasn't too bad," I waved it off, "It locked me in the attic and threw a hammer at me."
"I was fine," Dean said confidently.
"You got nothing?" I questioned. "Like, at all?"
"Well…" he trailed off as we rounded the corner to find the massacre that used to be Jenny's kitchen. The drawers and cabinets were open, their contents were missing. The fridge was open with everything spilled out. But what really caught my eye was the turned-over table with nearly every damn knife Jenny owned sticking out of it.
My heart, which had finally calmed down, began thumping again. "What the–"
"It was nothing!" Dean stopped me. "I had it covered."
"Nothing?! You almost got impaled!"
"Almost."
Before I could say anything else, Missouri came up from the basement wearing a triumphant look. "It's over," she declared.
"It is?" Sam asked, looking uncertain. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Why do you ask?"
Sam shook his head, clearly trying to shake off whatever he felt. "Never mind. It's nothing, I guess." While I wanted to press him for more information, I couldn't. Not yet, anyway, because the front door opened, and the hall lights flicked on, signaling the Richardson family's return.
"Hello? We're home," Jenny called out, stopping dead in her tracks as she took in the state of the room. "What happened?"
"Hi." Sam smiled boyishly. "Sorry. Um, we'll pay for all of this."
"We will?" Dean asked, grumpy with the idea.
"Yes," I smacked his stomach and smiled at Jenny, "we will."
"Don't you worry, Dean's gonna clean up this mess," Missouri volunteered him, much to his dismay. When he didn't move, she turned with a deathly glare. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Get the mop!" she ordered, and Dean rolled his eyes. "And don't cuss at me!" He walked away, muttering under his breath, complaining, no doubt. Dean returned with a mop and a broom. I took the latter of the two and started sweeping, shooting him a small smile, that he returned. It was hard to ignore the way Missouri watched us; even after we finished cleaning and dropped her off at her house, there was a certain way her eyes lingered on Dean and me that caught my attention. I didn't think much of it, knowing I'd never crawl out of that rabbit hole if I dug too deep.
All I wanted was to rent a motel room for the night and curl up in bed, but Sam had other ideas. So, no matter how much Dean and I complained, we ended up camping outside Jenny's house in the Impala all because Sam had a bad feeling. Plenty of nights were spent sleeping in this car, but I detested tonight being one of them. The entire backseat was mine, but I still couldn't get comfortable. My hands and knees hurt from crawling around that stupid attic, and I was bitter about it.
"Alright, so, tell me again… what are we still doing here?" Dean asked sound as irritated as I felt.
"I don't know," Sam said. "I just… I still have a bad feeling."
"You said that," I mumbled into the leather. I couldn't see, but judging by the squeak of the front seat, Sam probably shot me a dirty look.
"Missouri did her whole Zelda Rubenstein thing; the house should be clean. It should be over," Dean said.
"Yeah, well, probably. But I just wanna make sure, that's all," Sam insisted.
"Yeah, well, problem is we could be sleeping in a bed right now."
"Tell me about it," I grumbled, looking over my shoulder in time to watch Dean slide down in the front seat until the top of his head was barely visible.
Just as I started to close my eyes, Sam jumped abruptly and shook the whole car. "Look!" he shouted, and I jolted upright. On the second floor, Jenny stood in front of her window, screaming and banging on the glass. We scrambled out of the car faster than I think we ever had before and up the front lawn.
"You and Sam grab the kids; I'll get Jenny!" Dean instructed, rushing inside.
While Sam went to retrieve Sari, I hurried to Ritchie's room. He was sitting upright in his bed, clutching one of his stuffed animals for dear life as tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped onto the bear's fur. "You're gonna be okay," I spoke gently, scooping him and his toy into my arms. One hand remained on his bear, and the other gripped my jacket. Though I didn't want to jostle him, hearing Sari's screams for help, I had no choice but to sprint from the bedroom to meet up with Sam in front of what used to be his nursery. As I got closer, I noticed the heat, and I froze. As Sari described, a figure on fire slowly trudged from her closet and into the center of her room, leaving burning footprints in his wake. Sam put on a brave face and hurried past the flames, telling Sari not to look as he picked her up from the bed and dashed from the room. We reached the bottom of the steps together, but Sam suddenly stopped and put Sari down.
"Take them outside," he instructed, giving me the little girl's hand.
"What are you, crazy?! I'm not leaving you!" I said through gritted teeth.
"Go!" he said adamantly, moments before being pushed to the ground and dragged into the kitchen. My first instinct was to run after him, but I couldn't with the two petrified children in my care. I wasn't about to put on Sari's shoulders the same obligation Dean had of carrying his sibling to safety, so we fled to the front lawn, where I passed Ritchie to a grateful Jenny, who fell to her knees and wrapped both children in her arms.
"Something got Sam," I announced to a questioning Dean.
Suddenly, the front door slammed shut; I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't caused by the wind. Not wasting a single second, Dean sprinted to the back of the Impala while I ran for the door. It was locked, and the brass knob was hot to the touch. "Sam?!" I called, getting no response.
Dean flew up the porch steps with a shotgun and ax. I side-stepped as he tossed me the gun, giving him enough clearance to chop a hole big enough in the wood to unlock the door from the inside. "Where'd it take him?" he asked, taking the gun back.
"Here." I ran ahead of him to follow the path Sam was dragged down. Against the wall at the kitchen entrance hung a battered Sam. The same flame-covered figure moved ominously closer. Dean lifted the gun, ready to take the shot.
"No, don't!" Sam shouted.
"Why?" Dean asked, his finger lingering on the trigger.
"Because I know who it is," he panted, still fighting the invisible force holding him to the wall. "I can see her now."
As the lapping fire dissipated, my breath caught in my throat at the sight of a person I never thought I'd get to meet. Her long blonde hair hung around her shoulders in delicate waves; her eyes were bright blue almonds, tilted with kindness and love as she looked at her boys. "Mom?" Dean spoke breathlessly and lowered his gun.
"Dean," Mary smiled fondly. I took a shaky breath that called her attention to me. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want to take any time away from them, yet there was a warmth in her eyes. "Thank you for being there for my boys."
All I could muster was a nod. Mary gave Dean what seemed to be a look of approval before walking closer to her youngest. "Sam," she addressed him happily. He smiled through tears, and her joy faded. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Sam asked.
Mary didn't answer. Instead, she took another glimpse at Dean before her expression steeled, and she stepped back. "You get out of my house," she addressed the ceiling. "And let go of my son." Another, stronger wave of heat that penetrated my bones filled the room. Flames engulfed Mary into a ball of fire that flew up to the ceiling and exploded, leaving no damage behind. This time, when the blade diminished, she wasn't there.
"Mom?" Dean whispered into the space Mary had just occupied.
Sam moved from the wall, released from whatever hold that thing had on him. "Now it's over," he announced somberly.
The sun had set and risen, and for everyone else, it was a new day to go about the same routine, but for us, things had changed. For better or worse… the jury was still out on that one. It was hard to see how it was all worth it when it hurt so badly. At the back of the Impala, Dean took a small locked box handed to him by Jenny with a thankful smile. On the porch steps, Sam and I waited for Missouri to finish her final walkthrough of the home. "Well, there are no spirits in there anymore, this time for sure," she said, announcing her presence.
"You know that for a fact?" I asked.
Missouri nodded and sat down between us. "I do. This time."
"Not even my mom?" Sam wondered.
"No."
"What happened?"
"Your mom's spirit and the poltergeist's energy—they canceled each other out. Your mom destroyed herself going after the thing," she explained gently. Perhaps it was for the best Dean had remained by the Impala. Though I'm sure he knew, he didn't need to hear that, not yet.
"Why would she do something like that?"
"Well, to protect her boys, of course," Missouri said, smiling tenderly. Sam averted his glassy eyes, pressing his lips tightly to keep himself together. "Sam, I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"You sensed it was here, didn't you? Even when I couldn't."
Sam's eyes flickered at me before returning to her. They were full of fear, but he pressed on regardless. "What's happening to me?" he asked.
Missouri debated something before replying. "I know I should have all the answers, but I don't know."
"Hey, you two ready?" Dean called out, much more chipper than I expected. Sam nodded and quietly thanked the woman beside me before heading for the car.
"Thanks for everything," I told Missouri.
"Anytime, honey," she said kindly and took my hand. "Never lose faith. I know you've been through a whole lot, but you and Dean are destined for great things. I felt it the first time I met you both as children. It's only stronger now that you're together."
"What do you–"
"Don't ask me what I mean," she grinned. "It's just a feeling, a strong one. The two of you have something—a connection—that I've never felt before." Despite the somewhat rocky start to our relationship, I knew her words held truth and accepted them wholeheartedly. Hell, I believed everything she said before; why stop now? A little positivity couldn't hurt. Dean watched me over the top of the car, drumming his fingers on the roof. When our eyes met, he gave me a tilted smirk. I got up and brushed off the back of my pants so I wouldn't track dirt into the car. Missouri stood with me. "I hope you know that boy is head-over-heels for you," she commented.
"I think I do," I chuckled and hugged her. She squeezed me so tight I lost my breath. Jenny thanked all of us for what we'd done and went to stand beside Missouri on the sidewalk.
Rather than get into the backseat, I rounded the car and reached on my toes to kiss Dean. "What was that for?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Just felt like it."
"Don't you three be strangers," Missouri said, looking after us with a smile.
"We won't," Dean told her.
"See you around."
We drove for a few hours on a near-vacant road until we spotted a motel and decided to stop in for the night. Sam was sound asleep in his bed; his hair was a mess, and his headphones were nearly falling off. I'm sure after everything, he was exhausted. Visions I could handle—or at least I thought so. But now, he can sense spirits, too? It was a hard pill to swallow.
I had asked Dean before if he looked in that wooden box Jenny gave, and he said no. Of course, when I asked for permission to, he gave it right away. Now that he was off getting ready for bed, I needed a distraction to keep my mind from wandering onto the other abilities Sam might possess, so I sat cross-legged in our bed with my back against the headboard. I carefully twisted the latch and opened the lid. Inside sat an old baseball, a few newspaper clippings, an envelope with Dad written on it in bright red block letters, and a stack of glossy photographs. They were in good condition, but I still held them like they were about to crumble at any moment. These pictures were precious, at least to me. There were a few photos of an unwilted John and glowing Mary, both of them smiling—both of them happy. Next was a picture in which Dean held a newborn Sam in his lap at the hospital, cheesing at the camera. Another was a photo of Dean standing before his Mom, her arms wrapped around him and their heads pressed together. They wore bright smiles; Dean was so innocent, so oblivious to what was coming. It hurt to think about. The small, fair-haired boy I now remembered so clearly from the photo was simultaneously long gone and still inside Dean somewhere, lost but there. A tear dripped on my hand. Thankfully, it missed the image. I wiped it away just as Dean exited the bathroom.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
I smiled. "You were a cute kid."
"Apparently, I was weird-lookin'," he referenced Missouri's words bitterly.
"I don't think so," I said, scooting to the edge of the bed. Dean took the photo. His eyes drifted to the right side of the photograph, where his Mom was. I pulled him down to sit beside me. I intertwined our arms and rested my head against his shoulder. "She was beautiful."
"You know," Dean waved the picture, "I actually remember this day."
"You do?" I asked, and he nodded. "Will you tell me about it?"
"Dad came home with that camera, and Mom thought it was so stupid, him pointing in our faces…" he chuckled at the rare fond memory of his childhood. Dean cleared his throat, keeping his emotions at bay. "But then, uh, she grabbed me and took that one." His voice trailed off, breaking when he spoke again. "I forgot what her voice sounded like… do you think she's okay now?"
Mary wasn't trapped in that house anymore. She was free. I had to believe that. "I think she's finally at peace," I said. I recalled the affection in her eyes when they settled on Dean in that house. No amount of years passed or time lost changed that. "She loved you so much." It was ingrained in him to conceal his feelings from the world, but now that it was just us, his tears flowed freely. I embraced him and let him unleash all the emotions he so desperately tried to hide from everyone else.
Over the years, it had been proven to me time and time again that there was nothing a mother wouldn't do for her child. My birth mother loved me. She wanted me to have a good life so badly—one she might not have been able to give—even if it meant she wouldn't be in it. And my Mom's last moments were spent risking her life to save mine. And now, Mary had done the same for her boys. They sacrificed so much for us to be here. So the verdict was finally in—this was all worth it. We had to keep doing what we were doing; we had to do it for them.
I absolutely loved writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like, drop a review! I genuinely value your feedback!
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