Crawling around me
Sleepless eyes
Your hands, they haunt me
Finger tipping down my spine
…
Always kept quiet
Clenching my teeth
Find me fighting the floor
Raise me from my bones once more
You're way past praying for
…
I wouldn't want to wake you from yourself
Doesn't sit in your stomach just quite right
Toying with time
…
Heaven forbid, well aware of your sins
In the wake I'll be just like the rest
Tell the sun don't fall, so we'll never forget
Heaven forbid, well aware of your sins
In the wake I'll be just like the rest
Past praying for
VersaEmerge — Past Praying For
My body shuddered violently enough to jolt my eyes open. A few feet away sat a familiar-looking car. A probing feeling forced me to look around, and suddenly, it was no longer dense woods surrounding me. Instead, I linger at the edge of the forest. In the near distance was a place I never thought I'd see again. My house—my home—for a considerable portion of my life. Rather than nostalgic joy, a harrowing sense of dread filled my chest. The cobblestone walkway, covered in shards of slippery ice, led to the once light-blue two-story structure. Now, it was a bleak, speckled gray. Tentative steps creaked the porch steps; I took hold of the usually clean, white railing to steady myself, only to find it rotting and covered in soot. Our welcoming cherry-red front door, which I remembered so clearly, had faded into a deep burgundy—like blood exposed to the air—cracked and brittle and flaking into shards.
Howling wind blew through the porch, tossing my already unruly hair and chilling me to the depths of my bones. The doorknob's mechanism gave an audible click as it turned in my hand, and the sound sent a chill down my spine, not from the cold but from the sense of familiarity it caused. Behind me, the steps creaked—a thick, black fog closed in. On legs of jello, I sprinted into the house and slammed the door shut—
Booms against the motel door jolted me out of my nightmare. "What the hell?" I groggily popped my head from the pillow, searching for the sound while half asleep and tangled in Dean's arms.
"I got it," he mumbled, kissing the back of my head and begrudgingly prying himself from bed. Through slightly open eyes, I watched him slip on his boxers and toss me his discarded shirt from last night. It took me a few tries before getting my arm through the correct hole. When the fabric pooled around my hips, more than getting the job done of covering me up, Dean opened the door
A frantic Sam was on the other side, duffle bag in hand, pushing into our room as soon as he got the chance. "We have to go."
Dean gripped the door knob. "It's the middle of the night!"
"It doesn't matter!"
"Why not?" I complained, glancing at the clock. Four-fifteen. I rolled my eyes—a whole whopping hour of sleep. I sat up, keeping the sheets tucked around my lower half.
"I had another dream."
"When you say dream…?" I trailed off, hoping he would fill the gaps with anything else. Funnily enough, Dean and I had a conversation about this exact topic just the other night. He hoped Sam's premonitions had stopped—gone away just as abruptly as they'd come. Since there seemed to be no rhyme or reason for them to begin with and no instances since Kansas, I believed they might've. I guess we were wrong.
"Like the kind I had about Kansas… and Jess."
"All right, give us a second—"
"We don't have a second."
"I'm not dressed," I explained briskly. "So…"
With the threat of seeing something he'd rather not, Sam hurried from the room. I chose not to dig through my bag and pulled on my jeans from the night before. I was about to take off Dean's shirt when he stopped me and said, "Leave it. I'll grab another one," already doing just that. I twisted the excess fabric into a knot at the center of my lower back.
This was one of the many reasons we only bothered to unpack some of our things. In under two minutes, we collected all our items. On my way past Dean, I ran a hand across his waist, snaking the keys from his back pocket. If I knew him—and I did, all too well—I had slept much more soundly in that hour. "Who's taking the back?" I asked as we stepped outside. "I'm driving."
"You're–" Dean patted his pockets, confusion lacing his features until he zeroed in on the keys dangling from my fingertips. "You gotta stop doing that!"
"Oh, don't complain. You deserve the rest after last night," I praised suggestively. Sam let out an audible groan of disgust and threw himself and his bag into the passenger seat.
"You know, I can't argue with you there." Dean smiled, pulling me in for a lingering kiss. It didn't take long for Sam to demand we hurry up through the cracked window, and begrudgingly, we parted and piled into the car.
My willingness to write off Sam's nightmare as a run-of-the-mill bad dream fell to pieces the more detail he went into about what he saw. A man sitting in his garage, getting locked inside his car by an unseen force and exhaust billowing from the tailpipe in a cloud of smoke that ultimately took this stranger's life. Sam could even recount the license plate, for god's sake. Now, he was on the phone with Michigan police trying to confirm it. So, while I white-knuckled the steering wheel, Dean took a more casual approach. "I'm sure it's just a normal, everyday, naked-in-class nightmare," he insisted. "The license plate, it won't check out. You'll see."
"It felt different, Dean. Real." Sam fiddled with the notepad in his hand. "Like the others."
"Yeah, that makes sense. You're dreaming about our house, your girlfriend. This guy in your dream, you ever seen him before?"
"No."
"Exactly. Why would you have premonitions about some random dude in Michigan?"
"I don't know."
"Me neither," Dean said, proud of his successful point. It made sense; Sam shouldn't have dreams about someone none of us knew. Still, I couldn't shake this feeling. I wished for a distraction and found it in the form of Dean's continued shifting, pushing his knees into the back of the front seat.
"Hey genius, I'm trying to drive here," I said.
"Well, I'm trying to get comfortable."
"Well, stop it."
"You stop it," Dean mimicked in a nasal voice.
"Don't make me come back there," I threatened, glaring at him in the rearview mirror.
"Oh, yeah?" He smirked. "What are you gonna do?"
"Could you guys cut the bullsh– yes!" Sam hurriedly corrected as the operator took him off hold, scrunching his face in embarrassment. "I'm here."
"Nice save," I whispered.
"Jim Miller," he repeated. "Saginaw, Michigan. You have a street address?" Sam asked, scribbling it down. He thanked them and hung up. "Checks out."
"Yeah, whatever." Dean folded his arms and nestled further into the leather. As carefree as he tried to be, I knew the fear vibrating through him because I felt it circling me. Sam was right… again. It happened too often to be a coincidence; this time, it was random. His visions, or whatever they were, were authentic.
"How far are we?" Sam asked.
I felt something jab my arm. "Huh?" I blinked to clear my vision. Sam let his hand fall back to his lap after poking me. Somehow, I traveled three miles without even knowing. It was a miracle that I didn't swerve and hit any of the oncoming cars.
"How far?"
"A couple of hours, at least."
"Drive faster," Sam urged.
"Faster?" My eyes darted to the speedometer. I was already going a good twenty over the limit.
"Yes, faster."
Dean used the top of the seat to pull himself up. "Are you okay?" he asked me. Whatever he saw when I briefly looked back over my shoulder made him suddenly alert. "Tor, pull over."
"No, I'm fine," I argued, tightening my grip on the wheel. "We don't have the time to switch."
This time, I made a point to focus on my task—getting us there in one piece. Nothing, not even the mind-numbing raindrops pelting the windshield, could divert my attention. We arrived in Saginaw an hour ahead of schedule. Sadly, it made no difference. Red, white, and blue lights ominously lit the suburban road, preceded by police cars and a coroner's van. A sizeable crowd had gathered around to watch. I wasn't at all eager to exit the cab and face the fact that we were, once again, too late.
Everyone I bumped into on our way to the forefront of the gathered neighbors ticked up another notch on my anxious scale. I couldn't break my eyes from the coroners zipping a man into a body bag and wheeling him to the van.
"What happened?" Dean asked a nearby woman.
"Suicide," she replied, arms wrapped tightly around herself. "I can't believe it."
Sam shuffled on his feet. "Did you know them?"
"Saw him every Sunday at St Augustine's. He always seems—" She slipped and shut her eyes briefly before correcting herself. "Seemed so normal. I guess you never know what's going on behind closed doors."
"How are they saying it happened?"
"I heard they found him in the garage, locked inside his car with the engine running."
"Do you know about what time they found him?"
"Oh, it just happened about an hour or two ago. His poor family. I can't even imagine what they're going through." Her words were arrows pointing to said family gathered in the home's doorway.
A middle-aged woman collapsed into the arms of a man, sobbing uncontrollably into his chest. He held her tightly, in an almost protective stance, trying to shield her from prying eyes. Behind them stood a despondent young man—no older than Sam—staring blankly ahead. It was difficult to make out his withdrawn features in the moonlight, but he didn't look well. Stringy blonde hair sat atop his head like a tangled mop. He couldn't have brushed it anytime soon. His father died maybe an hour ago. It'd take longer than that to look so worn down.
Dean called my name, bringing my attention back to our immediate vicinity. The crowd had begun to disperse, so he nodded to the Impala, where Sam was already waiting. "We got here as fast as we could," Dean said when we reached the car.
"Not fast enough." Sam's jaw tightened, hands stuffed so far into his pockets that he created puckers in the fabric. "It doesn't make any sense. Why would I even have these premonitions if there wasn't a chance I could stop them from happening?"
"Maybe there's some kind of trick to it—something we don't know," I suggested. It was hard being comforting when you had no clue how. This wasn't a situation I ever thought I'd find myself in.
"You think I need training?" he scoffed incredulously. When he put it like that, it sounded stupid, but I wasn't about to admit it.
"I don't know, anything is possible."
"Obviously," Dean mumbled under his breath.
Sam kicked the toe of his shoe into the ground. "So, what do you think killed him?"
"Maybe the guy just killed himself. Maybe there's nothing supernatural going on at all."
"I'm telling you, I watched it happen. He was murdered by something, Dean. I watched it trap him in the garage."
"What was it? A spirit, poltergeist, what?" Dean ticked off possibilities with agitation.
"I don't know what it was. I don't know why I'm having these dreams; I don't know what the hell is happening!" Sam spiraled, unanswerable questions and mountains of pressure taking its toll. This outburst trudged up the second part of my and Dean's discussion the other night: the frantic behavior that overtook Sam whenever he had one of these visions. Finding a way to broach the subject was challenging, to say the least. Neither one of us wanted Sam to feel like he was going crazy. Dean caught my eye, and for the first time tonight, I allowed a small amount of the mountain of fear inside me to show.
"Why are you two looking at each other like that?" Sam asked abruptly.
"Like what?" I played it off, briefly glancing at Dean for help with an excuse, of which he had none.
"That." Sam jutted an accusatory finger. "You're looking at each other like you're trying to decide how you're gonna lock me up."
"No! That's not it."
"We're worried about you, man," Dean explained, "I mean, I gotta say, you look like crap." Words didn't need to be spoken for Dean to know how I felt about what he said; my face told it all. Granted, the bags under Sam's eyes were heavy—like he hadn't slept in decades—however, no matter how truthful the statement was, this wasn't the most opportune moment to announce it.
"Nice," Sam scoffed. "Thanks."
Dean looked regretful and patted Sam's arm, shooting me an apologetic look for bringing it up. "Come on, let's pick this up in the morning. We'll check out the house, talk to the family."
"You saw them," Sam waved a hand to the house, "they're devastated. They're not going to want to talk to us."
After a thoughtful moment, Dean nodded. "Yeah, you're right. But I think I know who they will talk to."
"Who?" I asked. A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips, snaking into an expression that pointed to a conniving plan like a flashing neon sign. I folded my arms. "I don't like that look."
"Why not?" he asked. I didn't attempt to answer, telling him all he needed to know. Dean rolled his eyes and pried open the Impala's driver's side door. "Just get in the car."
We'd be staying here for at least a few days while attempting to get to the bottom of what happened. After a night of mediocre sleep, another day came. Rather than bombard the Miller's with questions the morning after a loved one's death, we gave the grieving family a moment to begin adjusting to their new life. Nearly every single one of our weapons was in need of a good cleaning and recheck, anyway, so we took the opportunity to spread them throughout the room for organizing. While Sam and I got to work, Dean left and returned a few hours later with the most ridiculous outfits I'd ever seen. I told him flat out I wouldn't be wearing any of it; he insisted I would give in eventually.
Hell, no.
For about twenty minutes the following day, I refused to put even one piece of that fabric on my body, pointing out that I could just not go, to which Dean replied it would look weird for two dudes to show up randomly at some dead guy's house. It culminated in me unenthusiastically slipping the ankle-length black dress over a long-sleeved white sweater and tucking my hair into the headpiece.
"You look good," Dean, dressed in black dress pants and a long-sleeved black button-up adorned with a white color, said when I stomped out of the bathroom.
"Don't talk to me," I snapped, snatching my phone off the side table. "Let's go before I change my fucking mind."
"You might wanna watch that language there, Sister," he chuckled.
I scrunched my nose in faux amusement. "I bet you're real proud of that one, huh?"
"Know what?" He fixed his collar and smiled. "I am."
Much to my dismay, the drive from our motel to the Miller's went fast. Although the very thought of being around a large group of people in this outfit embarrassed me beyond belief, I had to push those feelings aside in order to be believable. Promising myself an attempt at confidence didn't dwindle my frustration. That stayed firmly in its place.
"This sucks," I complained, fanning myself with my hand, which did nothing but whip hot air at my already warm face. "I'm gonna pass out from heatstroke."
"Yeah, this has gotta be a whole new low." Sam adjusted his collar uncomfortably. "Even for us."
"Stop complaining," Dean said, knocking on the door. I flipped him off just before the entrance swung open and hurriedly threw my arm down, clasping my hands in front of my body.
The man comforting Mrs. Miller last night looked us up and down scrutinizingly. "Can I help you?" he asked.
"Good Afternoon." Dean smiled brightly. "I'm Father Simmons, this is Father Frehley, and that's Sister Teresa Stanley. We're from St Augustine's. May we come in?"
Begrudgingly, the man allowed us to enter the busy home. Plenty of people, all stricken with grief, spoke in hushed, comforting tones. "We're very sorry for your loss," Sam said.
"It's in difficult times like these when the Lord's guidance is most needed," Dean said, laying it on a little too thick. I wanted so badly to roll my eyes. There should be an award for this level of self-control.
"Look, you wanna pitch your whole Lord has a plan thing? Fine," the man said sharply. "Just don't pitch it to me. My brother's dead."
Alice Miller, Jim's Widow, entered the foyer, a pan fresh out of the oven in her gloved hands. "Roger, please!" she scolded.
"Excuse me," Roger mumbled, leaving for the other room. His pain was palpable, lingering long after he was gone.
"I'm sorry about my brother-in-law," she apologized. "He's just so upset about Jim's death."
"It's perfectly understandable," I said. "No need to be sorry."
On our way to the living room, Alice offered coffee, and we accepted purely out of politeness. While she was preparing a pot in the kitchen, we took our seats. Sam occupied one of the armchairs, hands clasped in his lap. "Kiss, Dean, really?" I complained to him as we sat on the creme-colored couch, referencing our cover names. "How much worse are you gonna make all this?"
"I don't know yet; it's only ten o'clock," Dean shot back smoothly. The hem of my dress got caught under my shoe, and I tugged it free in frustration, knocking my fist onto the coffee table and shaking the variety of finger foods delicately placed across it. Sam hurried to steady the furniture before Mrs. Miller returned, shooting me a stern look while he did so. I'd like to see him function in the clothing equivalent of a sheet.
Dean plucked a toothpick-skewered cocktail sausage from one of the trays and popped it into his mouth. I subtly nudged his foot with my own, shaking my head in disapproval when he looked my way. "What?" he asked.
"Why don't you tone it down a little, Father," I whispered pointedly, taking great joy in exacting some revenge. Clearing his throat, Dean shuffled the toothpick back onto the plate and posed upright as Alice returned with a pot of coffee and cups, carefully pouring the hot liquid into them.
"It was wonderful of you to stop by," she said. "The support of the church means so much right now."
"Of course. After all, we are all God's children," Dean preached, taking one of the mugs from her. Mrs. Miller was none the wiser to his absolute bullshitting and appeared comforted by his words. At least one of us had fallen for it. Without much interest in the drink, Dean didn't bother to take a sip and instead put it back down.
"Did your husband have a history of depression?" Sam asked, watching her answer intently.
"Nothing like that," Alice said. "We had our ups and downs like everyone, but we were happy." She patted her puffy eyes while more tears fell. "I just don't understand how Jim could do something like this."
"I'm sorry you had to find him that way," I said. "It must have been terrible."
"Actually, our son Max–" she gestured to the downcast young man sitting alone in the corner of the dining room, "he was the one who found him."
"Do you mind if I go talk to him?" Sam asked, already scooting to the edge of his seat in anticipation of her approval.
Mrs. Miller smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Father."
Dean plucked a tissue from the box on the table and reached across me to hand it to her. "You have a lovely home," he praised. "How long have you lived here?"
"We moved in about five years ago," she said.
"The only problem with these old houses—I bet you have all kinds of headaches."
"Like what?"
"Well, weird leaks, electrical shortages, odd settling noises at night. That kind of thing."
"No, nothing like that. It's been perfect."
"That's great." Dean nodded. "May I use your restroom?"
"Oh, sure, it's just up the stairs," Allice directed. Dean shot me a pointed glance as he stood and snatched another cocktail sausage before heading to his destination. I wasn't the only one watching him; Mrs. Miller looked on curiously though she had no air of suspicion about her. In fact, Alice seemed totally out of it—muddled. Perhaps she'd be more alert if this weren't such a rough time for her.
"Thank you for allowing us into your home," I changed the subject before she came to her senses.
"Oh, it's no bother," Alice waved, "I really appreciate the three of you taking the time to come over."
"I just hope we can help in some way."
"Your presence is enough." If only that were the truth.
Another knock on the front door made Mrs. Miller stand. Her husband was clearly well-liked with this steady stream of visitors. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" she asked.
"Of course." I smiled. "Take your time."
Now alone, I inspected the room more closely. Artwork hung from the white walls, and decorative plants and flowers were scattered in patterned vases. Family photos sat on the mantle over the fireplace. They all had the same manufactured quality, most posed family portraits possessed, so I didn't think twice about it. The Miller's appeared normal enough. However, one picture caught my eye. I lifted it from the mantle. Mr. Miller stood beside Max, whose lips were curled in a mock smile. He stared into the camera with matte eyes as his father's hand clamped around the back of his neck, fingertips creating dents in Max's nearly translucent skin.
When I finally pried my gaze from the uncomfortable image, I went from a photo of the young man's lifeless eyes to the real thing staring at me. There was something within Max's lackluster spirit that I couldn't quite place. I was the first to break our eye contact, but not before Sam, still sitting across from Max, noticed the odd interaction.
Having exhausted all my search efforts down here, returning to the couch should've been my next stop, but Max seemed far more observant than his other family members, and I didn't want to risk him calling me out on snooping around. Dean finished hurriedly tucking the tail end of the scanner into his jacket pocket as I rounded the corner, trying to play it cool until he noticed it was me and relaxed. "We gotta come up with some kinda code word for that," he said, straightening his askew jacket.
"That might be a good idea," I laughed. "Did you find anything?"
"Zip. There's nothing here."
"Well, something strange is going on."
"Other than Sam's weird-ass psychic thing?"
"Somehow, yes. There are these pictures and… I don't know, this family, they're just off."
"Some people are like that, Tor."
My lips pursed in thought. "This feels different."
"Do you think we need to stay? 'Cause from where I'm standing, we should just head out in the morning."
"Why wait?" I asked eagerly. I've been in dozens of haunted buildings, but something about this place gave me the chills. I had a hunch whatever off feeling I had didn't come from anything supernatural. "If you think there's nothing, we could go now."
"Let's see what Sam has to say."
No sooner than when we arrived back at the motel, Sam took the Impala in search of property records. Even though we found zero evidence of anything supernatural in the Miller's home, it did nothing to convince him. Leaving was off the table, at least for now. Dressed in my own clothes, I stationed myself at the table with a whetstone and a stack of knives in desperate need of sharpening. On the bed, Dean took apart and cleaned a shotgun. We worked in comfortable silence, save for the radio in the background. There was no stressing over what needed to be said or done. My brain didn't have to function overtime; the sharp sound of metal grinding against stone and Dean softly humming along to the music were the only things that registered.
Around an hour later, Sam returned with a stuffed manilla folder. Setting aside the last two knives to be sharpened later on, I watched him methodically pin papers to the wall in a manner that reminded me so much of John it was almost frightening. Dean only spoke after Sam stared, unmoving, at the wall for a few minutes. "What do you have?" he asked.
"A whole lot of nothing," Sam griped. "Nothing bad has happened in the Miller house since it was built."
"What about the land?"
"No graveyards, battlefields, tribal lands," Sam plopped on the edge of his bed, "Or any other kind of atrocity on or near the property."
"Hey, man, I told you, I searched that house up and down. Used the infrared thermal scanner, and there was nothing. No cold spots, sulfur scent." Dean peered into the barrel of the shotgun to ensure its cleanliness. "Nada."
"The family said everything was normal?"
"Yup," I replied. "Never so much as a light flickering."
"So what, you think Jim Miller killed himself, and my dream was just some sort of freakish coincidence?" Sam asked, eyes desperately flicking between Dean for an answer to his problem.
"Maybe it's not a coincidence," I suggested. "Maybe you just have visions of people in danger."
"And then what, show up too late to do a damn thing about it? What good is that?"
Formulating cheap answers wouldn't help any of us. Nothing about this made any more sense to me than him. "I don't know, Sam," I said honestly, pushing up from the table and crossing the room to the fridge for a drink.
"Either way, I'm pretty sure there's nothing supernatural about that house," Dean interjected comfortingly. With any luck, the more we repeated it, Sam would agree, and we could move on. I
"Well, maybe it has nothing to do with the house," Sam scrambled for another solution. Something strange had happened in that family; I had no doubts about that. Whether it fell into the category of something we could take care of remained to be seen. "Maybe it's connected to Jim in some other way?"
"Look, Sam, if Jim was the one it's connected to, it's gonna be a little hard to get that info now," Dean said. "Maybe we should just– Sam?" The concern in his voice made me turn on a dime, forgetting the open refrigerator. Sam held his head, face contorted. Migraines weren't a regular occurrence for him, and this seemed far worse than a run-of-the-mill headache. Our discussion rapidly took the backseat.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"My head," Sam uttered moments before sinking to the floor. One yelp of pain was all it took for us to rush to his aid. The next few minutes occurred in a blur; Sam cut in and out of consciousness, his glassy eyes periodically training on something across the room before unconfusing again. One second, he was with us, and then the next, he barely looked like himself. Talking to him, trying to regain his attention, did absolutely nothing. This continued for the longest twenty seconds of my life. Just when Dean was about to haul him into the Impala and take him to the hospital, Sam blinked, and he was back, announcing that something was going to kill Roger Miller.
With no valid reason to argue, we piled into the Impala, racing against time again.
"Four-fifty West Grove, Apartment eleven-twenty," Sam informed, snapping his phone shut and ending his call with the police.
"You okay?" Dean asked from behind the wheel. Sam gave the most unconvincing nod I'd ever seen. "If you're gonna hurl, I'll pull the car over. You know, cause the upholstery..."
"I'm fine. Just drive." Sam's voice trembled as he teetered on the edge of a breakdown. "Guys, listen, I'm scared. These nightmares weren't bad enough; now I'm seeing things when I'm awake? And these… visions or whatever, they're getting more intense. And painful." His knee bounced in time with each syllable. "Why the hell is this happening to me?"
"Come on, man, you'll be all right," Dean reassured, trying to hide the shake in his own voice.
"We just have to figure out why you keep seeing the Millers," I said. "Once we get to the bottom of that, we can work through anything else."
"We face the unexplainable every day. This is just another thing."
"No. It's never been us," Sam argued. "It's never been in the family like this. Tell the truth, you guys can't tell me this doesn't freak the two of you out."
Pausing long enough to reveal how he truly felt, Dean finally mumbled, "This doesn't freak me out."
Anything other than admitting the truth would be a blatant lie, and I didn't want to do that. Instead, I swerved. "We'll figure it all out, Sam. We always do."
Nearing Roger Miller's apartment, stationed on the corner of a busy city street, we conveniently spotted him carrying a paper bag of groceries to his building's door. Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief; we made it on time. The closer Dean drove to the sidewalk, the more spooked Roger became. When Sam rolled down the window, he shrank away from us. "What are you guys, missionaries?" he asked.
"No, Mr. Miller, we just want to talk for a minute," Sam said.
"Leave me alone," Roger barked, speeding up his pace to the door. Dean gunned it, sending me flying back in the seat.
"A little warning would be nice," I complained, pulling myself back up.
"Sorry, babe," he apologized, whipping the car into the nearest parking spot. At least this time, I anticipated it and braced myself.
No amount of telling Roger we were here to help stopped his steady stride inside. Once the set of doors was shut, they latched, and with no code to get inside, we had to resort to sneaking around the back. A half-assed lock on a rickety gate gave way with a kick from Dean. Height was on Sam's side, and he hopped onto the short wall separating the alley from the building's courtyard. Dean followed by propelling himself off one side of the adjacent fence and straddling over the wall. He offered me help, but I declined and told him to go. Bringing over a nearby turned-over crate, I used it to scale the brick. Maybe my ascent wasn't as graceful as theirs, but it got the job done.
Speeding up five flights of a fire escape solely to find the worst possible situation had come to pass was our fate. Large splatters of blood slashed across a window and its white ledge; droplets of the same substance littered the brick surrounding the glass. Beneath it, Roger's head lay in the flower bed, wearing a fixed look of shock. Although you had to grow accustomed to death in this life—seeing it, touching it, smelling it—witnessing such brutal things never truly got easier.
"Start wiping down your fingerprints," Dean instructed, shoving a bandana into my frozen hands. Of course, he was the first to snap out of it and think logically. "We don't want the cops to know we were here."
Inevitably the cops would show, and if there was any trace of us, we were screwed. I snatched the bandana and began furiously wiping everything we may have touched—railings, steps, the bricks of the building. Reluctantly, Sam took the other bandana Dean offered and helped, but he was still checked out. The creak of a window opening scared the life out of me. What if a neighbor heard the commotion and came to inspect? When I realized Dean was using his bandana like a glove to slide the window open, my head stopped thumping, but not for long. He used the handrail for balance and hiked himself inside the apartment.
"What the hell are you doing, Dean?" I hissed.
"I'm gonna take a look inside," he replied.
"No, don't—" The tips of my fingers grazed his jacket as he disappeared into Roger's home. Almost on cue, a set of sirens echoed in the distance. Reasonably, we were in the city, and they played like clockwork. Nobody saw what happened to Roger, and no one knows we're here; logic didn't stop my pulse from drumming. Even long after Dean exited the apartment and we had our feet back on solid ground, my grip on the bandana hadn't lessened.
"I'm telling you, there was nothing in there," Dean repeated after his brother asked for the third time. "No signs either—just like the Miller's house."
"I saw something in the vision," Sam insisted. "Like a dark shape. Something was stalking Roger."
"So something's following them around, picking them off?" I asked, dragging my fingernails across the fabric in my hands.
"Could be a vengeful spirit."
"A few that have been known to latch onto families and follow them for years," Dean added to the theory.
"Angiak. Banshees," Sam listed a few.
"Maybe Roger and Jim Miller got involved in something heavy—something curse-worthy."
"And now the something is out for revenge."
"You know, if it's a curse, it might not take them down right away," I said. "There might be some sort of pattern we can follow. Like bad omens leading up to their deaths."
"The men in their family are dying. It could have something to do with that," Sam suggested, thinking it over for a moment as we crossed the street to the car. "Hey, you think Max is in danger?"
"Let's figure it out before he is," Dean said as we piled into the Impala.
"Well," Sam sighed, "I know one thing I have in common with these people."
"What's that?" I asked, unable to fathom any similarities between us and them.
"All our families are cursed."
I huffed. "That's a little harsh, don't you think?"
"Our families are not cursed!" Dean argued staunchly. "We just had our dark spots."
Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Our dark spots are pretty dark."
"You're…" Dean sputtered, "dark."
Upon Sam's insistence, we arrived back at the Miller's bright and early the next morning in our Holy Garb. Forget returning the damn thing, I wanted to burn it. This time, Max answered the ringing doorbell. The same t-shirt and jeans he wore days prior were still in place. He didn't appear to have gotten any sleep, either. "My Mom's resting. She's pretty wrecked," Max informed us as we followed him to the living room. It was strange how much smaller the house looked now that it wasn't packed with people.
"Of course," Dean said.
On nearly every surface were tin trays, some covered with aluminum foil and others with clear toppers, allowing me to see the mixtures of veggies and noodles inside. Max caught me eying the myriad of containers. "All these people kept coming with, like, casseroles?" he said, a minuscule smile tugging on the very edges of his mouth. "I finally had to tell them all to go away. You know, 'cause nothing says I'm sorry like a tuna casserole."
Although I should've retained a bit of professionalism, I couldn't help but snicker. At least I wasn't alone; Sam laughed as well. "How you holding up?" he asked.
"I'm okay," Max answered, hands fidgeting, going from clasped to loose and back again.
"You're dad and your uncle were close?"
"Yeah, I guess. I mean, they were brothers. They used to hang out all the time when I was little."
"But not lately much?"
"No, it's not that. It's just that we used to be neighbors when I was a kid, and we lived across town in this house. Uncle Roger lived next door, so he was over all the time," Max said, a wavering in his voice that shouldn't be present when relieving good memories.
"How was it for you?" I asked. "When you were a kid, I mean."
His lips twitched; a fresh sheen of sweat slicked his skin. "Fine."
"All good memories?" Dean asked. "Do you remember anything unusual? Something involving your father and your uncle, maybe?"
"What do you–" Max tripped over his words, pulling his lips back to bear his teeth as he spoke. "Why do you ask?"
"Just a question."
"No, there was nothing. We were totally normal. Happy," Max insisted. The words he said didn't match his tone or the look in his eyes. Everything about him screamed otherwise.
After his adamant declaration, we quickly realized there was no more information to be gotten from him and left. As Dean said, no family is totally normal and happy; they all have their downfalls, and the fact that Max couldn't admit a single one showed he was covering up more significant.
One city over from their current residence was the Miller's old home. The two-story houses sat feet apart on a hillside street lined with cars. Most neighbors were headed to their cars, preparing for work or a busy day out, but across the street, a man was doing some casual yardwork. His house was directly in line with the Millers'. If anyone had information, it'd potentially be him. We introduced ourselves only with first names and didn't waste much time asking questions after the man, who introduced himself as Ron, agreed to speak.
"Have you lived in the neighborhood very long?" Sam asked.
"Yeah, almost twenty years now," Ron said. "It's nice and quiet. Why, you looking to buy?"
"No," I denied politely. "We were actually wondering if you remembered a family that used to live right over there." I pointed to the home in question.
"Yeah, the Millers. They had a little boy called Max," Dean added, holding his hand to the height of his hip.
"Yeah, I remember. The brother had the place next door," Ron said, a weary look crossing his otherwise jovial features. "What's this about? Is that poor kid okay?"
Sam's head cocked to the side. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, in my life, I've never seen a child treated like that. I mean, I'd hear Mr. Miller yelling and throwing things clear across the street. He was a mean drunk. He used to beat the tar outta Max. Bruises. Broke his arm two times that I know of."
One of those things was enough to make my blood boil, but the fact that the list kept getting longer and probably could go on for some time before stopping burned a fire in the pit of my stomach—nothing made as little sense to me as hearing of a parent who harms their child. "And this was going on regularly?" I asked sharply. Hopefully, Ron knew my vitriol wasn't directed toward him.
"Practically every day," he replied, just as disgusted as we were. "In fact, that thug brother of his was just as likely to take a swing at the boy, but the worst part was the stepmother. She'd just stand there, checked out, not lifting a finger to protect him. I must have called the police seven or eight times. Never did any good."
"Now you said stepmother?" Dean clarified.
"I think his real mother died—some sorta accident. Car accident, I think."
"And all this started after?" I asked. Ron nodded. Out of nowhere, Sam winced and clutched his forehead.
"Are you okay there?" Ron asked.
Sam replied, "Yeah," but his speech slurred, and his legs swayed. Dean and I steadied him despite the slope we balanced on working against us. We thanked Ron for his time and had just reached the Impala when Sam's knees buckled.
"God, not again," Dean huffed, catching his brother at the last second. Ron asked if we needed him to call an ambulance, and while his interjection was sweet, I wished he would just go away for the moment. I waved a hand in front of Sam's glassy gaze. Nothing; his pupils dilated and refused to spring back.
"Dean," I began quietly, "what do we do-?"
"We gotta just wait it out," he said, trying to remain brave for my sake.
Suddenly, Sam sucked in a breath, sending me jumping a good foot in the air, and announced, "We have to get back to Max's house."
"We do?" I panted. Sam struggled to his full height and went for the passenger door.
"Sam, wait a minute–" Dean held him back.
"No!" Sam cried. "We have to go, Dean!"
"Just tell us what's going on," I said, attempting to keep everybody calm.
"It's Max," Sam replied quietly, finally noticing Ron's looming presence. "He's the one doing all of this. He's doing it. Everything I've been seeing."
"You sure about this?" Dean questioned.
"Yeah, I saw him." Sam looked down at our hands. "You can let me go, guys."
"Oh," I released my grip on his jacket, "sorry."
"All right, let's go." Dean rounded the front of the car while Sam and I piled into our respective spots in the Impala. "How's he pulling it off?"
"I don't know, like telekinesis?"
"So he's what, a psychic?" Dean asked as we hurdled down the road. "A spoon bender?"
"I didn't even realize it, but this whole time, he was there. He was outside the garage when his Dad died; he was in the apartment when his Uncle died. These visions, this whole time—I wasn't connecting to the Millers, I was connecting to Max. The thing is, I don't get why. I guess because we're so alike?"
"So alike?" I repeated. That was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. "How are you and him alike?"
"Well, we both have psychic abilities," Sam said, as though that was the only thing to base it on. "We both–"
"Both what?" Dean questioned. "Sam, Max is a monster. He's already killed two people; now he's gunning for a third."
"Well, with what he went through… the beatings, to want revenge on those people? I'm sorry, I hate to say it, but it's not that insane."
"Yeah, but it doesn't justify murdering your entire family!"
"They weren't much of a family if you ask me," I said, folding my arms.
"Come on, Tor, he's not different from anything else we've hunted," Dean said.
"They tortured him, Dean."
"I know," he relented softly. "But it doesn't mean Max gets a pass; we gotta stop him. What else do we do? Hand him over to the cops and say, lock him up, officer, he kills with the power of his mind?"
"Dean, we're not killing Max," Sam butted in. "He's a person, we can talk to him."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Look, if Max won't listen, then we do what we have to do," I said simply, despite the bile rising in my throat at the thought of hurting him. Whether I liked it or not, the bottom line is that someone with the kind of power he possessed needed to think rationally. If he wasn't receptive to it, then he was too dangerous to be left to his own devices.
"We won't," Sam demanded. "Promise you'll follow my lead on this one."
"All right, fine." Dean reached into the glove compartment for his gun. "But I'm not letting him hurt anybody else."
Through the walls of the Miller's home, we could hear Max's muffled shouting. If a graceful entrance were our intention, it was dashed to hell the moment Dean slammed a shoulder into the center of the Miller's front door. They jumped at the intrusion but, strangely enough, didn't appear too shaken. Well, Mrs. Miller didn't, anyhow. Max was covered in sweat and tried to cover a knife on the counter with his arm. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice coated in phlegm.
"Sorry to interrupt," Dean said with a smile.
"Max," Sam began, "can we talk to you outside for just one second?"
"About what?" Max asked, blinking glossy eyes.
"It's private. I wouldn't want to bother your mother with it."
"It'll only take a second," I promised him softly. "We won't be long."
Max glanced back at his stepmother wearily before returning to us. "Okay," he said.
Sam beamed. "Great."
Shaikly, Max ambled over to us with his shoulders curled inward and his arms pinned to his sides. Although my nerves stood on end, I tried not to show it and gave Max a warm smile. Dean twisted the nob and opened the door. It wasn't ajar for over a few seconds when it abruptly slammed shut and locked. Every set of wooden blinds closed, blocking the sunlight and sealing us off inside the house. "You're not from the church!" Max shouted. As soon as Dean pulled his gun, it was out of his hold and skidding across the floor to Max. He appeared to have no clue how to handle the weapon. His fingers curled around the grip uncomfortably.
"The gun was a great idea, Dean," I griped, unable to keep my slights off Max for more than a second at a time. As though watching him would help me; he could do whatever he wanted whether I was alert or not.
"Are you really gonna do that shit now?" Dean barked, eyebrows raised to the ceiling.
"It might be my last chance," I spouted off fast.
"Max, what's happening?" Alice asked, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. "What are you doing?"
"All of you just shut up!" Max screamed, flinging his stepmother back into the kitchen. She hit her head on the corner of the island and clattered to the ground unconscious.
"Max, calm down!" Sam demanded.
Max clutched the side of his head in peril. "Who are you?!"
"We just wanna talk."
"Yeah, right, that's why you brought this!" he gestured to the unsteady gun.
"That was a mistake, all right? So was lying about who we were. But no more lying, Max, okay? Just please hear me out."
"About what?"
"I saw you do it. I saw you kill your Dad and your Uncle before it happened. I'm having visions, Max. About you."
"You're crazy."
"So what, you weren't gonna launch a knife at your stepmom?" Sam asked, tapping underneath his right eye. "Right here? Is it that hard to believe, Max? Look what you can do. I was drawn here, all right? I think I'm here to help you."
Max's expertly held-back tears began to flow. "No one can help me," he sobbed.
"We can, Max," I implored. "We want to."
"You don't."
"We do," Sam urged. "We'll just talk, me and you, all right? We'll get everybody else out of here."
"No way," Dean interjected, moving to take a step in front of his brother. Sam held an arm across Dean's chest to keep him in place.
"Nobody leaves this house!" Max yelled. His voice traveled upward to the chandelier above, its chains trembling from the force of his anger.
"And nobody has to, all right? They'll just go upstairs," Sam bargained.
"Sam, I'm not leaving you alone with him," Dean said sternly.
"Yes," Sam spoke through gritted teeth, "you are. Look, Max, you're in charge here, all right? We all know that. No one's going to do anything that you don't want to do. But I'm talking five minutes here, man."
"Five minutes?" Max asked, glancing back at his stepmother before nodding to Dean. "Get her."
Reluctantly, Dean crossed the space to Alice and picked her up off the ground. I went to follow them up the steps when Max spoke, "Wait! She stays," he said, gesturing to me with the pistol.
"Not gonna happen," Dean seared.
"Dean, I'll be fine," I said.
"Tor–" he warned.
"Your five minutes is wasting," Max ticked.
"Go," I begged. The longer this back and forth continued, the more unhinged Max became. If we wanted to make it out of here unscathed, we had to play along. Thankfully, Dean listened and stomped up the stairs. To my surprise, Max lowered the gun almost instantly and walked into the living room, dragging the toes of his shoes as he went. My stomach sloshed as we followed, taking each armchair that Max angled to face the couch with his mind. He raised a letter opener off the side table and twirled it, its tip digging a small hole into the wood.
"Look, I can't begin to understand what you went through," Sam started cautiously.
"That's right, you can't," Max muttered, eyes locked on the letter opener.
"Max, all of this has to stop," I said.
"It will, after my stepmother–"
"Max, please," Sam begged. "You need to let her go."
"Why?" Max asked.
"Did she beat you?"
"No, but she never tried to save me," he said, lip curled in fury, "she's a part of it, too. I can't forgive them." Honestly, reasons to advise Max against not doing this were running thin. Alice hadn't laid a hand on him, but she didn't stop those who did. In a roundabout way, it was just as bad. In Max's mind, maybe even worse.
"What they all did to you growing up, they deserve to be punished–" Sam said.
"Growing up? Try last week." Max stood and lifted his shirt. My breath caught upon seeing masses of deep purple—almost black—bruises littering his ribcage and chest. Tears prickled my eyes, and I had to look away. "My dad still hit me," he said, returning to his spot on the couch. "Just in places people wouldn't see it. Old habits die hard, I guess."
"I'm so sorry, Max," I said like my apology would do any good. It didn't change what he went through; it didn't matter at all.
"When I first found out I could move things, it was a gift. My whole life, I was helpless, but now I had this. So last week, Dad gets drunk—first time in a long time. And he beats me to hell—first time in a long time. And then I knew what I had to do."
"Why didn't you just leave?" Sam asked.
"It wasn't about getting away. Just knowing they would still be out there. It was about… not being afraid. When my Dad used to look at me, there was hate in his eyes. Do you know what that feels like?"
"No," Sam replied while I shook my head. Not once in my life had I been afraid of something like that.
"He blamed me for everything," Max said. "For his job, for his life, for my Mom's death."
"Why would he blame you for your Mom's death?" Sam asked.
"Because she died in my nursery while I was asleep in my crib. As if that makes it my fault."
Frighteningly enough, Sam's claim of being similar to Max might not be far off. "In your nursery?" I asked.
"There was a fire," Max said. "And he'd get drunk and babble on like she died in some insane way. He said that she burned up. Pinned to the ceiling!"
"Listen to me, Max. What your Dad said about what happened to your Mom… it's real," Sam told him. "It happened to my Mom, too, exactly the same. My nursery, my crib—my Dad saw her on the ceiling."
"Your Dad must have been as drunk as mine."
"No, it's the same thing, Max. The same thing killed our mothers."
"That's impossible."
"This must be why I'm having visions during the day. Why they're getting more intense." Sam said, his eyes catching mine momentarily before he ripped them away. "Max, you and I must be connected in some way. Your abilities, they started six, seven months ago right out of the blue?"
Max's breath caught. "How'd you know that?" he asked.
"'Cause that's when my abilities started, Max. Yours seem to be much further along, but still, this has to mean something, right? I mean, for some reason, you and I were chosen." ]
Chosen, I huffed internally. For Sam, this was a discovered piece of the puzzle; for me, it blared red signs of danger. If what occurred with the Winchesters also happened to the Millers, how many more were out there?
"For what?" Max asked.
"I don't know. But my family and I, we're hunting for your Mom's killer. We can find answers. Answers that can help us both. But you gotta let us go, Max. You gotta let your stepmother go."
"No. What they did to me, I still have nightmares. I'm so scared all the time, like I'm just waiting for that next beating. I'm so sick of being scared all the time. I just want this to be over!" Max yelled, standing from the couch with enough force to push it back a couple of inches.
All the other things in Max's life walked no common ground with my own, but if there was one thing I understood, it was an endless reel of life's most tragic moments that replayed each night. "The nightmares won't ever end, Max, believe me," I pleaded, voice narrowly fluttering from my throat. I rushed to stand in front of him just before he reached the stairs. "And certainly not this way. It'll only make them worse." Raising my hand to touch Max's shoulder made him flinch. I let it fall back to my side. "But you don't have to go through this alone."
Time slowed to a near stop; my words lingered in the air. Max's lips trembled. He held them together tight as a vice. I prayed he would take it to heart. Not for his crap father or equally bad Uncle. Not even for his disillusioned Stepmother but for him. He deserved a life, a good one. The only way to reach it was to leap over this hurdle. "I'm sorry," Max muttered. Double doors behind us flew open, and weightlessness overtook me as my boots skidded across the floor. No amount of digging my heels into the hardwood did anything to stop Max from tossing me and Sam into the dark closet and slamming it shut. A heavy scrape squealed across the ground, lodging against the door handles with a clunk.
We yelled and sounded for Max through the slatted wood. I used the shelf behind me to lean on for leverage while trying to kick the doors open. They wouldn't budge. There had to be something helpful in this closet for me to pry our way out of here. I started searching with the slight amount of light coming through the door: winter jackets, snow boots, and some discarded pieces of luggage. The only somewhat functional thing was an old broom, but the handle was nearly snapped off. Behind me, Sam's incessant banging stopped, and he was on his knees again, eyes glazed over. I dropped the broom and rushed to his side. "Come on, Sam, not now!" I complained, holding him up.
Almost as soon as his vision started, it stopped, and he gasped out a gust of air, eyes wide—full of panic. "No," he scrambled, "no!"
One swift drag rasp against the floor on the other side made the closet doors pucker outward and snap back right into place. Light strobed through the other previously blocked door because Sam had moved the blockade without touching it. He pushed the door open, and sure enough, sitting a few feet away was the kitchen hutch Max used to lock us in the closet. My throat was too cracked to form anything coherent. "Did you– what did–"
Sam rocketed out of the room, saying, "Max is gonna shoot Dean."
"What!?" I shrieked. Panic filled my static limbs and made them move. Every single vision Sam had has come true right down to the very last detail. We were always late. But not this time. Keeping up with Sam's long legs was usually difficult, but I was right by his side this time. The trip from the living room to the bedroom only took a few seconds, yet it somehow felt like an eternity. Sam shot his shoulder into the center of the door and catapulted it open.
Max lurched over the hovering, fluttering gun, barrel trained on Dean and his stepmother.
"Max, no!" I cried. He looked at Sam and me with void-like eyes, shaking and sweating profusely, hardly a fraction of the person I spoke to downstairs. "Please, don't do this."
"We can help you, okay?" Sam pleaded. "But this, what you're doing, it's not the solution. It's not gonna fix anything."
Max trembled, dripping in sweat and clenching his fists so hard that small droplets of blood ran over his fingers. "You're right," he said, drenched in anguish. Then, a moment of clarity crossed his face. In a split second, faster than any of us could do something to stop it, Max turned the gun on himself and fired.
Eventually, Mrs. Miller calmed down enough to call the cops. Still, she was a disassociated mess of runny mascara and smudged lipstick. "Max attacked me." Alice struggled to hold it together as she spoke to the cop interviewing her. "He threatened me with a gun."
"And these three?" the cop asked, gesturing to the boys and me with his pen.
"They're family friends," she said with ease. Lying to the cops wasn't new to her; she'd done so for years to protect her shitty husband and brother-in-law. "I called them as soon as Max arrived. I was scared. They tried to stop him. They fought for the gun."
"And where did Max get the gun?"
"I don't know. He showed up with it, and–" Alice sobbed, head falling into her hands. While she was far from innocent in all this mess, and despite the grudge I would hold against her on behalf of Max, seeing a person crumble to this extent wasn't easy. "I've lost everyone."
"I'm very sorry," the cop expressed condolences and rounded the couch to approach us. "We'll give you a call if we have any further questions."
"Thanks, officer," Dean replied, leading Sam and me out of the house and to the Impala still parked out front. On the way, we passed an EMT—the one who attempted to resuscitate Max—packing up his ambulance.
"If I'd just said something else," Sam muttered, struggling to pull his eyes from the back of the emergency vehicle. "Gotten through to him somehow." Like him, that idea rattled around my mind for the past hour: dozens of scenarios in which we'd said more, done more. Ones where Max realized his mistakes and came out on the other side.
Dean sighed, "Don't do that."
"Do what?" Sam asked.
"Torture yourselves," he explained, like he was inside my head, too. "It wouldn't have mattered what either of you said; Max was too far gone."
"When I think about how he looked at me, man, right before."
"I mean, maybe if we had gotten there twenty years earlier."
"I wish it were different," I sighed, looping my arm through Sam's. There was no soothing way to coat this tragedy. "But I think that was the only way out for him. Or he thought so, at least."
"Well, I'll tell you one thing..." Sam said. "We're lucky we had Dad."
"Well," Dean scoffed out an awestruck laugh, "I never thought I'd hear you say that."
"It could've gone a whole other way after Mom. A little more tequila and a little less demon hunting, and we would've had Max's childhood. All things considered, we turned out okay… thanks to him."
Dean glanced back at the Miller's house, surrounded by first responders. "All things considered."
With another hunt come and gone, it was time for us to pack up and leave. On the drive back to the motel, Sam and I informed Dean of everything that happened while he wasn't present. Well, almost everything. Mostly about what Max had told us about the demon. Dean's reaction wasn't what I expected. To be honest, he hardly had one at all. On the surface, anyhow—something was brewing just below.
I packed my duffle bag, and Sam sorted through the dozens of papers hanging on the wall. Dean was busy backing the Impala up to the motel door for easy access to the trunk. "Hey, Sam?" I called, carelessly folding a shirt and stuffing it into the canvas. There were larger concerns on my mind than a wrinkled t-shirt.
Sam turned just enough to look over his shoulder, a push pin stuck between his teeth. "What's up?" he asked.
"You're gonna tell Dean, right?"
"About what?"
My shoulders dropped to the floor. "You know what," I said pointedly.
Sam fully faced me now. "I need a minute to think about it and just—"
"Just what?" I interrupted. "He needs to know."
"I know."
Over the years, I'd kept a small handful of secrets for Sam—most were too insignificant to give a second thought, and some were so large there was no other choice at the time. However, I wouldn't allow this to be brushed aside and stowed away in the dark. "Listen, if you don't tell him, I will," I said flatly.
"He's gonna think I'm a freak," Sam muttered, quiet as a mouse.
Before I could protest, Dean entered the room with an extra empty bag tucked under his arm. "All right, let's get this show on the road," he said, plopping the bag on the bed and beginning to fill it. For about fifteen minutes, we packed up the room in silence. Different ways the subject could be brought up raced through my mind. Spitting out, "Hey, Dean, did you know your brother can move things with his mind?" just didn't sit right.
"I've been thinking–" Sam started as we made another trip back to the room from the trunk. My heart skipped a beat, waiting for him to finish.
"Well, that's never a good thing," Dean commented, rolling up a pair of jeans and tossing them in with the rest of his clothes.
"I'm serious. This demon, whatever it is," he said. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from speaking. This wasn't what I wanted him to talk about. "Why would it kill Mom, and Jessica, and Max's mother, you know? What does it want?"
"I have no idea," Dean said.
"Well, you think, maybe, it was after us? After Max and me?"
"Why would you think that?"
"I mean, either telekinesis or premonitions, we both had abilities, you know? Maybe he was after us for some reason."
"You were just babies, though," I said, exiting the bathroom with my toiletry bag. "If that thing wanted you, it would've just taken you."
"Sam, demons don't wait," Dean added in agreement with me. "They take what they want when they want it. This is not your fault; that's not what it's about."
"Then what is it about?" Sam challenged.
"It's about that damn thing that did this to our family. The thing that we're gonna find, the thing that we're gonna kill. And that's all," Dean said. He made it sound simple—straightforward and easy. If only it really were.
While Dean was preoccupied gathering some of our things from the dresser, I gave Sam a stern look that said do it now or else. He was scared; of course, anyone would be. But if there was one person on this planet Sam could trust with something like this, it was Dean. "Actually, there's— there's something else, too," Sam finally said, playing with his watch. "When Max locked Tori and I in that closet, with that big cabinet against the door… I moved it."
Dean laughed. "You got a little more upper body strength than I gave you credit for."
"No, man, I moved it. Like Max."
"Oh." Dean paused, collecting his thoughts. His eyes darted to me, silently asking how true his brother's claim was. My head bobbed in a short nod, and Dean stood straighter. "Right."
"Yeah," Sam mumbled, looking torn between being glad to get it off his chest and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
A clatter of silverware pierced the quiet room. "Bend this," Dean said, holding a spoon out to his brother. I scoffed out a laugh and took the utensil from him, tossing it into the sink. "What?" he asked innocently.
"I can't just turn it on and off," Sam huffed.
"Well, how'd you do it?"
"I don't know, I can't control it. I just– I saw you die, and it just came out of me like a punch. You know, like a freak adrenaline thing."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure it won't happen again," Dean wrote it off and zipped up his bag.
"Aren't you worried?" Sam asked desperately, almost as though he wanted Dean to be distressed over it. "That I could turn into Max or something?"
An echoing gunshot replayed in my mind, followed by the thud of a body hitting the hardwood floor. On its last cycle, Max morphed into Sam. Rapid blinking was the only way to rid myself of the image, but the uneasy feeling it caused remained. "That'll never happen," I said adamantly.
"Exactly," Dean ticked a finger in the air. "And you want to know why?"
"Why?" Sam asked.
"'Cause you got an advantage Max didn't have."
"What, Dad?" Sam scoffed. "Because Dad's not here, Dean."
"No. Us," Dean nodded to me and smiled wide, "as long as we're around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you."
Forcing away the prickling chill down my spine, I jested, "We've gotten you this far, haven't we?"
Although it was small, Sam grinned and nodded.
"Now, I know what we need to do about your premonitions." Dean slung his bag over his shoulder and met his brother in the center of the room. "I know where we have to go."
"You do?" I asked. If he had found something, I hoped he would've told me first.
"Where?" Sam wondered hopefully.
A fraction of a second before he spoke, Dean's eyes crinkled—an immediate tell that he wasn't the least bit serious. "Vegas."
"You're joking," Sam complained, looking at me in disbelief when I laughed. "Really?"
"Well, he's not totally wrong," I teased. Sam scuffed, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room.
"Craps tables—we'd clean up!" Dean exclaimed excitedly as his brother got into the Impala. Once he was out of view and earshot, Dean froze in the doorway, and his eager smile faded. Underneath the facade, underneath the jokes, he was scared.
Taking my bag from the bed, I walked up beside Dean. "It'll be okay," I said, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"Yeah, sure it will," he replied sarcastically.
"Hey, look at me," I requested. He met my eyes as I slid my hand down his arm to intertwine our fingers. "What you said, you were right. Sam's gonna be fine because we have each other's backs, and we both have his. Nothing's gonna happen to him."
"You really believe that?"
"Yeah, I do."
This thing going on with Sam wasn't random; we knew that now after meeting Max. What it all meant remained a mystery, and if I dwelled on it too long, the prognosis seemed bleak. But that was the issue, wasn't it? Having hope. That optimistic mindset wasn't something Max Miller knew much of in his life. How could it? For him, each day arrived with more fear than the last. It shouldn't have taken seeing someone like that for me to realize how lucky I'd been. By some miracle, I was fortunate to not only grow up with an abundance of positivity but even after disaster struck my life like a lightning bolt, the people around me kept it running in a steady stream. If it weren't for Dean, or Sam, or even John, I would've suffocated under the impossible weight of hopelessness. They kept me strong in my weakest moments, and now it was time for me to use that strength to lift them—whatever it took.
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