Elastic Heart

by phoenixwritesSPN

"Victoria Evans was thrown into a world she never knew existed when an encounter with the supernatural left her adoptive parents deceased. Rescued by John Winchester, she's taught to be a hunter. Alongside him and his sons, Victoria finds herself where she was meant to be all along." *Rewriting for a better, more well-rounded storyline* Follows s1 with my own spin. {Dean/OFC}

4. Phantom Traveler (Updated)

Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back
A flight of fancy on a windswept field
Standing alone, my senses reeled
A fatal attraction is holding me fast
How can I escape this irresistible grasp?

Can't keep my mind from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted
Just an earth-bound misfit, I
...

Ice is forming on the tips of my wings
Unheeded warnings, I thought, I thought of everything
No navigator to find my way home
Unladen, empty, and turned to stone
A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition grounded but determined to try
...

So, on the brake, just be ready
It's gonna roll this time
Just feel the power gradually, and it

Above the planet on a wing and a prayer
My grubby halo, a vapor trail in the empty air
Across the clouds, I see my shadow fly
Out of the corner of my watering eye
A dream unthreatened by the morning light
Could blow this soul right through the roof of the night

Pink Floyd — Learning to Fly

---

For once, I wanted to sleep. If only for an hour. I'd been running on fumes for two days and knew I needed it when I walked straight into the closed motel door, not registering it was shut. However, my inability to sleep certainly didn't come from a lack of trying. Every click of the remote control's buttons as Sam absentmindedly searched for something to occupy his attention pulled me from the transition from wakefulness to sleep. It was like one of those dreams where you're falling off a cliff and wake just before you splatter onto the ground, only over and over again. The only one getting any consistent sleep was Dean. As I lay here, staring at the ceiling, I debated waking him up, so I didn't have to suffer alone but decided against it. One of us had to be well rested.

I'd almost given up when Sam finally dozed off, his soft snores filling the room, mingling with the low hum from the television. I breathed a sigh of relief and snuggled deeper into the pillow, taking solace in the silence.

What felt like mere minutes later, the click of a lock combined with the bed dipping woke me. I cracked my eyes open to scan the room. Sam wasn't in his bed, so I could only assume he was the cause of the sunlight strobing in through the opening door. I lifted my head to get a better view and found exactly what I expected—Sam entering with a tray containing three coffees. The cause of the jostling mattress was Dean brandishing the knife he stashed underneath his pillow every night. I rolled my eyes and collapsed back onto the mattress.

"Morning sunshine," Sam commented.

Dean pushed the blade back into its hiding spot, releasing a soft groan as he rolled onto his side from his stomach. "What time is it?" he asked.

Sam briefly glanced at his watch. "Uh, it's about five-forty-five," he said. An involuntary yawn escaped my lips. At least I got that hour I asked for. Knowing there was no chance for more rest, I pulled myself up and leaned against the headboard.

"In the morning?" Dean asked, propping up on his elbow.

"Yup," Sam replied, dropping the bag off at the table before making his way over. I tiredly rubbed my face and threw my hair up into a messy updo with the hair tie around my wrist. It was like I simultaneously barely slept a wink and also for years. That same nightmare I'd been having replayed a few times, but I suppose I couldn't complain if it didn't change. I could deal with the expected; it was the unexpected that did me in. Either way, I felt like I got hit by a train. "Here," he handed me a coffee.

"Thanks," I smiled, accepting the warm cup.

"Where does the day go?" Dean stretched. He scooted to the edge of the bed by my feet, planting his on the floor. A moment of silence went by in which he eyed his brother calculatingly. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Yeah, I grabbed a couple hours," Sam lied briskly.

"Hm," I hummed sarcastically.

Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Liar," he called Sam's bluff. "'Cause I was up at three, and you were watching a George Foreman infomercial."

"Hey, what can I say?" Sam shrugged, giving Dean one of the two remaining cups. "It's riveting television."

"When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

"I don't know, a little while, I guess," Sam brushed it off. "It's not a big deal."

The bruise-like circles underneath his eyes would say otherwise. "It is," I insisted.

"Hey, you can't talk. You don't sleep, either," he accused. I raised an eyebrow, unable to argue with him. I got more rest than he did, but I certainly didn't have a leg to stand on when preaching the benefits of a good night's sleep. I probably hadn't had one of those in years. Sam sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Look, I appreciate your concern–"

"Oh, I'm not concerned about you," Dean interjected. "It's your job to keep my ass alive, so I need you sharp."

"What am I, chopped liver?" I asked.

"I'm watching your ass," he smiled and winked. "Trust me."

"Well, I've never doubted that," I snickered, taking a sip of my coffee. For once, Sam looked relieved with the course the conversation was taking. It meant he got off the hook. That didn't last long.

"Seriously," Dean sobered up, much to his brother's dismay. "Are you still having nightmares about Jess?"

I understood Sam's hesitation; if he admitted it, that made it real. "Yeah," he uttered, keeping his eyes on the ground. "But it's not just her. It's everything. I just forgot, you know? This job. Man, it gets to you."

"You can't let it. You can't bring it home like that."

"So, what? All this it… never keeps you up at night?" Sam wondered, eyes darting between his brother and me.

"It used to," I admitted. I wasn't as affected as before. Sure, some things still bothered me, but I didn't lose sleep over them. In the beginning, I worried about what was out there—all the evil—all the time. Now that I know how to deal with it, it's not nearly as frightening.

Dean's shoulders lifted, and the corners of his mouth pulled down into a nonchalant shrug in response to Sam's question. "Never?" Sam balked. "You're never afraid?"

"No. Not really," Dean said. Sam was unconvinced and got up, walking around to Dean's side of the bed, slipping out the knife his brother had almost used on him not even five minutes ago. Dean quickly took it back, a scowl planted firmly on his face. "That's not fear; that is precaution."

"You know, I've told you not to keep that there," I told Dean. "You're gonna end up stabbing yourself. Or worse, me ."

"If you feel something poking you in the middle of the night, it's not the knife," Dean smirked. I laughed, shaking my head as I drank more coffee. I should've seen that comment coming from a mile away.

"Oh my god," Sam rolled his eyes, dragging his feet over to the table where he sat.

Dean's phone started ringing on the nightstand, vibrating toward the edge. I picked it up before it could take a nosedive and handed it to him. Dean glanced down at the screen for a second and flipped it open. "Hello?" he answered, waiting as the person on the other end spoke. "Oh, right, yeah. Up in Kittanning, Pennsylvania, the poltergeist thing," he said, giving me an eye roll.

My shoulders slumped at the very mention. "Oh, shit," I breathed. God, that poltergeist was a bitch to get rid of.

"It's not back, is it?" Dean asked cautiously.

I leaned in a bit closer to hear the person, who I assumed to be Jerry Panowski, reply in a hurried voice. "No, no! You guys got rid of that once and for all, trust me," he reassured. "No, it– it's something else."

"What is it?"

Jerry pulled in a deep, audible breath. "Can we talk in person? "

"Uh…" Dean trailed off, looking over at me for confirmation. I shrugged. Why not? Jerry was a good guy. "Sure, yeah," Dean told him. "We'll get there as soon as we can."

"Thank you. "

"Of course."

"Who was that?" Sam asked after Dean hung up.

"Someone we worked a job for a couple years ago," I explained.

"You guys started giving your numbers out?"

I shook my head. "No." Now that I think about it, I had no idea how he got Dean's number. All the more reason to head over and see what was up. You don't just stumble upon a hunter's burner phone.

---

It didn't surprise me that Jerry was waiting for us outside of the airport hangar. He looked the same; a medium-build, balding man with dark blue eyes that shined with relief when he saw us. The beaming smile on his face didn't seem to leave. In fact, I'm fairly certain it only widened when we introduced him to Sam. He led us through the hangar, passing aircraft workers mulling around and going about their workday.

"Thanks for making the trip so quick," Jerry repeated for the second time in the past five minutes.

"Really, it's no big deal," I insisted. "This is what we do."

"Still, I ought to be doing you guys a favor, not the other way around," Jerry told me, glancing over at Sam. "Tori, Dean, and your Dad really helped me out."

"Yeah, they told me." Sam nodded. His small smile quickly dissipated. "It was a poltergeist?"

"Poltergeist?" One of the employees inquired as he passed by. "I loved that movie."

"Hey, nobody's talking to you. Keep walking." Jerry waved the man off. I chuckled, sharing an amused look with Dean. "Damn right, it was a poltergeist. Practically tore our house apart," Jerry added. "Tell you something; if it wasn't for you guys, I probably wouldn't be alive," he added, looking back at us over his shoulder as we walked.

"Glad we could help," Dean said proudly.

"Your Dad said you were off at college, is that right?" Jerry asked Sam.

Sam's stride faltered in response, his eyes widening in shock before he could control his reaction. "Yeah, I was," he replied, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I'm… taking some time off."

"Well, he was real proud of you. I could tell," Jerry smiled. "He talked about you all the time."

"He did?" Sam asked, eyebrows lifted. He looked to me for confirmation, and I nodded. Any chance John got to talk about Sam's accomplishments, he did. If only he weren't so stubborn and took the chance to praise his son to his face when he had it, things might have turned out differently for everyone.

"Oh, hey, you know I tried to get a hold of him, but I couldn't. How's he doing, anyway?"

That same constricted look Dean always had when John's absence was brought up crossed his face. "He's, um, wrapped up in a job right now," he answered.

"Well, we're missing the old man, but we get Sam. Even trade, huh?" Jerry asked, patting Sam on the shoulder.

"No, not by a long shot," Sam said, laughing lightly. He looked a little uncomfortable with the comparison, unbeknownst to Jerry, who opened his office door and ushered us inside.

"Well, I got something I want you guys to hear," he announced, rounding his desk to pull a case of CDs out of the drawer. "I listened to this. And, well, it sounded like it was up your alley." Jerry placed the CD into the drive. "Normally, I wouldn't have access to this. It's the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight twenty-four-eighty-five. It was one of ours."

The CD audibly spun in the slot, playing a static-filled audio file of a panicked pilot. "Mayday! Mayday! Repeat! This is United Britania twenty-four-eighty-five—immediate instruction help! United Britanis twenty-four-eighty-five, I copy your message—may be experiencing some mechanical failure– "

A loud whoosh filled the speakers, rattling them as it overtook and cut off the desperate man.

"Took off from here, crashed about two hundred miles south. Now, they're saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurized somehow. Nobody knows why." Jerry said, sitting down behind his desk. "Over a hundred people on board. Only seven got out alive. The pilot was one. His name is Chuck Lambert. He's a good friend of mine. Chuck is, uh… well, he's pretty broken up about it. Like it was his fault."

"You don't think it was?" Sam asked.

Jerry shook his head. "No, I don't."

"Jerry, we're gonna need passenger manifests—a list of survivors.".

"All right."

"Is there any chance we could see the plane?" I inquired.

"The other stuff is no problem. But the wreckage… well, the NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse," Jerry said. "No way I've got that kind of clearance."

Dean nodded, a conniving look growing in his eyes. "No problem," he said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, 'course," Dean confirmed. "We'll get this figured out."

"Thank you," Jerry said, standing to reach across his desk and shake Dean's hand.

---

Outside of the Copy Jack, where Dean was currently making some IDs for us, I leaned up against the side of the Impala with Sam. Since I hadn't seen a sunny day like this in what felt like an eternity, I discarded my black canvas jacket in the car, leaving me in my maroon tank top, allowing the sun to penetrate my skin and absorb into my bones. Everything was so cold and dreary lately—this was such a welcomed change.

Sam kicked the concrete sidewalk with the toe of his boot. As I peered at his tall frame, I put my hand above my eyes to shield them from the sunlight. "How long could this possibly take?" he asked, impatiently shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Who knows?" I shrugged. With the sun disappearing behind a thin cloud, the beams were significantly less brutal, so I removed my hand, using it to tuck some of my hair behind my ear. "How are you, Sam? Really."

As soon as the words left my lips, he became guarded—putting up a wall to keep everything out. "I'm good."

I nodded. I didn't want to tell him how he felt based on what I thought. People had done that to me far too much, and I didn't want to continue the cycle. "But still. If you want to talk, I'm here."

Realizing I wasn't about to dig any deeper, Sam allowed the corners of his mouth to pull into a slight smile. "Thanks."

The door opened, and Dean stepped out, of course getting sidetracked by the brunette that passed by him into the building. I cleared my throat to force Dean's attention on me. He smiled sheepishly, taking significant steps to close the gap between us.

"You've been in there forever," Sam complained to his brother once he was close enough.

A toothy smile spread across Dean's lips as he showed off the IDs. "You can't rush perfection," he said.

I nodded approvingly at the believable laminated cards, plucking mine from his fingers. "Nice job."

Dean beamed proudly. "Thank you."

Sam inspected his ID for a brief moment. "Homeland Security?" His eyes flicked from the card to Dean. "That's pretty illegal, even for us."

"Yeah, well, it's something new, you know? People haven't seen it a thousand times."

"Do you know the trouble we could get into if we get caught?" Sam asked, pushing up off the Impala.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "So, easy fix."

"Oh, yeah? What that?"

"We don't get caught," Dean grinned, heartily smacking Sam on the arm before heading for the driver's side of the Impala. Sam stared after his brother, mouth hanging open like a bewildered fish.

When Dean disappeared into the car, Sam finally looked away. "You can't possibly think this is okay," he said. There was a glint of hope in his eyes that I'd agree with him, but it didn't stay long.

"It's worth a shot," I said, reaching into my pocket for the cardholder within, taking out the ID already inside, and replacing it with the new card.

" Worth a shot ?" Sam scoffed. "You're both insane!"

"Thanks," I smiled sarcastically, getting into the backseat. Sam remained outside, staring at the space beside him I had just occupied. I knocked on the front passenger window, beckoning him inside.

"All right, so what do you got?" Dean inquired once we were all situated in the car.

"Well, there's definitely EVP on the cockpit voice recorder," Sam said, taking his laptop from its bag.

"Which we already knew," I added, resting my arms on the seat between the boys.

"But you gotta listen to it." Sam pulled up the software and played the enhanced audio.

Within the chaos of the original recording, a high-pitched sing soared through the computer's speakers, broken only by a breathy, gravel-filled voice that rasped, "No survivors!"

"No survivors?" Dean repeated. "What's that supposed to mean? There were seven survivors."

"Beats me," I said, drumming my fingers on the leather.

"So, what? A haunted flight?"

"There's a long history of spirits and death omens on planes and ships, like phantom travelers," Sam said. "Remember flight four-oh-one?"

"Right." Dean tapped a finger on the steering wheel to punctuate his thoughts. "The one that crashed, the airline salvaged some of its parts, put it in other planes, then the spirit of the pilot and copilot haunted those flights."

"Right."

"Seems like we've got a similar thing here," I said.

"Alight, so, survivors—which one do you want to talk to first?" Dean asked, picking up and looking over the list of names Sam printed.

"Third on the list," Sam informed, pointing to the page. "Max Jaffey."

"Why him?"

"He's local," I explained. "But more importantly, if anyone saw anything at all—it's him."

Dean furrowed his brow, dropping his eyes from the page to look back at me. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, while you were hitting on that poor employee–" I tossed a lazy hand to the storefront.

Dean narrowed his eyes and held up a pointed finger. "I was not. It was a dude."

"... because that's stopped you before?" My voice trailed up teasingly. Dean clenched his jaw, hand falling back to his lap with a quiet thud as he tilted his head to the side in exasperation. I'm not sure how he thought I'd leave that one hanging. I poked his shoulder and smiled. "I'm kidding."

"Uh-huh," he hummed, feigning annoyance.

"While we were narrowing down the survivors, I spoke to Max's Mother and asked if we could see him. And she told me where to find him," I said. Dean lifted an eyebrow, prompting me to continue. "He's at the Riverfront Psychiatric Hospital."

Dean's eyes widened. "Dude's in a nuthouse?" He asked abruptly. Sam huffed at his brother's uneloquent choice of words.

"Dean," I scolded. "Don't call it that."

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes. "We're wasting our time on a crazy guy… because?"

"Because this crazy guy might be our only key to solving this shit," I said and gestured to the wheel. "Let's go; we're running out of time."

---

Unlike the old, decrepit, and abandoned psychiatric hospitals I was used to stepping into, this one held a sense of positivity. There wasn't that heavy weight of sadness lingering in the air; it was peaceful. I'm not saying the facility was amazing, not by a long shot. They all had their fair share of issues. But if the people who had to be here were treated well, there's not much more you could ask for. Max Jaffey—a dark-haired man no more than two years older than me—walked with a cane to support his leg injury caused by the plane crash. He was reluctant to talk at first but eventually warmed up to the idea when we told him who we were… or who we were posing as—I should say.

"I don't understand," he began hesitantly as we made our way from the facility's back door to an empty table in the garden. A few patients and caretakers mulled around the lustrous space, picking some of the brightly-colored flowers planted or playing chess to pass their time. "I already spoke with Homeland Security," Max added.

"Right." Dean nodded, keeping an even pace with him. "Some new information has come up. So, if you could just answer a couple questions..."

The reluctant man nodded so quickly that if I blinked, I'd have missed his silent agreement. Sam's brows pulled together in a sympathetic gaze, hands tucked away in his pockets, making him appear far less intimidating than someone of his stature usually would be. "Just before the plane went down, did you notice anything… unusual?" he asked softly.

"Like what?" Max questioned, keeping his eyes on the grass below.

"Strange lights, weird noises, maybe… voices," Dean suggested a few possible things.

Max glanced up at him from the side of his eyes, looking back to the ground with a shake of his head. "No, nothing," he scoffed. Of course, people were always unwilling to admit most unnatural things they witnessed, but usually, after some gentle pressure, they gave in. I was expecting Max to follow the same pattern—finally admit that he had heard or seen something out of the ordinary. For someone who checked themselves into a mental ward, he was awfully sane.

Arriving at one of the tables, Max favored his right leg as he lowered himself onto the chair with a quiet grunt. Dean was about to take the seat closest to him when I subtly pushed him away and sat down. He was being far too intimidating to sit that close to someone we needed to pry info out of gently.

"Mr. Joffey–" Dean started. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I couldn't say I was sure of the angle he was taking here; being an ass would get us nowhere.

"Jaffey," Max corrected with a flick of his eyebrows.

"Jaffey," Dean uttered, quickly sliding into the rest of his sentence. "You checked yourself in here, right?"

"Yeah."

"Can I ask why?"

"I was a little stressed," he smiled patronizingly. "I only survived a plane crash."

"Uh-huh, and that's what terrified you?" Dean asked unbelievingly. "That's what you were afraid of?"

Maybe I didn't appreciate Dean's roughness, but with the harsh questions and finally being able to peer into Max's eyes, it was apparent that he was hiding something. "I'm not trying to diminish what you went through, but you put yourself in here because of that ?" I asked gently, my tone more understanding than mistrustful. "Wouldn't therapy suffice?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Max stated bluntly. His fidgeting fingers brought my attention to his hands and forced me to focus on the numerous rips in the dry sky around his short, bitten nailbeds.

"I think maybe you did see something up there," Dean said, leaning forward onto the table. "We need to know what."

"No," Max insisted, his dark brown eyes closed despite facing Dean. When he reopened them, they were dull. "No, I was… delusional. Seeing things."

"He was seeing things," Dean repeated dryly, shooting exasperated looks at Sam and me as he spoke.

"It's okay," Sam reassured Max. "Then just tell us what you thought you saw, please."

Dean readjusted himself in his chair, leaning on the armrest. I'm surprised he remained seated at all when clearly all he wanted to do was leave. Max took a deep breath and released it slowly. "There was this man," he began."And uh, he had these… eyes—these black eyes," he said.

My face flushed with heat, turning this otherwise mild-temperature day sweltering. Every nerve in my body seemed to light up, sparking like frayed wires. The sound generated by the relatively quiet but busy people filling the courtyard went away as my ears erupted with the thumping of my blood pounding through my veins.

Although I'd gone rigid, Max continued, seemingly unaware of my predicament. "And I saw him—or I thought I saw him..."

"What?" Dean asked tensely.

"He opened the emergency exit. But that's– that's impossible, right? I mean, I looked it up. There's something like two tons of pressure on that door." Max said.

"Yeah."

"This man, uh, did he seem to appear and disappear rapidly? It would look something like a mirage?" Sam asked.

"What are you, nuts?" Max questioned. "He was a passenger. He was sitting right in front of me."

"Right in front?" Sam asked for clarification. I assumed Max confirmed, but I couldn't tell.

I saw Dean eyeing me carefully from the corner of my disrupted vision. "Okay," he told Max as he stood. "We should get going."

Max nodded. "Yeah, okay…"

"Thank you. You've been a lot of help," Sam said politely, shaking Max's hand after he got up.

Dean ran a hand from shoulder to shoulder as he passed behind me, subtly pulling me back to reality. The entire walk back to the Impala felt, funnily enough, like I was on autopilot. My spine tingled like I'd been stung by a thousand bees; it accumulated at the base and fanned outward through my limbs. It was as though my head was in a tunnel, hearing everything around me muffled and echoed. I knew I was the one in control, I was the one moving my feet—but I couldn't feel it. The further I got from the facility, the more I wondered if I should be in there, too.

When we arrived at the car, I reached for the handle of the back driver's side door, only to be stopped by Dean gently grabbing my wrist. I jumped about ten feet in the air, relaxing only when I looked into his eyes. It grounded me, if only slightly.

"Listen, Max, he– he's not–" Dean sighed, struggling to find the words. "What he went through probably messed him up. I'm sure he's–"

"What, crazy?" I snapped, unable to control my irritation. "Like me?"

"I never said that," Dean insisted steadfastly. Guilt instantly weighed down on me from my stupid, off-the-cuff accusation, and I stared at the gold amulet hanging in the middle of his chest, unable to meet his eyes. Dean leaned down to catch my gaze, but I avoided him. "Tor–"

"I'm sorry," I apologized.

"Come here," Dean murmured, pulling me into his arms. I snaked mine around his torso underneath his jacket and buried my face into his chest, focusing on the beat of his heart to calm my own. Within his embrace, my hammering pulse decreased considerably, and my limbs lost their rigidity. Slowly but surely, I felt safe. I could think clearly again.

Perhaps I overreacted. If I were in a plane falling out of the sky, I doubt I'd have the mental capacity afterward to recall the events that caused it. I'm not saying Max was wrong, but probably mistaken. That had to be it.

I filled my lungs with Dean's scent and pulled back but remained in his arms. "Let's go," I said, nodding to the Impala.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," I said, smiling reassuringly. "Thank you."

"Anytime, Cherry Pie," Dean said, squeezing my hips before releasing me. Instead of blatantly staring at us like any other time Dean and I had a moment in front of him, Sam was leaning against the car with his back to us. It was thoughtful of him to give us privacy; I'd have to thank him later. Hearing leaves crunch beneath our feet, Sam peered over his shoulder to ensure he could turn around fully.

For once, Dean didn't immediately avoid eye contact with his brother—he didn't hurry into the cover of the Impala, either. He opened the door and ensured I got into the car before getting in himself.

---

For a suburban area, the street we currently drove down was bumpy, jostling the car and its contents—including us. The nervousness I thought I'd gone away with began to return, bubbling in my chest like boiling water. I tried to ignore the heat it caused, but it was about as easy as ignoring a burn. It seared my chest.

In front of a white, two-story home, Dean stopped the Impala, lowering his head to inspect the residence through the passenger window. "Huh," he huffed at the manicured lawn.

"So here we are," Sam announced, glancing down at the paper with directions scribbled on them. "George Phelps, seat twenty-C."

For the thousandth time since we left, Dean met my eyes in the rearview mirror with his worried ones. I forced a reassuring smile on my lips. There was nothing to worry about. Everything's fine.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Dean shut off the car and got out. Sam waited until we were alone to look back at me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, plastering what I hoped was another convincing smile. "Yeah. I'm good."

If he saw through me, he didn't show it. Before I even reached for the handle, Dean was already at the door and opened it for me. I slid out of the Impala. "I haven't lost any motor skills, you know," I teased, immediately regretting my choice of words.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman," Dean retorted, grumpily pushing the door shut.

"Really? That's new," I joked, bumping my shoulder into his arm. He tried to fight it, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips was obvious.

"Man, I don't care how strong you are." Dean began as we walked up the white brick pathway to the front porch. "Even yoked up on PCP or something, no way you can open up an emergency door during a flight."

"Maybe this guy George was something else," Sam suggested. "Some kind of creature, maybe, in human form."

"What kind of creature lives in the suburbs?" I wondered.

"I don't know. Maybe something we haven't heard of."

"Does that look like a creature's lair to you?" Dean asked, nodding to the home before us.

Inside, Mrs. Phelps, an older woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, held a heavy sadness in her withered gaze. The pristine white couch we sat on was accompanied by equally chalky decor. The entire living room felt straight out of a catalog—no homey qualities whatsoever—save for the framed photograph sitting on a short bookstand of Mr. and Mrs. Phelps smiling at the camera. Sure their house was stagnant, but they looked perfectly normal.

"This is your late husband?" Sam asked, pointing to the framed photo. His voice snapped me out of the anxiety-laden cage I nearly locked myself inside of.

She nodded, the tears forming in her eyes threatening to spill with each jerk. "Yes, that was my George."

"And you said he was a… dentist?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes. He was headed to a convention in Denver," Mrs. Phelps informed us. She sniffled, patting her nose with a tissue. "Do you know that he was petrified to fly? For him to go like that..."

I nodded understandingly. Though I never experienced it, I felt her pain. It'd be impossible not to; it soaked into every inch of the room. "How long were you married?" I inquired.

"Thirteen years. We were very happy."

"I'm sure," I grimaced sadly. "Mrs. Phelps, in all your years together, did you ever witness anything odd about your husband?"

"Odd?" She repeated in question, furrowing her brow in thought after I nodded. "Hm … he had acid reflux if that's what you mean."

My palms turned clammy as I realized that there was no way he was some kind of creature. And if he weren't… it could only mean one thing. This wasn't looking good.

We spoke to the window for a few more moments, but I'd withdrawn—stuck in my head. Images flashed behind my eyes, and I was powerless to stop them. Striding down the porch steps, Dean was getting increasingly upset by the situation we found ourselves in—seemingly more than I was.

"I mean, it goes without saying," Sam started. "It just doesn't make any sense."

"A middle-aged dentist with an ulcer is not exactly evil personified," Dean said, stopping on the sidewalk. "You know what we need to do is get inside that NTSB warehouse, check out the wreckage."

"There's got to be something there," I agreed, biting the inside of my cheek thoughtfully. Dean noticed my expression and immediately turned suspicious and, honestly, a little scared.

"What?" He asked.

"If we're going there as Homeland Security, we gotta look the part."

"Look the part?" Dean asked, sharing a glance with Sam.

"Yeah. And you're gonna hate it."

"Then let's not do it," Dean suggested desperately.

"Sorry, can't do that," I winked, getting into the backseat.

---

Outside the shop, I opened the door for the boys to exit. Sam was the first to leave, having no issues striding out into the moderately busy sidewalk. However, Dean was much more hesitant, poking his head out to ensure no one was in the immediate area.

"Just come out," I instructed, rolling my eyes. Dean took a deep breath, finally leaving the safety of the nearly empty store. Never in my life had I seen someone so disgruntled over clothes. I let go of the door to straighten my black pencil skirt and matching jacket. Was it the most comfortable thing I've ever worn? Of course not. Would I nearly be moved to tears like Dean? Hell, no.

"This sucks ass," Dean grumbled, tugging at his suit's sleeves like an eight-year-old nervously fidgeting before picture day.

"You could be wearing a skirt," I commented.

"Whatever," Dean huffed. "I look like one of the Blues Brothers."

"No, you don't," Sam disagreed, adjusting his own collar. Dean looked hopeful until he continued. "You look more like a… seventh-grader at his first dance," he teased.

Dean pursed his lips in annoyance. "I hate this thing. I'm taking it off," he said, turning back to the store.

"Oh, no, you're not," I said, catching his arm to pull him back.

"I look like an idiot, Tor."

I raised an eyebrow, dragging my eyes down his body. "That's not the word I would use."

His entire mood shifted in an instant. "What word would you use?" Dean asked suggestively as I stationed him in front of me to fix his crooked tie.

"I don't know…." I shrugged. "Authoritative." Dean's face fell, clearly unhappy with my choice. "What?" I questioned.

"Authoritative?"

"Yeah! It's, you know, sexy."

"Then why didn't you say that?"

"Well, I–"

"Can we go?" Sam interrupted, pointedly gesturing to the Impala.

Dean's eyes darted to the Impala and then back to Sam. "No," he said petulantly.

"You want into that warehouse or not?"

Shoulders dropping in frustration, Dean let out a rough, rattling breath and broke away from me to stomp to the car. He swung the door open and plopped down in the seat, a scowl never leaving his lips.

"God, he's such a baby," Sam complained.

"He'll get over it," I said, waving for Sam to follow me to the car.

---

To ensure our cover was rock solid, Dean parked the Impala at the back of the building, which was significantly less well-lit than the front. As we approached the doors, nervousness rolled off Sam in waves, but when we entered the warehouse, he steeled his confidence. The security guard barely glanced at the IDs we flashed and pressed the button to allow us access to the large hangar containing the wrecked plane. The entire front section was crushed, rusted, and singed from the fire after the crash. One of the wings was detached, stationed off to the side of the ample space.

As we walked through the wreckage, Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his EMF meter, plunking the headphones attached to it into his ears.

"What is that?" Sam asked, nodding to the device.

"It's an EMF meter," Dean replied, obviously. "Reads electromagnetic frequencies."

"Yeah," Sam scoffed, stopping his stride. "I know what an EMF meter is, but why does that one look like a busted-up walkman?"

"'Cause, that's what I made it out of," Dean grinned proudly. "It's homemade."

"Yeah, I can see that," Sam commented dryly, dissolving his brother's pride in his creation.

"I think it's great," I smiled, placing a hand on Dean's arm as I passed. "You know, when it works," I jested.

"It works all the time!" Dean insisted, pointedly turning the device on. It beeped to signify its running, with three red lights on top lighting in a row. Dean made his way over to the plane's detached emergency exit door, breaking away from Sam and me.

My stomach twinged with irritation. I grimaced, absentmindedly rubbing my abdomen.

"You okay?" Sam asked, catching this.

"Yeah," I brushed it off. "Cramps."

"We should get you something for it when we leave," he suggested sweetly.

"Hey," Dean called, stopping in front of the plane's door. "Big spike," he explained. Each time he neared the door, the EMF meter lit erratically. "Check out the emergency door handle," Dean said, scratching at some yellow dust caked onto the silver metal. "What is this stuff?" He asked, holding the specs out to me.

I squinted to inspect the particles, coming up with no answer. "I have no clue."

"One way to find out," Sam said, pulling a small, clear bag from his back pocket.

I furrowed my brow, sharing a look of disbelief with Dean. "You always carry those around with you?" he asked.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snapped, focusing on scraping some of the yellow dust into the bag.

"Is that a college thing or just a nerd thing?" Dean pushed, thoroughly enjoying pissing off his brother. Sam paused, shooting him an exasperated look before returning to his task.

The large double doors flew open, their heavy bang against the walls echoing throughout the hangar. We exchanged wide-eyed glances before taking off for the open door that led to the back of the building. Sam hurriedly rolled the bag up and stuffed it back into his pocket as we went, preserving the evidence we desperately needed to figure out what was happening here.

Once outside, we slowed to a relaxed pace, trying not to show how frazzled we'd been just moments earlier. Unfortunately, that cool, calm, and collected thing didn't remain in effect when an alarm blared throughout the compound, and we were back to fleeing. Although the high heels I made the mistake of choosing were not so high, they were still a bitch to run in on this gravely uneven asphalt. The last thing we needed was for me to roll an ankle, so I focused on my balance way more than normal.

Much to my dismay, we neared the only possible way out—a tall, barbed wire fence. Thinking fast, Dean peeled off his jacket and tossed it over the spiked wire, giving us a safe path out. He easily scaled the fence, landing on the other side. It wasn't until I watched him that I realized this stupid skirt held my legs so tightly that it would be damn near impossible for me to do the same.

"Come on, I'll give you a lift," Sam said, interlocking his fingers for me to step up onto.

"One problem," I said.

"What?" Dean hissed. I angrily pointed to the constrictive fabric wrapped around my legs, and he waved me off. "Come on!"

"You want me to flash your brother?!" I asked sharply.

"At this point, I don't really care!" He shot back.

I huffed and hiked the fabric as far as it would go, mumbling, "No more skirts," until the hem stopped at my upper thigh. Sam kept his eyes averted as I put my right foot in his hands and held onto his shoulders, using the leverage to push myself up when he lifted me until I could reach the top section of the fence just below the barbed wire. I slung a leg over Dean's jacket, successfully getting to the other side.

Halfway down, Dean grabbed my waist, helping me to my feet. Due to his vertical advantage, Sam made it over a lot easier than either of us. Dean grabbed his jacket, commenting appreciatively on how these monkey suits do come in handy, and we set off for the Impala.

---

Back at the airport hangar, we'd given Jerry the substance collected from the plane's exit door, knowing that with his biology degree, he'd easily be able to identify what it was. He peered into the microscope he kept in his office, adjusting the sights and petri dish the powder was on. After a few moments of excruciating silence, he leaned back and sighed, "This stuff is covered in sulfur."

If I thought my heart couldn't plummet any further, it just rocketed into my feet. " Sulfur ?" I asked.

"Yeah. That's what it looks like."

"You're sure?" Sam pressed just to be sure.

"Take a look for yourself," Jerry said, inviting him to use the microscope. Sam went over and peered into the ocular, glancing up a moment later to give a nod of confirmation. I don't know how I was naive to think I'd never have to deal with this. That was probably my first mistake. I stupidly sheltered myself from something I had no business trying to leave in the past.

A few loud bangs outside the office, followed by men yelling at each other, drew Jerry's attention. "You fuckin' piece of crap!" A man's muffled voice sounded through the door.

"If you'll excuse me, I have an idiot to fire," Jerry said, giving us a tight-lipped smile as he headed toward the commotion. "Hey. Einstein. Yeah, you. What the heck are you doing? Put the wrench down–" he demanded as the office door closed behind him.

Seeing the look on Dean's face—the one that told me he was about to deny the obvious truth—I spoke before he got the chance. "Nothing else leaves behind sulfur."

"So, demonic possession?" Sam wondered.

"It explains how a human could be strong enough to open an emergency hatch mid-flight," I said plainly.

Dean cleared his throat and pushed to his feet, gently running a hand through the ends of my hair hanging over the chair's back. "Let's get out of here."

"What?" I asked, looking up at him. "But what about Jerry?"

"I'll catch him on the way out; we've got shit to do," Dean urged, going and opening the door, signaling we had little choice in whether we left or not.

Although the weather was mild, my hands were freezing, so I kept them tucked into my pockets on the way to the Impala. All this hot and cold was becoming even more taxing than the anxiety that accompanied it. Thankfully, the inside of the Impala was warm, shielded from the brisk wind. I rubbed my eyes with my thawing fingers until my vision turned into a kaleidoscope. Within the broken fragments, an image of myself appeared—blue eyes turning black. A gasp escaped my lips, and I jerked back, blinking rapidly to clear away the snapshot. So lost in my own head, I wasn't sure whether or not the boys caught what happened. I hoped they didn't, but deep down, I knew I was being delusional.

At a nearby motel, Dean stopped the Impala in front of the office so Sam could book a room. Putting the car in park, he unexpectedly got out of the driver's seat and slid into the back with me. "What's going on?" I inquired.

"I've been thinking…." Dean hesitated, letting out a heavy breath. He avoided eye contact with me until the last possible second. "Maybe you should sit this one out."

My head snapped back in shock. "Excuse me?"

"Tor, you keep checking out," Dean said softly. He wasn't trying to hurt me; that statement did nothing but ring true. If the way I acted this morning was solely from the mention of a demon, how on earth could I be in the same room as one? The harm that could potentially cause the boys was a huge risk. However, my disgruntled state of mind wouldn't accept it.

"I'm fine," I argued.

"I'm not putting you in a position where you go through that again," he said fiercely. "Or worse."

I huffed. "So, what? I'm supposed to kick back and relax while the two of you go after a demon, of all things?" I asked sharply. "Sam will start asking questions—"

"You can't care about that."

"I can't?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not ready to have that conversation with him."

Dean nodded, quick to come up with another solution. "All right, then we'll leave," he stated like it was no big deal.

"What?"

"This town— the whole fucking state —we'll go. I'll tell Sam I got another call."

I scoffed, leaning back into the leather seat. "You can't be serious. The job isn't done."

"Forget about the goddamn job; it doesn't matter," he insisted. What we did always came first. John beat that into our brains regularly—especially after he learned about Dean and me. We had to be rational. We had to keep clear heads. Just like his father, I never heard Dean say the job didn't matter.

"It doesn't matter?" I balked.

"I mean, of course, it matters," Dean sighed, taking my hand. "But you're more important. I gotta do what's best for you."

From the first day I met him, I knew there was next to nothing he wouldn't do for the people he loved—for me—but this reached an entirely new level. Could I ask him to do that? To walk away from everything he knows, from everything I know, just because I was scared? I had no clue how to deal with coming face to face with a demon again, but I knew for a fact that wouldn't be able to live with myself if we left and more people got hurt. Turning my back on it wasn't an option—letting the boys face it alone wasn't an option. It scared the hell out of me, but these waves of fear would never stop if I didn't try to navigate to the shore.

"Maybe that's not what's best for me," I said. Dean's brows lowered in confusion. "I gotta face this."

"Not if you aren't ready," he answered, not missing a beat.

"I'll never be ready," I uttered, swallowing hard. "But that demon has hurt a lot of people. Who knows what could happen if we don't do something about it," I squeezed his hand. "I need to do this."

Dean kept his eyes on mine, looking for any sense of deception. Instead, he found desperate determination. He relented—albeit reluctantly. "If it gets to be too much—"

"You'll be the first to know," I said honestly. "As long as you're there, I'll be okay."

"I'll always be there," Dean smiled, leaning in to kiss me. For the moment, my worries were pushed to the background. Even if I was scared, with him beside me, it didn't matter. I could do it.

---

Inside the motel room, I sat cross-legged on the bed, drowning in the books, picture print-outs, and newspaper articles Sam collected from the library. Dean occupied one of the very few empty spots on the bed next to me, sorting through the stacks of information. A good chunk of the wall behind Sam was covered in more photos of various versions of… demons, as well as pictures of the crash site.

"So, every religion in every world culture has the concept of demons and demonic possession, right?" Sam began, peering over at us from behind his laptop screen. "I mean Christian, Native American, Hindu, you name it."

"Yeah, but none of them describe anything like this," Dean said, picking up yet another article about demonic possession. The word overwhelmed couldn't begin to describe what I was feeling. For a moment, I shut my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths—reopening them to find Dean watching me closely. I gave him a small, reassuring smile.

"Well, that's not exactly true. You see, according to Japanese beliefs, certain demons are behind certain disasters, both natural and man-made. One causes earthquakes, another causes disease."

"And this one likes to hitch rides on planes and make them crash?" I asked.

"I guess."

"So, what? We have a demon that's evolved with the times and found a way to ratchet up the body count?" Dean asked, getting up to put the stack of papers he had finished going through on the table. Flicking through an old and nearly falling apart occult book, I landed on a page with a sketch of a vacant human face.

Its cheeks were drawn in; its jaw was hanging. Thin, wrinkled lips parted slightly to reveal a toothless mouth. Despite the rest of it being terrifying in its own right, the eyes made my breath get lodged in my throat. They were deeply sunken in bruise-like shadows underneath, dripping with large droplets of tears streaming from the black pools that replaced the entirety of their eyes.

Dean's phone rang, jolting me out of the trance I'd been in. Thankfully, he was facing away, so he didn't see what just happened. But Sam did; he was still staring at me, in fact. His eyes swirled with worry. I sniffled and looked away. I never wanted him to see me this way. When John brought me back all those years ago, and I saw that doe-eyed, shaggy-haired boy who showed so much concern for me, I knew then and there that I wouldn't allow him to understand the magnitude of what happened. His entire life was filled with horrors, but this one I could keep.

"Hello?" Dean answered his phone. "Oh, hey, Jerry." Since he was so far away, and I didn't feel like getting up from my sea of research, I couldn't hear what Jerry replied, but Dean's eyes went wide with shock. "What– Jerry, I'm sorry. What happened?"

"What is it?" Sam asked, sitting up straighter.

Dean held up a hand to tell him to wait a moment, asking, "Where'd this happen? I'll try to ignore the irony in that," he scoffed after Jerry replied. I furrowed my brow and shared a quizzical look with Sam. "Nothing," Dean said. "Jerry, hang in there, all right? We'll catch up with you soon."

"Was there another crash?" I asked.

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Where?"

He smirked humourlessly. "Nazareth."

"You're joking."

"I wish I was," he grumbled.

Sam shut his laptop and got up, pulling on his jacket as he walked to the door. I managed to stand without disturbing any of the material on the mattress. Dean grabbed my coat, holding it out to me. I took it, but he wouldn't let go, locking his eyes on mine. "You sure you wanna do this?" He asked.

I nodded. "I'm sure."

"All right," he sighed, releasing the fabric. "Let's go."

---

At the crash sight, a small two-seater aircraft was bellowing with black smoke. I was unable to ignore the irony in it. Or the mounds of sulfur in the cockpit. That gurgling in my stomach returned, no doubt the nervousness building inside me from it all. We already knew what the yellow substance was, but Sam just wanted to ensure. So, we were back in Jerry's office. When Jerry leaned away from the microscope, the look on his face was all I needed to know.

"Sulfur," I confirmed. He nodded. In response to the nerves, I clasped the pendant that hung around my neck between my pointer finger and thumb, rolling the jewel back and forth. It calmed me if only a little. And at this point, I'd take any solace I could.

"Well, that's great," Dean said, wrapping an arm around my waist to bring me to his side. "All right, that's two plane crashes involving Chuck Lambert. This demon sounds like it was after him."

"With all due respect to Chuck, if that's the case, that would be the good news," Sam said from behind Jerry's desk, having just read the crash report.

"What's the bad news?" Dean vocalized the question in all our minds.

"Chuck's plane went down exactly forty minutes into the flight," Sam explained. Dean and I shared a look. First Nazareth, now this? What else? "And get this, so did flight twenty-four-eighty-five."

"Forty minutes? What does that mean?" Jerry asked, catching the looks we shot each other.

"Forty is biblical numerology," I answered. "Noah's Ark, it rained for forty days. The number means death."

"I went back, and there have been six plane crashes over the last decade that all went down exactly forty minutes in," Sam said.

"Any survivors?" Dean inquired.

"No. Or not until now, at least, not until flight twenty-four-eighty-five, for some reason. On the cockpit voice recorder, remember what the EVP said?"

"No survivors," I replied.

"It's going after all the survivors," Dean realized. "It's trying to finish the job."

---

Somehow, the impending doom that circulated in my mind mere hours ago was gone. I expected it to remain until long after we were finished. You'd think I'd be relieved, but it only made me feel worse. I expected the anxiety; I knew what to look for. But now? It was thrown out of wack. In order to keep some sanity, I focused on the list of remaining survivors in my hands.

"Well, thank you for taking our survey, And if you do plan to fly, please don't forget your friends at United Britannia Airlines. Thanks," Sam spoke into the phone in a peppy tone I rarely heard from him. He snapped his phone shut. "All right. That takes care of Blaine Sanderson and Dennis Holloway. They're not flying anytime soon."

"So our only wildcard is the flight attendant Amanda Walker," Dean said, clutching the steering wheel tightly.

"Right. Her sister Karen said her flight leaves Iowa City at eight p.m. It's her first night back on the job."

"That sounds like just our luck."

"Dean, this is a five-hour drive, man. Even with you behind the wheel."

"Call Amanda's cell phone again," Dean suggested to me. "See if we can't head her off at the pass."

"I already left her three voicemails," I said, tossing the paper onto the empty seat beside me. "She must've turned her phone off."

"We're never gonna make it," Sam uttered.

"We'll make it," Dean insisted.

---

True to his word, we did make it with a half hour to spare. After Dean parked the car, I followed Sam to the back of the Impala, stripping myself of any weapons I possessed and dumping them into the trunk along with Sam's pistol. Footsteps strode past me, and I looked over my shoulder, finding Dean heading to the entrance of the airport.

"Dean!" I hissed. He turned back to me with an eyebrow lifted in question.

"What?" He asked.

"We're going into an airport," I pointed to the building, then to the weapons in the trunk. "You wanna get strip-searched in there?"

Begrudgingly, Dean returned to us and started removing all his weapons. It started with the obvious, his pistol, and then a pocket knife and extra bullets. Sam stared wide-eyed at all the items his brother carried. When Dean turned to walk away, a thought popped into my head.

"Ah, ah. Get back here," I instructed, motioning with my hand for him to return. When he was close enough, I bent down and lifted his left pant leg, pulling another pocket knife out of his boot. I balanced it between my fingers. "You still do this?"

"You can never be too careful," he defended. Dean watched me throw it into the trunk and grumbled, "I feel naked."

---

Other than a few travelers mulling around waiting for their flights or killing time during layovers, the airport was fairly empty. My stomach churned, discomfort locking my body. Standing between the boys, I read over the departure board until I found the correct flight and glanced down at my watch. "Boarding is in a half-hour," I informed them.

"Okay. We still have some cards to play," Dean glanced around. Something was off with him, but I couldn't tell exactly what. "We need to find a phone."

"A phone?" I asked, following him as he searched.

"Yeah. To make a call."

"To who?"

Spotting a courtesy phone, Dean made a beeline for it, plucking the receiver from its cradle. "Hi, gate thirteen," he requested. I leaned on the blue, circular counter, drumming my fingers on it. "I'm trying to contact Amanda Walker. She's a flight attendant on flight, uh– flight–"

"Four-two-four," I whispered concernedly.

Dean shut his eyes momentarily and nodded. "Four-two-four," he told the operator. His green eyes sparked when a faint female voice spoke on the other end of the line. "Miss Walker! Hi, this is Dr. James Hetfield," I rolled my eyes at the choice of name, and Dean shrugged, continuing. "From St. Francis Memorial Hospital. We have a Karen Walker here."

I leaned away from him and back to Sam. "What if he can't stop her?" I wondered quietly.

Sam pressed his lips into a line, calculating line. "You up for a little flying?" he asked. When I said I'd dive headfirst, this was not what I had in mind.

"Why not?" I shrugged, throwing caution to the wind. I was really beginning to regret my choice to push through.

"Nothing serious, just a minor car accident," Dean insisted to Amanda. "But she was injured, so–" he paused, eyes going wide. "You what?" He asked, panicked and waiting for her to respond. "Uh, well… there must be some mistake."

Tired of only hearing only side of the conversation, I made my way to Dean's side. He switched the receiver from his left ear to his right so I could hear. "Is this one of Vince's friends?" Amanda asked, annoyed.

Dean's eyes darted to mine, and he shrugged. "Guilty as charged."

"Wow. This is unbelievable."

"... he's really sorry."

"Well, you tell him to mind his own business and stay out of my life, okay?"

"Yes, but… he really needs to see you tonight, so–"

"No, I'm sorry. It's too late."

Dean scrambled. His nervousness threw me. I don't think I'd ever seen him so terrified. "Don't be like that," he insisted. "Come on. The guy's a mess. Really. It's pathetic."

Amanda paused, letting out a heavy breath. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Look, I've got to go. "

"No, no, wait–"

"Tell him to call me when I land," she said.

"Amanda!" Dean called into the receiver just as the line went dead. He slammed it back into the cradle. "Dammit! So close."

"All right, it's time for plan B," Sam announced. I nodded, but Dean's brows tucked down in confusion. "We're getting on that plane," Sam explained.

Taking a deep, calming breath to quell my worries—or at the very least shove them to the back burner—I started for the counter to buy tickets when Dean grabbed my arm and jerked me back. "Whoa, hold on just a second," he said breathlessly.

"Hold on for what?" I asked, glancing down at his hand still attached to my arm. "We don't have the time."

"We– we do," he sputtered.

"Dean, that plane is leaving with over a hundred passengers on board, and if we're right, that plane is gonna crash," Sam told him fervently.

"I know."

"I'll get the tickets; you guys load up on whatever you can from the trunk that we'll need for the exorcism–" I forced the word out and quickly finished, "that'll make it past security. We can meet back here in five."

"Sounds good," Sam nodded, about to head for the exit, when he realized his brother wasn't following and stopped. Dean was ashen, fingernails digging into my arm so hard I thought they'd puncture my jacket.

His pupils were so dilated that almost all of his iris was black, save for a slither of green. "Are you okay, Dean?" I asked, growing concerned.

"Uh, yeah," he wheezed.

"Right, because you always act like this," I rolled my eyes sarcastically. Dean released an irritated breath through his nose.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked him, glancing over at me, silently asking what was happening. I shrugged, having as much of an idea as he did.

"Well, I kind of have this problem with, uh ..." Dean trailed off, waving a hand in the air.

My eyes widened in disbelief as the lines connected. " Flying ?" I finished.

"Yeah," he croaked out.

"Why didn't you ever tell me that?"

"It's never really been an issue until now."

Sam's mouth fell open into a little o. "You're joking, right?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Dean finally released his death grip on my bicep to gesture angrily. "Why do you think I drive everywhere, Sam?!"

"All right," Sam held up a hand in surrender. "Tori and I will go, then."

I was sorely mistaken if I thought Dean's face couldn't drain off any more color. "What?" He squeaked.

"The two of us will do this one."

Dean scoffed out a laugh, any sense of amusement—no matter how strained—dropping from his features when he realized Sam wasn't joking. "You're serious?"

"We got this," I said, patting his chest. "You go relax in the car. Wait for us."

"What are you, nuts?" Dean asked, eyes darting between his brother and me. "The fucking plane's gonna crash! There's no way in hell I'm letting you up there!"

"Dean, we can all do it together, or the two of us can do this. I'm not seeing a third option here." Sam stated simply.

"Come on! Really?" Dean asked, looking for an escape route. When he came up empty, his posture fell. "Man..."

"It'll be okay," I said, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "You go get the tickets," I told Sam. "Dean and I will get what we need."

"All right," Sam said, heading for the counter.

"Okay–" I started, turning back to him. His eyes were wide—uncomfortably so—and unmoving. "Oh my god, are you having a stroke?"

Dean's withering gaze snapped up to me. "Not yet!"

"Come on," I coaxed, tugging him along with me to the Impala. Opening the trunk, I looked over the arsenal's contents, slowly coming to the realization that none of this would make it through customs. " Crap," I huffed, blowing my long bangs out of my face.

"What about this?" Dean asked, pulling a Virgin-Mary-shaped bottle out from underneath a couple of machetes. "Holy water."

"When did you get that?" I asked, sneering at the plastic.

" I didn't."

"It seems like something you would buy," I muttered. Dean rolled his eyes and stuffed the bottle into his bag. "This too," I said, grabbing John's journal and handing it to him.

For a moment, Dean contemplatively weighed the book in his hands. "Man, I wish he was here," he said.

"Yeah, I do, too," I muttered, allowing any heaviness I felt to rest against the Impala. "Listen, Dean; you don't need to do this. I'm sure it'll be quick–" I tried to convince myself more than him. "Sam and I can deal with it."

"No, I said I'd be there. I'm gonna be there," he asserted, stuffing the journal into the bag. "If you're brave enough to go into a plane with a demon, I think I can handle it," he chuckled nervously, attempting to harden his gaze. Whatever fear I felt fell by the wayside. Even though he was scared, he was willing to go through anything for me. So, I had to be strong, too. I couldn't let him down. I wouldn't.

---

In spite of his claims to be able to handle it, I'd never seen Dean so panicked in all ten years I'd known him. I hated seeing him like this, but his discomfort distracted me from my own. I was more focused on calming him than my clamping chest. Dean's heavy breathing filled the boarding bridge. It got to the point that other passengers were giving us strange looks.

For both of our sakes, I took his hand in mine, clutching it tightly. "Just relax. It's gonna be fine," I reassured.

"Uh-huh," Dean mumbled, his wide eyes bouncing around rapidly.

"Hey, if you're so afraid of flying, how are we ever gonna join the mile-high club?" I smirked, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work; his scowl only furthered, and my smirk withered into a flat line. "Okay, then," I mumbled.

Seemingly unaffected by any of this, Sam stepped onto the plane first, leaving me to drag Dean. At this point, I doubt he even knew how difficult he was making it for me to maneuver down the aisle while pulling him behind me.

Eventually, we made it to our seats and settled in. Well, at least Sam and I did. Dean looked as though he was contemplating bolting, so he clutched the armrests to keep himself seated. He watched each person who passed by on the way to their seat, snapping his eyes back to the entrance. When the plane was fully boarded, and the door was shut, the fidgeting began in the form of his knee bouncing up and down, shaking the entire row.

The flight attendant's safety speech only served to further his unease. Dean snatched the safety card from the pouch on the seat in front of us, flipping it backward and forward as he obsessively looked it over.

"Just try to relax," Sam told him.

"Just try to shut up," he replied snappily. With the plane ready for takeoff, the engine started, and for the first time, reality set in. This has got to be the dumbest thing we've ever done.

As it lifted into the air, the plane shook a perfectly normal amount. Dean still jumped in his seat, scrambling to stuff the safety card into the pocket and grab my hand. Within seconds he was cutting off the circulation to my fingers. Sam had a permanent smirk plastered on his face watching his brother suffer. He enjoyed it a bit too much.

"Close your eyes and relax," I told Dean, stroking his hand with my thumb. "It's gonna be okay."

"Mm-hm," he nodded unsteadily, swallowing audibly and leaning back in his seat. He still hadn't let go of my hand. A few moments of quiet passed before he started humming to himself. I instantly recognized the song and chuckled softly.

Sam leaned around me, face scrunched in confusion. "You're humming Metallica?" He asked.

"Calms me down," Dean muttered quickly, not even bothering to open his eyes.

At this point, I was starting to lose feeling in my fingers—any parts of my hand visible underneath his were on their way to a nice shade of light purple. "Dean..." I whispered, patting his shoulder with my free, non-crushed hand. He cracked open his eyes a sliver, peeking up at me through his eyelashes. "We're gonna have to amputate if you keep it up."

Dean glanced down at my hand, his eyes wide when he saw the color. He released some of the pressure but didn't let go all the way. "Sorry," he uttered with a small, apologetic smile.

"It's all gonna be okay," I reassured him and myself and shifted in my seat to ease my nervous ache.

"Look, man, I get you're nervous, all right?" Sam said. "But you got to stay focused. I mean, we got thirty-two minutes and counting to track this thing down, or whoever it's possessing, anyway, and perform a full-on exorcism," he added unnecessarily, his attempt at comfort leaving much to be desired. I looked at him from the side of my eye, my mouth falling open in unease.

"Yeah, on a crowded plane," Dean pointed out snappily. "That's gonna be easy."

"Just take it one step at a time, all right?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever," he grumbled offhandedly.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed, turning his full focus to me. "We have to figure out who it's possessing."

"Right," I nodded, looking around the cabin. "Lots of candidates. How are we gonna narrow it down?"

"It's usually gonna be somebody with some sort of weakness, you know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through," Dean said, rejoining the conversation, much to my surprise. "Somebody with an addiction or some sort of emotional distress."

"But it doesn't really matter," I added. "They can possess anybody, anytime."

"Thanks for that," Dean uttered breathlessly, eyes still wide with fear.

"Okay, well, this is Amanda's first flight after the crash," Sam said. "If I were her, I'd be pretty messed up."

Dean turned to the blonde flight attendant walking past us down the aisle. "Excuse me. Are you Amanda?"

She shook her head, smiling politely. "No, I'm not."

"Oh, my mistake," he replied. When he didn't even bother to check her out as she walked away, that's when I knew how out of it he truly was. Dean glanced back down the aisle at the red-haired flight attendant standing in the entryway of the galley. "All right, well, that's got to be Amanda back there, so I'll go talk to her, and I'll get a read on her mental state."

"Should you be the one to do that right now?" I asked.

"Why not?"

"I don't know, Dean, you're a little bit nervous," I spouted off sarcastically. "I mean, you're still holding my hand," I added. Dean glanced down at our clasped hands again and let go this time.

"What if she's already possessed?" Sam asked, leaning around me again.

"There's ways to test that," Dean said, pulling that stupid Virgin Mary bottle from our bag by his feet. "I brought holy water."

"No," Sam swiped the bottle, tucking it into his hoodie. "I think we can go more subtle. If she's possessed, she'll flinch at the name of God."

"Oh. Nice." Dean ticked a finger in the air and stood. He barely got past the row behind us when a thought crossed my mind that his might've been too scrambled to recall.

"Hey," I called out quietly, causing him to turn back around.

"What?"

"Say it in Latin," I reminded him.

Dean nodded, a small, patient smile on his face. "I know," he turned to leave again when Sam called him. " What ?" Dean snapped, leaning on the back of his seat.

"In Latin, it's Christo," Sam said.

"Dude, I know! I'm not an idiot!" Dean complained through gritted teeth, walking away once and for all. I faced forward again, flexing my hand as it regained its normal color.

"Did you grab Dad's journal?" Sam asked, nodding to the bag.

"Yeah," I said, taking the book from the duffle bag and handing it to him. With Sam's nose buried in the book and Dean gone, I had no buffer. The panic I'd been stomping down started building in my chest again, slowly crept into my throat and plummeted to the forefront of my mind.

"You okay?" Sam wondered, eying me carefully.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I insisted. He didn't need to be worried now, too. Somebody needed a level head; it was looking like that'd be him.

"You've been feeling kinda off lately, right?"

"Uh…" I trailed off and shrugged. "A little. Why?"

"Have you thought about–" he stopped and cleared his throat, fidgeting with the page he was prepared to flip. "Do you think you could be… preg–"

"All right, well, she's got to be the most well-adjusted person on the planet," Dean huffed, sitting back beside me. Thankfully, he didn't seem to hear what Sam said or notice my pale complexion. Could I be? I didn't see how it was possible. There had to be another explanation.

"You said Christo?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"There's no demon in her. There's no demon getting in her."

"So, if it's on the plane, it can be anyone. Anywhere." Sam said, acting far too relaxed after the shitstorm he'd just thrown my way.

Suddenly, the plane shook, jostling the unexpecting passengers. Dean held the armrests in a death grip. "Come on! That can't be normal!" He gritted. I couldn't find it within me to comfort him; Sam's suggestion made my already teetering nerves do a somersault off a cliff.

"It's just a little turbulence," Sam said calmly.

"Sam, this plane is going to crash, okay? So, quit treating me like I'm fucking four."

"You need to calm down," I demanded. It came out far harsher than I intended.

Dean's eyes darted to mine before turning to the headrest of the seat in front of him. "Well, I'm sorry I can't."

"Yes, you can," Sam insisted softly.

"Dude, stow the touchy-feely, self-help yoga shit; it's not helping!"

"Listen, if you're panicked, you're wide open to demonic possession, so you need to calm yourself down. Right now." Sam said in a stern voice I rarely—if ever—heard him use. It made me freeze, and I wasn't even the one it was directed toward.

Dean's chest rose with a slow breath that he, at first, released petulantly until he realized it made him feel better. "Okay," he sighed. "I'm good."

"Good," Sam praised. "Now, I found an exorcism in here that I think is gonna work," he gestured to John's journal. "The Rituale Romanum."

"What do we have to do?" Dean asked.

"It's two parts. The first part expels the demon from the victim's body. It makes it manifest, which actually makes it more powerful."

My head snapped up. "It makes it, what?" I asked.

"It doesn't need to possess someone anymore. It can just wreak havoc on its own." Sam explained.

Dean furrowed his brow. "And why is that a good thing?"

"Well, because the second part sends the bastard back to hell once and for all."

"Well, I am all for that," I said.

"First things first, we got to find it," Dean said, peering around.

"Any ideas?"

"Yeah," Dean smiled for the first time since we stepped foot into this plane. It was tight and didn't fully reach his eyes—but it was something. He pulled his constructed EMF meter from his pocket and wiggled it pointedly, shooting me a wink as he pushed the headphones in his ears and stood.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Sam apologized once Dean was a row or two away. He placed a comforting hand over mine. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I probably should've waited to say something."

"Probably," I chuckled tensely. "Can we not talk about it now? We gotta focus."

Sam gently patted my hand. "Of course, yeah."

To distract myself, I refocused my eyes on Dean, who was trying to wave the EMF meter around the passengers subtly. Almost everyone shot him strange, questioning looks. Sam got up, handing me the journal as left after his brother. Despite having more space now that I was alone, I felt suffocated. Looking down at the slightly unintelligible gibberish sprawled across two pages of the leather-bound book, I was unable to ignore the date John wrote clearly at the top left.

Although he didn't tell me much about what changed my life forever, John did one thing: he made sure I learned Latin. And as I silently read over the exorcism, it was John's uncompromising tone instead of my own voice in my head. The further down the page I got, the more memories flooded my mind. The cabin started to close on me with no one on either side. Unable to handle it any longer, I shut the journal and followed the boys, arriving just as Sam clapped Dean's shoulder, startling him.

"Don't do that!" Dean knocked Sam's hand away angrily.

"Anything?" Sam asked, unphased by his brother's frustration.

"No, nothing," Dean replied, looking over Sam's shoulder at me. "How much time we got?"

"Like, fifteen minutes," I answered, tapping the toe of my boot on the ground. "We had to have missed somebody."

"Maybe the thing's just not on the plane," Dean suggested hopefully.

"You believe that?" Sam asked him in disbelief.

"Well, I will if you guys will," he muttered nervously. Suddenly, Dean stared straight ahead at the brown-haired male copilot who exited the bathroom, heading back for the cockpit.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"Christo," Dean said quietly, barely above a whisper. The copilot froze instantly, head whipping back to us. His once light-colored eyes were now pitch black.

A ragged breath stumbled from my lips, falling flat onto the floor below. Rather than the hammering in my chest I was expecting, my heart seemed to stop beating altogether. It was eerily quiet inside my head, except for the fear fluttering across my skin. I stared long after he rushed into the cockpit, unable to remove my eyes from the space he once occupied.

Fingertips grazed my arm, and I jumped. "It's me," Dean reassured. Although his eyes were full of his own fear, concern for me still managed to break through. "Are you okay?"

"I'm all right," I insisted. "We have to get to him."

"How?" Sam asked incredulously. "We can't go knock on the door."

"Amanda was on that flight—maybe Max wasn't the only one; maybe she saw something, too," I said, slipping past them to head to the galley.

"You think she's gonna believe this?" Sam questioned incredulously, following me with Dean in tow.

"We have to try."

"How much time?" Sam asked, sounding nervous for the first time since we boarded.

"Twelve minutes, dude," Dean replied, his panic rising all over again. I opened the galley's curtain, finding Amanda alone on the other side. She tended to one of the service carts, stacking glasses.

"Oh, hi," she smiled brightly. "Flight's not too bumpy for you, I hope."

"That's actually what we need to talk to you about," I said. Behind me, Sam closed the curtain. Amanda's eyes bounced between the three of us guardedly, but her smile remained in place, albeit a little less enthusiastic.

"Um, okay. What can I do for you?" She asked.

"All right, this is gonna sound nuts–" Dean began. "But we just don't have time for the whole the truth is out there speech right now–"

"Amanda, we know you were on flight twenty-four-eighty-five," I informed her quickly.

Her lips turned downward, expression souring. "Who are you?"

"We've spoken to some of the other survivors," Sam said, avoiding her question. "We know something brought down that plane, and it wasn't a mechanical failure."

"We need your help because we need to stop it from happening again," Dean said. "Here. Now."

"I'm sorry, I–" Amanda stuttered. "I'm very busy. I have to go back–" She tried to walk to the exit, but Dean held up a hand to stop her. Amanda flinched back nervously.

"Whoa, whoa, wait a second," Dean said, holding his hands up in surrender. "We're not gonna hurt you." In an attempt to bring her more peace of mind about it, I hurriedly slipped between her and Dean as he scrambled to add, "The pilot in twenty-four-eighty-five, Chuck Lambert; he's dead."

"Wait. What?" She asked, shaking her head. "Chuck is dead?"

"He died in a plane crash this morning," I explained. "That's two plane crashes in a span of two months. That's not normal; you know that."

Amanda hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting between the three of us. "I–"

"Look, there was something wrong with twenty-four-eight," Sam said. "Now, maybe you sensed it; maybe you didn't. But there's something wrong with this flight, too."

Seeing her resolve breaking, I opted to push a little more. "Amanda, please, you have to believe us. Not to be dramatic, but lives are literally at stake."

"On twenty-four-eighty-five, there was this man," he muttered, eyes flushing with terror as she recalled the events that almost claimed her life. "He… had these eyes ."

"Black eyes?" I asked. Amanda paled.

She looked me up and down nervously. "How do you know?"

"Because one of the other survivors saw the same thing," I said, hoping she'd be more inclined to trust us if we shared experiences.

"I don't understand; what are you asking me to do?"

"The copilot. We need you to bring him back here." Dean told her.

"Why? What does he have to do with anything?"

"Don't have time to explain. We just need to talk to him. Okay?"

Amanda shook her head; brows lowered in distress. "How am I supposed to go in the cockpit and get the copilot–"

"Do whatever it takes," Sam asserted. "Tell him there's something broken back here, whatever will get him out of that cockpit."

"Do you know that I could lose my job if you–"

"Okay, well, you're gonna lose a lot more if you don't help us out," Dean said bitingly, his fear showing clearly.

"Please, Amanda," I begged.

I'm not quite sure what she saw in my eyes—maybe it was panic—but she gave in. "Okay," she said, leaving the galley for the cockpit.

Dean released another slow, heavy breath. "You okay?" I wondered.

"Me?" He gestured to himself. "I should be asking you that."

"I'm fine," I insisted, taking out John's journal. It was a lie. I was far from fine. But what could I do about it now?

"You gonna read it?" Sam inquired, gesturing to the book. I looked down at the pages, stomach churning. It was this sickening feeling that drove me—this fear. I didn't want it anymore, and it had to go.

"Yeah, I will," I said, flipping to the correct pages.

Peering through the opening in the curtains, we watched Amanda cross the aisle and knock on the door. The copilot answered, listening to her as she gestured back to the galley. He didn't look at all like he wanted to follow her but ultimately had no choice if he wanted to carry out his plan. When they started making their way toward us, we moved from the entry. I took a deep breath, tightening my grip on the journal.

"What's the problem?" The copilot asked as he stepped into the room. Dean wasted no time, punching him and sending him stumbling into the wall.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Amanda asked, shocked. Sam hurriedly pinned the demon there despite his best efforts to struggle free.

"Amanda, listen–" I began, but she cut me off.

"You said you were just gonna talk to him!"

"We are gonna talk to him," Dean said, dropping to his knees to put duct tape over the man's mouth so the demon couldn't escape or attract any unwanted attention. He pulled out the bottle of holy water and poured it over him. The demon's flesh sizzled, smoke rising from the burns it created; the sound cycled in my head.

"Oh, my god," Amanda panicked breathlessly. "What's wrong with him?!"

I gently pushed her out of the galley. "I need you to stay outside of the curtain."

"I don't understand–" she lifted her hands to her head, breathing shallowly. "I don't know–"

"You have to calm down. You can't let anybody back here, okay?" I demanded. She stared at me, mouth hanging open in shock. I felt for her, but now wasn't the time to treat anyone with kid gloves, so I gripped her arms—probably much harder than I should've. "Can you do that?"

"O– okay. I can," she stuttered, backing out. I shut the curtains, ensuring there was no gap.

"Uh, Tor? I don't know how much longer we can hold him," Dean spoke through gritted teeth as he and Sam struggled to hold down the demon. I nodded though he couldn't see, and began reading.

I'd barely gotten halfway down the first page when the demon kicked the bottle of holy water out of Dean's hand. Breaking free of their grasp, he pushed Sam into the wall. My first instinct was to jump in and do something, but sense took over, and I quickly realized the only way I could truly help right now was to continue reading—so that's what I did. The demon screamed through the duct tape, his muffled pleas for help almost desperate enough to make me stop. Dean tried to regain control again but was knocked back.

The demon's eyes turned black, and he ripped the duct tape off, grabbed Sam by the collar, and pulled him close. "I know what happened to your girlfriend!" He shouted. "She must have died screaming! Even now, she's burning!"

Though his words made me falter slightly, I continued reading. On the other hand, Sam stilled completely—features drenched in shock and malice. Dean punched the demon, looking to his brother for help holding it down. He called Sam, snapping him out of whatever trance he was in.

"Go ahead, send me back!" The demon bore into me. "I'll tell your Mommy and Daddy you said hi," he sneered. Sam's anger shifted into a rage, and he dug his fingers deeper into the demon's arm.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Tor, come on," he coaxed. When I didn't respond, he raised his voice—something he rarely did to me. "Tor, now! "

Forcing myself out of the pit of distress I almost got lost in, the rest of the exorcism left my lips, and the demon threw his head back, black smoke flying out of the man's mouth and into the vents, and the co-pilot went limp. My heart plummeted.

"Where'd it go?" Sam asked, looking around.

It's like I had on blinders; all I could see was the man lying there, unmoving. "Is he alive?" I asked, lowering the journal.

"It's in the plane," Dean announced. Sam got up and headed toward the cabin.

"Wait, is he alive?!" I repeated with more force, stopping Dean as he moved to stand. He bent down to press two fingers to the man's neck, waiting a moment before nodding.

"Yeah, he's fine," Dean stood before me. "Okay?" he asked; I nodded. "We got to finish it, Tor."

"I know," I said, barely making it through the curtain when the plane plunged. Lights flickered, teetering us in and out of total darkness. I was knocked down by the force, smacking the back of my head into the wall just outside the curtain. The fall caused the journal to fly out of my hand, skittering underneath rows of terrified, screaming passengers. "Sam?!" I called into the chaos.

"I almost got it!" He shouted from God knows where. Of all the ridiculous, asinine situations we put ourselves into, this was how we'd die?

A string of quickly executed Latin came in bursts between the horrified wails of everyone else in the cabin. Relief came and went as the plane buckled. One second, it seemed as though it'd return to normal and then would fall again. This happened a few times until Sam shouted the last word of the exorcism, and a surge of electricity coated the aircraft. As the plane slowly steadied, my nerves leveled out, some of the passengers who had fallen out of their seats picked themselves up and sat down.

No longer hearing anything in the galley behind me, my mind went straight to Dean. I peeked around the curtain, finding him plastered up against the corner of the galley, staring blankly across the room.

"Hey," I pushed to my shaky legs and stumbled over to him, grabbing his shoulders to steady myself. "You in there?"

He hummed, nodding rapidly. I rested my forehead against his chest, finally letting my tense muscles relax.

---

The pilot made an emergency landing at the nearest airport, disembarking shaken passengers into the terminal where multiple FBI agents and paramedics waited. They wasted no time questioning the flight staff. The formerly possessed copilot sat in a wheelchair, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. As we passed, I overheard their conversation. When asked what happened, he said he didn't know and that all he could remember was walking through the airport—then everything went blank. He didn't even remember getting on the plane. At least the demon didn't make him watch.

Although she was being questioned, Amanda mouthed a thank you to us as we passed by. I nodded. She didn't have to, but it was nice all the same.

"All right, let's get the hell out of here," Dean said, snaking an arm around my waist.

"Please," I chuckled under my breath, leaning into his embrace. I just wanted to get away from here. Sam didn't respond, simply following us. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets, closing him off. It was obvious his mind was elsewhere. If it weren't for his arm brushing against mine as we walked, it was as though I could look over, and he wouldn't be there at all.

"You okay?" Dean asked, noticing the undeniable despondency from his brother.

Sam stopped in front of us. "It knew about Jessica," he said, jaw clenched tightly. His eyes were covered in a sheen of misery. "And what it said," he trailed off tentatively, looking at me. "About your parents."

It was another punch to the gut, him bringing that up. I was hoping he wouldn't, but I couldn't fault him for it.

"Sam, these things, they– they read minds," Dean tried to convince him. "They lie, all right? That's all it was."

"That bastard doesn't know anything," I agreed bitingly. If Heaven and Hell truly existed, I couldn't imagine them not being in Heaven. The other option ripped my heart out and stomped on it as though their death wasn't bad enough. "That's what demons do: they try to get under your skin."

Sam nodded, averting his eyes to the ground. The sorrow coming off of him was reminiscent of the night of Jessica's death. I didn't want him to see him spiral further. In an attempt to ground him, I snaked an arm through his, keeping him close as we left.

By the time the sun began to rise, Jerry had arrived at the airport. We met up at one of the hangars storing the very plane we almost died on. I couldn't help but sneer at the aircraft. I never wanted to be this close to another one as long as I lived. Of course, being curious, Jerry wanted to discuss what happened, so I pushed off my antsy desire to leave. Thankfully, after only a few minutes of talking, we gathered around the Impala, saying our goodbyes.

"Nobody knows what you guys did, but I do," Jerry said appreciatively, shaking each of our hands. "Your Dad's gonna be real proud."

"Thanks, Jerry," I smiled.

"We'll see you around," Sam said, opening the passenger door.

"You know, Jerry," Dean stopped at the driver's side of the Impala, resting his hands on the frame. "I meant to ask you, how did you get my cellphone number, anyway? I've only had it for, like, six months."

"Your dad gave it to me," he answered simply.

My eyes widened. "He, what?" I asked. Looking back at the boys, Dean mirrored my shocked expression. Sam hid it well, but I could see frustration creeping up all over again.

"When did you talk to him?" Dean asked.

"I mean, I didn't exactly talk to him, but I called his number. His voice message said to give you a call," Jerry explained, having absolutely no idea the bomb he had just dropped on our heads. "Thanks again, guys," he waved and headed back inside the hangar.

"This doesn't make any sense. I've called Dad's number like fifty times," Sam said, meeting Dean and me at the front of the car. "It's been out of service."

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing his father's number and putting it on speaker. We waited no-so-patiently as it rang, and rang, and rang… until…

"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean," he said, spouting off the number Dean used to call him countless times. It proved he saw… he just ignored us. "He can help."

An insurmountable frustration rumbled through my chest, tears of disappointment filling my eyes as I stared across the lot. Sam stomped away and got into the car, shaking its frame as he slammed the door. Dean glanced over at me and snapped his phone shut. He wouldn't show it in front of Sam, but he was let down. Maybe even a little angry. Drumming his fingers on the trunk a couple of times to calm himself, Dean turned and got into the driver's seat. I remained at the back of the car, looking up into the bright yellow whisps in the sky.

All the time, desperately trying to find him—losing sleep over where he might be or if he was hurt. But the worst was dragging Sam away from Jessica. Maybe what happened to her could've been prevented if he had been there. Lives were destroyed because John couldn't pick up a phone and fucking call us? I wanted to trust him and believe that he had a plan. I desperately clung to hope that he knew what he was doing. Because when we find him, he better have a damn good excuse.

---

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