Twenty years, it's breaking you down
Now that you understand there's no one around
Take a breath, just take a seat
You're falling apart and tearing at the seams
…
It's on your face, is it on your mind?
Would you care to build a house of your own?
How much longer, how long can you wait?
It's like you wanted to go and give yourself away
…
It feels good
(Is that reason enough for you?)
It feels good
(Is that reason enough for you?)
Heaven forbid you end up alone and don't know why
Hold on tight, wait for tomorrow
You'll be alright
Heaven forbid you end up alone and don't know why
Hold on tight, wait for tomorrow
You'll be alright
Out of this one
I don't know how to get you out of this one
I don't know how to get you out of this one
The Fray — Heaven Forbid
Present
—TPOV—
With the decision that we'd be going after the demon together, John suggested we stay here in Colorado for a few extra days to regroup. Every flat surface was covered with books, loose research pages, charts, and photos. It felt like we were drowning in details, too many to absorb all at once, but I managed to keep track—mostly by scribbling notes and going over them a few times. It was hard to believe that one person had pieced all of this together.
"So this is it," John said from his spot at the cluttered table, a hint of creeping exhaustion in his voice as he gestured to the sprawling mess surrounding us. "This is everything I know."
"It's…" I pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. "A lot."
"Came out of nowhere, too," he continued, drumming his pen on his palm. "All this time, we've been searching for this demon, right? Not a trace, just… nothing. Until about a year ago, I picked up a trail."
"And that's when you took off," Dean interjected, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of frustration.
"Yeah. That's right. The demon must have come out of hiding or hibernation."
"So what's this trail you found?"
"It starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California." John ticked off the locations on his fingers, his tone grave. "Houses burned down to the ground. It's going after families, just like it went after us."
"Families with infants?" Sam asked, gripping the edge of the counter he leaned against, his knuckles turning white.
"The night of the kid's six-month birthday."
A deathly quiet settled over us, the weight of the realization pressing down like a lead blanket. Sam's shock was palpable, eyes wide with the horror of revelation. His voice shattered the silence. "I was six months old that night?"
"Exactly six months."
"So basically, this demon is going after these kids for some reason. The same way it came for me?" Sam's jaw clenched, and I saw theories brewing like storms behind his eyes. "So, Mom's death… Jessica. It's all because of me?"
"We don't know that, Sam," Dean said, trying to rein in his brother before he jumped off the proverbial ledge.
"Oh, really?" Sam pushed off the counter, his frustration boiling over. "'Cause I'd say we're pretty damn sure, Dean."
Dean faced him, his expression hardening. "For the last time, what happened to them was not your fault."
"It's not my fault, but it's my problem!" Sam shot back, anger flaring, emotions colliding like thunderclouds.
"No, it's not your problem—it's our problem!" Dean countered, his voice rising and the tension thickening the air around us.
"Hey!" I called, shooting up from the foot of the bed. "We're not gonna do this right now." Getting caught up in our emotions was all too easy these days, and with no one else around, taking it out on each other was even easier. I met Dean's gaze and then locked eyes with Sam. "Nobody is getting singled out, all right? We need to think rationally."
Sam dumped his mug of now-cold coffee down the drain and wiped his hands on his jeans. "So why's he doing it?" he asked, stubbornly giving in to my request without outright agreeing. "What does he want?"
"Look, I wish I had more answers; I do," John said, stepping to the front of the table while Dean rifled through some papers to busy himself. "I've always been one step behind it. And the one time that I–" John stopped abruptly and shoved his hands into his pockets. "It won't happen again. I won't let it."
"The one time that you, what?" I asked, my curiosity piquing despite the heavy topic.
John became withdrawn, but not his typical kind. This was different; he looked… guilty. "We need to focus on the fight ahead," he said in a way that told me not to pry any further—at least, not right now.
"How do we find it before it hits again?" Dean asked, peering under a particularly large stack of papers.
"There are signs," John answered, visibly thankful for the subject change. I was still stuck on what he wouldn't tell us. "It took me a while to see the pattern, but it's there. In the days before these fires, signs crop up in an area. Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms. And then I went back and checked and..."
"These things happened in Lawrence."
"A week before your mother died." John barely got the words out. His eyes found me briefly but then quickly snapped to Sam. "And in Palo Alto, before Jessica. And these signs, they're starting again."
A sharp look of determination slid across Sam's face, his jaw clenching as if a switch had been flipped. "Where?" he asked.
"Salvation, Iowa."
A shroud of early morning fog enveloped us as the Impala glided down a narrow two-lane highway behind John's truck. The sky was a dreary grey, not doing much to help in the way of waking me up. I stifled a yawn and rolled my shoulders, feeling the satisfying pop of tension releasing.
Without warning, the Impala's tires screeched across the pavement as Dean slammed on the brakes. I slid forward but managed to catch myself before pan-facing into the front seat. I was ready to ask what the hell happened when I saw brake lights cutting through the fog in front of us. John was veering off to the side of the road, tires kicking up dirt, leaving Dean no choice but to follow.
"Damn it!" John yelled loud enough for us to hear as he left his truck and slammed the door.
Soft raindrops began to trickle down through the branches overhead as we scrambled out to see what was going on. My boots sank into the mud, pushing the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil into the crisp morning air.
"What is it?" Dean asked.
"I just got a call from Caleb," John panted, an equal mix of anger and despair on his face, though I suspected the former was winning.
"Is he okay?"
"He's fine." John's jaw tightened, and his breath rippled. "Jim Murphy's dead."
"How?" Sam asked, his voice heavy with heartbreak.
They'd known him much longer than I had. I could remember only one time since living with the Winchesters when Bobby had been busy, and Pastor Murphy stepped in to "watch" us. Unlike most hunters, he was exceptionally warm and welcoming, and even though we were teenagers and convinced we didn't need the supervision, the change of pace was nice. Now, another good memory was overshadowed by the weight of loss.
"His throat was slashed," John said, not bothering to sugarcoat it. My stomach wrenched. "He bled out. Caleb said they found traces of sulfur at Jim's place."
"A demon," Dean muttered. At the very mention of one of those things, he took a half-step in front of me—a protective stance. I wondered if he even knew he'd done it. "The demon?"
"I don't know." John shrugged, but I could see his rage bubbling underneath. "Could be he just got careless, he slipped up. Maybe the demon knows we're getting close."
"Would it do that?" I asked, my mind racing with the implications. "Try and bait us in or something?"
"Or keep us away," Sam added, his brow furrowing with concern.
John shook his head, silently stating that he wasn't sure.
"What do we do?" Dean asked.
"Now we act like every second counts," John replied. "There's two hospitals and a health center in this county. We split up, cover more ground. I want records. I want a list of every infant that's going to be six months old in the next week."
Dean nodded, already on board with the idea. It was slightly unrealistic, sure, but there was no point in arguing. This was our only lead right now, so it was what we had to do.
"Dad, that could be dozens of kids," Sam said, unable to stop himself from highlighting the obvious. "How do we know which one's the right one?"
"We check them all, that's how," John snapped. There wasn't any give in his voice as he leaned into the confrontation. "You got any better ideas?"
I averted my eyes to the mud below my boots, praying to whoever would listen that Sam wouldn't talk back, just this once. Even if he were right, now wasn't the time to incessantly point it out.
"No, sir," Sam finally replied.
I released a breath I didn't know I was holding and headed back for the Impala. My hand brushed the handle when I noticed John leaning against his pick-up for support. It was a very uncharacteristic thing for him to do. Generally speaking, showing any kind of weakness wasn't his forte.
"John? You okay?" I asked gently.
"Yeah." Gone was the forceful tone he'd used moments before. Now, it was quiet—almost broken. "It's Jim." John faced us with tears in his eyes, his expression raw with grief. "You know, I can't–" He gritted his teeth and willed away his emotions like he'd done a thousand times before. "This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes."
With that, John whipped his door open and climbed into the truck, a resolve radiating from him that seemed to crackle through the air. We were in the dark, fumbling for a match with no sense of light or answers at the end of the tunnel.
After crossing city lines into Salvation, we had a quick regroup at a truck stop where it was decided that Sam and I would tackle the larger of the three hospitals, leaving Dean and John to cover the other two. It was a practical plan, but it did little to mask the unease gnawing at my insides.
Disguised as police officers, we found ourselves seated at a table in the hospital's cramped filing room. The dark blue surface was cluttered with a dozen folders of birth certificates, a chaotic sea of information. Just as we began to sift through the papers, a nurse entered, struggling with another hefty box that she set down with a thud. I let out a puff of air, blowing my bangs out of my face.
The nurse forced a smile, attempting to mask her exhaustion after lugging over that damn box. "That's the last of it, Officers."
"You sure about that?" I asked, letting a sarcastic edge creep into my voice, the weight of the task at hand making it hard to keep my tone in check.
She pressed her lips together, her eyes conveying a shared understanding of our frustration. "I'm sure."
Sam nodded, ever the professional. "Thanks for your help."
"Of course," she replied, heading for the exit. "If you need anything, let me know."
Once the door clicked shut behind her, I couldn't help but vent my frustration. "Why does it feel like half the state decided to pop out kids here?" I complained, surveying the daunting mountain of files stacked before us.
Sam chuckled, keeping busy jotting down names and addresses in his notepad. "Iowa must be busier than we thought."
Cracking open the lid sent dust particles flying into my face. I waved a hand to disperse them and held my pen between my teeth while I pulled out several more folders and started copying their information into my book.
Once we finished a few hours later, I shot Dean a quick text to let him know we were done. It was still overcast outside, with big, puffy grey clouds threatening to unleash a downpour at any moment. A chill crept in with the breeze, making me shiver involuntarily. I hoped Dean would make his way here sooner rather than later; getting rained on was at the very bottom of my list right now. The last thing we needed was to catch colds.
"It's gonna take forever to figure this out," Sam complained, skimming through his full notebook.
"I'm sure there will be something. When we see it, we'll know," I encouraged, holding the door for him. In reality, I didn't have the slightest idea how the hell we were supposed to know who the demon was going after until he did, and we were too late. It seemed hopeless, but I wasn't about to share my fears.
Sam sighed and hiked his bookbag up on his shoulder. "I guess."
When the toe of my boot was inches from the edge of the sidewalk, I realized Sam had stopped. I found him frozen in place, one hand clutching his head and the other gripping his notepad like a lifeline. His knuckles were white, and his face twisted in discomfort, the familiar signs of a vision overtaking him. I rushed back.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "What are you… seeing?"
Even after all this time, I still struggled to grasp the idea of this being a regular thing. It wasn't just that his abilities were foreign; Sam changed when it happened. It wasn't glaringly obvious, but it was there. Each vision chipped away at him a little more. This slow derailing was almost more difficult to watch than if it happened quickly. At least, that way, there would be shock, but once it was over, it'd be over.
"A nursery," he panted.
My heart thumped. I knew I had to fish for more information—to keep him talking in hopes he wouldn't black out on me. "What else?"
"A woman… and—"
"And?"
"A train!" Sam gasped, his eyes widening as if they were taking in a world I couldn't see. He dug into his bag, pulling out a map with frantic energy.
My brows furrowed as I tried to connect the dots. "You saw a train?"
Sam looked at me, lip curled in disbelief. "No!" He scoffed and returned to the map.
"I'm not in your head," I huffed, peering at the paper. "You have to fill me in!"
Suddenly, Sam jabbed a finger at a section, the crinkled paper shaking under the force of his urgency. "Here," he panted, already stalking off without waiting for me to process any of it.
"Wait, what?" I spoke, although he was already halfway across the street. I had to sprint to catch up with him. He'd become more coherent now but barely glanced up from the map as he lumbered onto the grassy field across from the hospital. "Sam, wait!" I called, struggling to keep up.
Abruptly, he came to a crashing halt. I just about skidded to a stop on the slick grass. "I saw a nursery, a house—everything. And I heard a train," he said, finally holding the map steady so I could see and pointed to a set of railroad tracks lining a small neighborhood. "They have to live around here somewhere. It can't be nothing. It has to mean something."
No matter how much his visions scared me, this was far too important to argue. He'd never been wrong before; why start now? "All right," I conceded, letting him lead the way.
What else could I do?
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the tiny suburb lining Grace Street and stopped in a park adjacent to the homes and train tracks to go over the map again. Children played happily on a swingset behind us, a few mentioning the ever-darkening clouds looming above and how they needed to get home because their Mom would be upset if they got stuck in the rain.
For a moment, I was flooded with memories of my childhood—of seemingly endless days playing at the park, of the innocence I had before my world imploded.
"Look, look," Sam said, tapping my arm and pointing to the white, two-story home across the street. Nothing about the place set off any alarm bells for me, but Sam seemed to be locked in, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
"What about it?" I asked, scanning the house again, trying to find whatever had caught his attention so intensely.
"It's the house."
Plastic wheels clopped down the wet sidewalk as a dark-haired woman pushed a stroller, one hand on the handle and the other holding an umbrella. Sam's already wide eyes grew even larger.
"Is that–?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied, moving in her direction. I followed, keeping my pace even in hopes we didn't look off and send her running away.
Thankfully, she was too busy struggling to close the umbrella while keeping her baby steady to notice us coming. By some miracle, this was a perfectly placed problem we could offer a solution for without it seeming too strange.
"Can I hold that for you?" Sam offered as we approached, gesturing to the stroller.
For a brief moment, she looked taken aback but gratefully agreed. "Oh, yes. Please."
Sam held the stroller in place so it wouldn't roll down the slope. "You looked like you needed a hand," he said with a friendly smile.
The woman laughed and shut the umbrella. "I did, thank you."
I peeked into the carriage at the giggling baby wrapped in pink blankets. She stared up at me with big, bright blue eyes. "She's adorable," I said. "Is she yours?"
The brunette nodded proudly. "She is."
"Aw, hi," Sam cooed at the baby, returning the stroller to her mother. "I'm sorry we're being so rude." He smiled politely. "I'm Sam; that's Tori. We just moved in up the block."
"Welcome to the neighborhood!" She cheerfully shook our hands. Her smile spread further. How on earth could she be involved in this mess? She seemed far too sweet. "I'm Monica, and this is Rosie."
Holding my smile became a little easier upon hearing that name. "Hi, Rosie," I addressed the little girl. Rosie cooed, lifting a tiny fist to clench her blanket, and settled back down without another sound. "She's such a good baby."
"I know. I mean, she never cries. She just stares at everybody." Monica chuckled. "Sometimes she looks at you, and I swear it's like she's reading your mind."
I forced out a laugh, wishing I didn't look as stressed as I felt. Was that totally out of the realm of possibilities? A year ago, I would've wholeheartedly said yes. But after Missouri… and Sam… well, I wasn't too sure my beliefs were set in stone anymore.
"And what about you, Monica? Have you lived here long?" Sam asked, disguising fishing for information as small talk.
"My husband, Charlie, and I—we bought our place just before Rosie was born," she said, pointing to the house Sam had seen in his vision.
I tucked my bangs behind my ears to keep my hands busy, if only for a second, and cleared my throat. "How old is Rosie? If you don't mind me asking."
"She's six months today," Monica informed. Her statement was innocent enough, but I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. She assumed our looks of shock came from a perfectly normal reason and said, "She's big, right? Growing like a weed."
"Yeah," Sam muttered, swallowing hard. "Uh, Monica–"
Her smile began to tilt downward at the corners. "Yeah?" she asked, unsure about his sudden shift in mood.
Sam sewed on a happy expression, but it was tearing apart at the seams. "Just– just take care of yourself, okay?"
"You too," she said, hopefully chalking our strange behavior to a moving-induced lack of sleep.
Before too long of a dip in conversation could make things any weirder than they already were, I decided to step in. "Well, we should be on our way," I said.
Monica nodded, eyes darting to a red station wagon coming down the street. "Us too. But we'll see you around!" she promised, breaking away toward her driveway.
Sam backed up, heels teetering on the sidewalk's edge. "Yeah, definitely," he said, trying to play off his breathlessness.
"Come on," I whispered, gently ushering him back across the street.
"Oh, there's Daddy!" Monica happily told her daughter, picking up her pace to meet her husband as he exited their car to kiss her. Charlie tickled Rosie's stomach, and her giggles filled the air. Monica watched them with so much love that I could almost feel it.
Why would the demon be after them? It didn't make sense.
We'd just crossed into the park when Sam sucked in a bellowing breath and clenched his eyes shut. I grabbed his elbows to steady him as he swayed. "What is it now?" I questioned, trying to reel in my panic.
Unlike before, this time, Sam couldn't talk. He sank further toward the ground, resting a good portion of his weight against me. I held him up as best I could while trying to get my phone to call Dean for help. Thankfully, we were shielded by trees and bushes surrounding the park, so no one saw. I wasn't too sure how to deal with some random passerby offering their help.
Just as my finger hovered over the dial button, Sam suddenly snapped out of it. His eyes were wide and full of terror, the kind only produced by seeing something horrible—something that clawed into you and never let go.
"The demon. It's gonna go after Rosie; it's gonna kill Monica!" Sam wheezed, grabbing at my arms to stand upright. "We have to–"
"No!" I held him in place. He wanted to warn her. To get her and the baby to safety. I knew because so did I. But the only outcome of talking to them would be a few curse words slung our way and a threat to call the cops. They'd never believe it. Who would? "We can't do that, Sam. Not yet. Not without Dean and John, okay? We have to wait."
His eyes nervously bounced back and forth. "What if something happens?"
I checked my watch—four o'clock. "Is it dark?"
"What?" Sam asked, brow furrowed.
"In your vision, is it dark out?" I clarified.
"Y– yes?" he stuttered, still confused.
"Then we have a few hours, at least. We have to call Dean, get back to the motel. Figure out a game plan."
Sam nodded and winced at the movement. "Yeah, all right."
I was afraid if I let him go, he'd either collapse or bolt to Monica's. "Are you okay?"
"I think so," he replied, rubbing his forehead.
Once I made sure he could walk on his own, I guided him out of the park and called Dean. I quickly explained what had happened and told him where to pick us up. On the drive back to the motel, we filled him in on the details. It was clear he was on edge; his jaw clenched and his grip on the steering wheel tighter than ever before. Sam's latest vision wasn't just another clue—it could be leading us straight into the fight of our lives.
Time passed differently after we got back. It was slow and fast all at once. Five minutes would seemingly go by in the blink of an eye, yet thirty seconds languished. Maybe it was because I kept obsessively checking my watch, awaiting John's return. All of us had kept our share of secrets from him for valid reasons, but history couldn't repeat itself this time. No matter how unnerving it was to sit him down and tell him the truth, we had to do it.
When John arrived, he immediately noticed a change in the air. When we told him he might want to sit down for this, he stubbornly refused, keeping himself on his feet while Sam and I sat at the table and Dean perched on the end of one of the beds.
Though Sam was still reeling from the effects of his vision, he was the first to begin. He started with what happened back at school, all the dreams he'd had about Jessica. John's knees wobbled, and I wondered how long he would pretend he was okay. Then, Sam told him what prompted us to go to Kansas.
Finally, the back of John's legs crumbled to the edge of the mattress, and he sat. Sam didn't stop. Next, he told him about Max Miller. All leading up to his most recent premonition.
"Visions," John said. It was the only word he'd spoken since this conversation began.
"Yes," Sam replied, rubbing his temples. "I saw the demon burning a woman on the ceiling."
"And you think this is going to happen to this woman you met because..."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because these things happen exactly the way I see them."
"They started as nightmares," I took over for Sam to give him a much-needed break.
"Then it started happening while he was awake," Dean added, crossing the room to refill his cup of coffee. He spoke about his brother's abilities far more casually than he had in the past. He hadn't fully made peace with it, but putting on a brave face was the best option for now.
"It's like the closer I get to anything to do with the demon, the stronger the visions get," Sam said, eyes latched onto the table's worn surface.
"When were you going to tell me about this?" John extended his question to his eldest.
"We didn't know what it meant," Dean said, still facing the counter. He couldn't see how his father's eyes bore into his back, but I bet he could feel it.
John's chest puffed with all the entitlement in the world. He darted his accusatory gaze to me. "I thought I told you two not to keep secrets from me anymore? Something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone, and you call me!" he demanded, as though the two situations were similar.
Dean and I lied to him, that was true. But we had no choice at the time. At least, we didn't think so. As far as Sam's visions went, maybe if John picked up the phone every now and again, we would've been more inclined to fill him in.
My eyes rolled before I could stop them. John's brows ticked up high. "You got something you want to say, Vic?" he charged.
The clang of Dean setting his mug down with force echoed through the room. "Are you kidding?" he barked, facing his father. I held my breath as John's unwavering glare burned holes into him. "Dad, I called you from Lawrence, all right? Sam called you when I was dying. I mean, getting you on the phone? We got a better chance of winning the lottery."
When he realized Dean wasn't about to back down, John looked at me again, then to the floor. He was frustrated but resigned at the same time. "You're right," he admitted, much to our collective surprise. "Although I'm not too crazy about this new tone of yours, you're right. I'm sorry."
Dean stood still, almost like he thought if he moved, the moment might shatter. I wasn't too sure he'd ever heard his father say the words "I'm sorry" before.
"Look, guys," Sam piped up, his voice resolute despite the thin air. "Visions or no visions—fact is, we know the demon is coming tonight. And this family's about to go through the same hell we went through."
"No, they're not," John disagreed adamantly. "No one is, ever again."
The sharp trill of Sam's phone ringing blasted through the room. He flinched away from the sound and hurried to answer the call. "Hello?"
"Sam," a smooth female voice echoed through the static. I couldn't make out anything else after, but the sound sent a chill down my spine.
"Who is this?" he asked. After her reply, Sam's nostrils flared. "Meg," he spat.
How was she even alive?
Sam put the call on speaker and continued. "Last time I saw you, you fell out of a window," he said.
Meg chuckled, the sound dark and full of bile. "Yeah, no thanks to you. That really hurt my feelings, by the way."
"Just your feelings? That was a seven-story drop."
"Let me speak to your Dad."
"My dad." Sam looked at John and held the phone tighter. "I don't know where he is."
His lie was convincing, but she didn't buy it. "It's time for the grown-ups to talk, Sam. Let me speak to him now."
Begrudgingly, Sam gave up when his father held his hand out. "This is John," he said, speaking into the receiver.
"Howdy John, I'm Meg. I'm a friend of your kiddies," her voice twisted with a sinister smile. "I'm also the one who watched Jim Murphy choke on his own blood… still there, Johnny-boy?"
I'm sure keeping his anger at bay wasn't easy, but John managed to do it. "I'm here."
"Well, that was yesterday. Today, I'm in Lincoln… visiting another old friend of yours. He wants to say 'hi'."
Heavy breaths panted through the static, tight and clipped and filled with fear. My head shot up at the sound. "John, whatever you do, don't give–" the man's voice cut off with a sharp slap.
John's eyes went wide. "Caleb?"'
In this line of work, the people you could genuinely trust were few and far between. Caleb was one of the exceptions.
"You listen to me," John spoke through gritted teeth, "he's got nothing to do with anything. You let him go."
"We know you have the Colt, John," Meg said.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he bluffed.
"Oh, okay. Well, listen to this." There was a loud gasp on the other end, followed by a shiver-inducing gurgling sound. "You hear that? That's the sound of your friend dying."
There was nothing we could do but sit and listen. Helpless couldn't begin to cover how I felt. It carved a pit in my chest so deep, it hurt. I shut my eyes, but that only made it worse. Now, I pictured it: the blood running down the front of Caleb's body, the anguish frozen in his eyes.
"Now, let's try this again," Meg demanded, all playfulness gone. "We know you have the gun, John. Word travels fast. So, as far as we're concerned, you just declared war. And this is what war looks like. It has casualties."
"I'm gonna kill you, you know that?" John seethed, but it had no effect.
"Oh, John, please, mind your blood pressure. So, this is the thing. We're going to keep doing what we're doing. And your friends, anyone who has ever helped you, gave you shelter, anyone you ever loved. They'll all die unless you give us that gun."
Although it was short, a list of names flashed through my mind. John wasn't what you'd call social. In turn, neither were we. However, I couldn't help but return to one person in particular. He and John didn't part ways on very good terms, but that didn't matter anymore. Sioux Falls was home for Sam and Dean. With all our time spent there growing up, it became mine, too. None of the people we knew deserved this fate, but especially not Bobby Singer.
"I'm waiting, Johnny," Meg taunted. "Better answer before the buzzer."
John's free hand gripped into a ball, skin stretched thin over his knuckles. "Okay."
"Sorry? I didn't quite get that."
"I said, okay, I'll bring you the colt," John said, louder this time.
"There's a warehouse in Lincoln, on the corner of Wabash and Lake. You're gonna meet me there."
I quickly took Sam's laptop and fired up the browser, inputting what little information Meg had given. She wasn't lying for once. There was an abandoned warehouse there that was set to be knocked down within the coming months.
"It's gonna take me about a day's drive to get there," John told her.
"Meet me there at midnight tonight," Meg ordered.
I shook my head when John looked our way. Even if he never took his foot off the gas pedal, he'd never be able to do it.
"That's impossible," he said. "I can't get there in time, and I can't just carry a gun on the plane."
"Oh." Meg sighed unfeelingly. "Well, I guess your friends die, don't they?"
I placed my tongue between my teeth and bit down to keep myself from calling her a bitch like I really wanted to. It would only set her off, and that wouldn't help keep anyone safe.
"If you do decide to make it, come alone," she instructed.
A click on the other end was followed by the line going dead. I snapped the laptop shut, stood, and took it with me beside Dean. I needed something to keep me from pulling my hair out. "How the hell is she still alive?" I asked, allowing every ounce of anger toward her to seep through my pores.
"A demon," John said simply.
"You think Meg is a demon?" Sam asked, standing and taking his phone back from his father.
"Either that, or she's possessed by one." John shrugged. "It doesn't really matter."
Worry filled Dean's eyes until his irises were drowning in it. We'd been surrounded all this time and didn't even know it. It made me sick. Dean kept his sights on his father for answers only he might be able to give. "What do we do?"
"I'm going to Lincoln," John determined.
"What?"
"It doesn't look like we have a choice. If I don't go, a lot of people die—our friends die."
"Dad, the demon is coming tonight," Sam pointed out. "For Monica and her family. That gun is all we got, you can't just hand it over."
"Who said anything about handing it over?" John asked.
"I'm sorry you lost me," I blurted out, cutting in before I could stop myself.
"Look, besides us and a couple of vampires, no one has really seen the gun. No one knows what it looks like."
"So what, you're just going to pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?" Dean asked incredulously.
Generally, going along with John's plans was easy. When it came to hunting, he knew what he was talking about, but this? This didn't make sense.
"Antique store," John said, the hint of a smirk on his face.
"Hold on," I held up a hand. "You want to give Meg—who we think is a demon—a fake gun and hope she doesn't notice?"
"Look, as long as it's close, she shouldn't be able to tell the difference."
"Until she tries to use it, and it doesn't work."
"She won't do that."
"How do you know?"
His frustration grew, but he tampered it down. Whether he liked it or not, I brought up a valid point. "I just need to buy a few hours, that's all."
"You mean for us," Sam deduced, nodding to his brother and me. "You want us to stay here and kill this demon by ourselves?"
"No, Sam. I want to stop losing people we love." John's voice trembled, barely holding it together. "I want you to go to school; I want Dean and Vic to have a home—a family of their own. I want—" His voice cracked, and he turned away, fighting to keep his composure.
For a moment, the room felt unbearably heavy. Nobody moved; no one even breathed.
When John turned back around, his eyes were glossy with tears he refused to shed. "I want Mary alive. I just want this to be over."
While Sam and Dean made a quick trip to a local antique shop in search of an old revolver that could pass for the Colt, I stayed behind with John, clearing out the room and loading up his truck with everything he'd need to battle a demon. It wouldn't be his first time, but he had to be prepared for anything.
John wasn't a man of many words, but now, he was especially quiet, only speaking when necessary. Even after we finished packing and climbed into the truck, he didn't so much as mumble. Instead, he blared the radio.
Fifteen minutes of The Doors later, we arrived at the meeting point—a secluded backroad by a train bridge that boarded state lines. This was the best starting point for John if he wanted a chance to reach Lincoln on time.
Rather than stay in the confines of the cab, I got out and leaned against the tailgate, waiting for the Impala to emerge from the trees.
John called my name out of nowhere, startling me. "Yeah?" I asked.
He cleared his throat. "There's something I need to tell you. About your parents."
"My parents?" I repeated, taken aback. Like most things from the past, he rarely ever mentioned them.
John nodded but kept a distance, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. "That night I showed up—"
"How did you know?" I interrupted, my curiosity getting the better of me. I'd asked this question before, but he always brushed it off. Eventually, I learned not to pester him too much and told myself I was okay with staying in the dark, but now, with everything that had come to light, I figured it couldn't hurt to ask again.
"Missouri," he revealed, his voice low. "She had a vision. Knew you needed help."
"Really?" She had known so much for so long; it was no wonder she understood me so well when we finally met in person.
John's teeth clenched with a snap. The pain in his face was evident. He shifted uncomfortably as if he regretted bringing up the subject. "But that's not the part I want to talk about."
A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. "Okay?" I mumbled, uncertain. I couldn't fathom what else there'd be.
"Something else happened—more than I told you," John said, his mouth tightening into a grim line. "More than I knew back then."
My breathing grew shallow. "What is it?" I choked out.
"Rose–" He hesitated, his voice faltering. "Your Mom, she…"
The roar of the Impala's engine cut through the air, signaling that time was slipping away. We both knew the boys would arrive any minute, and John would need to leave. My heart pounded so loudly that it seemed to drown out everything else. The knot in my chest plummeted to my stomach, filling me with a sickness that made it hard to focus on anything but the crippling memories this conversation regurgitated. The flash of darkness in Mom's eyes, the way her lips curled into a sneer, and her voice came out in a slither.
"She what?" I pressed urgently, desperate to know what he was holding back.
John cast his eyes to the long dirt road, the weight of his internal struggle etched on his face. I didn't care; I just wanted to know. The Impala skidded to a stop before us. Finally, he shook his head and his decision was made. "We'll talk later," he said firmly.
A sudden, unsettling thought crossed my mind, one that I had never thought of before. For the most part, demons were purveyors of death and destruction for the fun of it, but there were clearly deeper reasons for their actions, at least for some of them. My parents had kept secrets from me before. They were trying to protect me from their world, from the terrifying truths I only discovered after their deaths. But was there more I needed to know?
It didn't take long for Dean to pick up on the change in me. The moment his boots hit the dirt, and his eyes locked onto mine, he knew. He didn't need words to ask what was wrong—I saw the question in how he looked at me, but I wasn't sure how to answer. So rather than face his worried gaze, I looked at the old, rickety railroad bridge.
Parts of the wood were chipped and rotting; screws were loose and protruding. The structure had held so much weight for so long, and it was only a matter of time before it buckled under the pressure.
"You get it?" John asked. The burden of telling me what he wanted was lifted off his shoulders, but another quickly replaced it as our impending goals drew nearer.
Dean pulled a brown paper bag from his jacket and handed it over. "You know this is a trap, don't you?" he asked. "That's why Meg wants you to come alone?"
A wry smirk lifted the corner of John's mouth. "I can handle her." He pulled the Colt from his jacket pocket, unwrapped the decoy, and compared it to the original. They were a close match, hopefully close enough. "I got a whole arsenal loaded. Holy water, Mandaic, amulets–"
"Dad," Dean interrupted.
"What?"
"Promise me something."
John finally looked up. "What's that?"
"This thing goes south just… get the hell out," Dean pleaded. "Don't get yourself killed, all right? You're no good to us dead."
"Same goes for you," John said. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "All right, listen to me. They made the bullets special for this colt. There's only four of them left. Without them, this gun is useless. You make every shot count."
"Yes, sir," Sam said.
Dean remained quiet, as did I.
"Been waiting a long time for this fight. Now it's here; I'm not gonna be in it." John looked at his boys, brow furrowed and jaw set with a fierce, determined gaze. His eyes held a similar intensity when they landed on me, but there was an added layer—something heavy, like regret. "It's up to you kids now. It's your fight, you finish this. You finish what I started. Understand?"
Only the distant whistle of a train's horn broke the silence; otherwise, everything was still until Sam gave a minute nod. With that confirmation, John handed the Colt to Dean and tucked the decoy away.
"We'll see you soon, Dad," Sam muttered.
John smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll see you later," he said, patting Sam on the shoulder and heading for the driver's seat of his truck.
I wanted to demand that he finish telling me what he found out about my parents. It wasn't fair to leave me with all these questions—more than I've ever had, which was saying something. But as I tried to speak, the words lodged in my throat. The real reason I was so desperate for him to stay and talk was sinking in. All the see you later's in the world couldn't conceal the possibility that he might not come back.
The idea of that was almost too hard to fathom—not just for the sake of the boys, but for me, too. Despite any past wrongs or disagreements, John was family.
I couldn't let this swallow me whole, not now, not after everything. I needed to find my strength. To be present, resilient, for Sam and Dean. So I tightened my grip on my emotions, determined to push past the rolling waves of question-induced anxiety. John would tell me when this was all over with—he had to.
With John long gone, probably halfway to Lincoln by now, the boys and I stationed ourselves in front of Monica's house. I leaned against the interior back door, staring at the home through the window. All the lights were off, and everyone was sound asleep, no doubt. What we were waiting for, I didn't know. I doubt the demon will show up wearing a big neon sign. How the hell would we be able to tell he's even here?
"This is weird," Sam piped up from the passenger seat. "After all of these years, we're finally here. It doesn't seem real."
Dean nodded understandingly but kept his game face in place. "We just gotta keep our heads and do our job, like always," he said.
"Yeah," Sam scoffed. "But this isn't like always."
"True."
"Listen guys…" Sam trailed off, an uncertainty in his voice that wasn't there before. "I wanna thank you."
I raised a questioning brow and straightened up. "For what?" I asked.
"For everything," he answered simply. "You've always had my back, you know? Even when I couldn't count on anyone, I could always count on you guys. And I don't know. I just wanted to let you know… just in case."
"Whoa, whoa," Dean began indignantly, hand raised and eyes flaring. "Are you kidding me? Don't say just in case something happens to you. I don't wanna hear that freaking speech, man. Nobody's dying tonight. Not us, not that family—nobody. Except that demon. That evil son of a bitch ain't getting any older than tonight, you understand me?" He was so full of conviction, it was easy to buy into every word.
Sam gave a feeble nod and returned his gaze outside. "Yeah. I do."
Dean glanced back at me, an eyebrow raised in question.
"You know it," I said with a smile.
Seconds trickled into minutes, and before I knew it, we'd been sitting here for an hour with nothing to show. No smell of sulfur, no shadows stalking the house, no rustling in the trees. Everything was silent, including our phones.
I leaned forward to rest an arm on the front seat between the boys. "Shouldn't John have called by now?"
Dean was already reaching for his phone when Sam replied, "I guess."
I scooted closer, listening to the few slow rings before the line crackled and went to voicemail. "Dad's not answering," Dean announced, clapping his phone shut and stuffing it between the seat and his leg.
"Maybe Meg was late," Sam reasoned offhandedly.
"Seriously?" I questioned. "Maybe a demon was late?"
"What makes you think demons are punctual?"
"They want the Colt," I whispered as though someone was listening.
Sam glanced back at me and shrugged. "Maybe the cell reception's bad."
"Yeah," I sighed and rested back in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. There was no telling how long this would take.
"Wait." Sam raised the volume of the radio. "Listen."
As the MC gave his nightly sign-off, his voice began to break up, each word sputtering through crackles of static. The interference grew louder and louder, swallowing his voice until it was all we could hear. A chill crawled across my skin, cold and sharp like icy fingers. Suddenly, the wind picked up, howling in violent gusts that rocked the Impala, making it sway under the force. The lights from the house flickered erratically, casting brief, dark shadows across the lawn.
We dashed out of the car and up the driveway to the door, where Dean easily picked the lock and got us inside. We walked in a line, Sam in the front, me in the middle, and Dean bringing up the rear. The foyer was narrow and minimally decorated, leading straight to a tidy living room that smelled of cinnamon and freshly burned firewood. A dim lamp sat atop a small end table near the couch, barely shining a path of light for us to follow toward the dark wood staircase.
The layout was familiar yet wildly uncomfortable. It reminded me of a life I lived so long ago. A life I could never return to; I'd only lose it again, anyway.
A piercing crash shattered the quiet, the sound of glass exploding through the house like a scream. Shards flew through the air, peppering the walls and floor with tiny, sharp needles. My breath caught as I whipped around just in time to see Dean dodging a wild swing aimed at him that got the lamp instead.
"Get out of my house!" Monica's husband shouted, lifting the bat to swing again.
Dean reacted fast, grabbing the bat and using it against the man, managing to overpower him easily and push him against the wall. "We are trying to help you," he said, his voice low but commanding.
Still, the guy wasn't giving in, fighting against Dean's hold.
I moved forward, not wanting this to escalate. "Please, listen," I implored, steady but urgent, trying to diffuse the situation. "We're not here to hurt you, I swear—"
"Charlie?" Monica called from upstairs, her voice still thick with sleep. "Is everything okay?"
"Monica, get the baby!" Charlie hollered. His eyes screamed fear, not just for himself but for his family. He was just trying to protect them; he had no idea that's exactly what we were here to do, too.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Sam already bolting up the stairs, shouting after Monica, begging her not to go into the nursery. My feet twitched, ready to follow, but I hesitated, torn between Sam and staying to help Dean.
Seeing my struggle, Dean's eyes caught mine in a quick glance. No words were needed. The smallest nod—a reassurance that he had this under control, that I was free to go. My head pounded, but I trusted him. I always did.
I nodded back, a silent promise that I'd do everything in my power to help finish this and to keep his brother safe. Without missing another beat, I raced after Sam, praying we weren't too late.
Straight down the hallway was the nursery, the door open, and the room swallowed by darkness—save for the thin beams of moonlight streaming through the window, illuminating the edges of a figure cloaked in darkness. It loomed over Rosie's crib. I couldn't see its face. I wasn't sure I wanted to.
Then, a sudden thud rattled the wall, followed by Monica's screams of terror. The sound sent my heart into overdrive, and I doubled my pace, catching up with Sam. We skidded to a stop in the doorway. Monica slid up the wall, head pressed into the ceiling. The figure turned, its bright yellow eyes slicing through me like daggers. Time seemed to grind to a halt; seconds stretched into an eternity in his presence.
It wasn't just the sight of the demon that chilled me—it was the flood of devastation, the pain left in the wake of this… thing. It was hard to think, hard to breathe, as if the weight of every tragedy it caused had landed squarely on my chest.
Despite the chaos, Sam steadily raised the Colt and pulled the trigger. The crack of a gunshot echoed through the small room, but rather than the bullet thumping into something solid, it cut through glass.
The demon had vanished, leaving only a puff of black smoke where it once stood.
Monica collapsed to the ground but scrambled to get back up, desperate to reach her baby. It seemed like exactly what the demon wanted—Monica dying in a fruitless attempt to save Rosie. Sam instinctively shot out his hand to hold her back. Fear flooded his face as he scanned the room, his anger surfacing.
"Where the hell did it go!?" he growled, searching for the demon.
"I don't know," I said, eyes flicking between the crib and Sam. I could see the fire raging behind his eyes, a look reminiscent of his father. This couldn't destroy him, too. I wouldn't let it. I reached for his arm, grounding him enough to pull him from the edge. His shoulders loosened, and in that brief second of calm, I urged him to take Monica away. "I got Rosie. Go."
He gave a sharp nod as he reached for a sobbing Monica, helping her get her footing and rushing her out of the room while convincing her that I'd take care of Rosie.
I quickly grabbed a soft pink blanket from the dresser and wrapped it around the tiny baby. Her chubby cheeks were wet with tears, but the gentle touch of the fabric seemed to soothe her—at least for now.
Suddenly, a gust of warm air lapped at my hands, followed by flames erupting around the crib. I instinctively jumped back, clutching Rosie tight to my chest as embers flickered and danced toward the ceiling. My legs felt tense and electric, begging me to run, though they remained glued to the spot.
Freezing lines traced along my cheek like sharp nails grazing my skin. I shivered—not from the cold, but from the overwhelming dread that settled deep in my gut. It was like being touched by a tornado; a relentless spiral that threatened to consume everything in its path.
The air crackled around me; I could feel it building, a palpable energy that pulled me from the depths of my fear-filled fog, cutting through like a lifeline—solid and reassuring. Dean's frantic voice sliced through the haze as he called my name, urgency lacing every syllable. I could feel the warmth radiating off him, a stark contrast to the frozen dread gripping my heart. The tingling that had paralyzed me vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. I turned just in time to see him skidding to a stop in the doorway, his eyes wide with alarm that broadened when he saw how close I stood to the flames.
Dean reached me in an instant, wrapping his arms around both me and Rosie. The second we hit the steps, a deafening crash erupted as the windows blew out, showering everything in thunderous shards of glass. Smoke billowed from the house, following us out to the front lawn. I coughed, choking on the soot that forced its way down my throat.
Charlie hurriedly stood, still a little groggy and wobbly on his feet, and now sporting a red welt across his cheek. "You get away from my family!" he demanded.
"No, Charlie, don't! They saved us," Monica said, voice withered but grateful. She reached for her baby, and I gladly returned Rosie to her mother.
Although he still looked unsure as he embraced his wife and daughter, Charlie mumbled an appreciative "Thank you."
Sam latched onto my arm, pointing up to the nursery window. At first, I didn't know what was wrong, but then I saw it. Through the busted and broken glass stood a dark outline of a man. The demon.
"It's still in there!" Sam exclaimed, boots digging into the ground as he rushed for the house.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, his fast reflexes allowing him to stop his brother before he could reach the front steps. He pushed him back and kept hold of him for good measure. "No!"
"Let me go, it's still in there!" He struggled, trying to pry Dean's hands off.
"Are you insane?" I asked, putting myself between Sam and the house. "You can't go back!"
"Yes, I can!"
"It's burning to the ground, Sam!" Dean said. "It's suicide."
"I don't care!" he bellowed.
"I do!" Dean shot back, just as intense. Maybe even more so. Finally, Sam stopped fighting, and with nothing left to do, we stood in silence, watching the flames climb higher. The scent of burning ash filled the air, wrapping around us as sirens wailed in the distance, their red and yellow lights reflecting off the trees at the end of the block.
The drive back to the motel had been a very quiet one. None of us spoke—what could we say? "Sorry, we got close enough to touch him but couldn't kill him"? Keeping quiet was better. This wasn't what any of us wanted. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. But unlike all the other times that bastard walked the earth, he didn't get what he wanted. Monica was still alive; her baby was unharmed. Both of Rosie's parents would get to see her grow up. Their family, though traumatized from the ordeal, would live their lives. So, as hard as it was to swallow the fact that we missed what could've been our only opportunity, I'd count that as a win.
In the parking lot, under the dim neon lights of the Vacant sign above the motel, we climbed out of the Impala. Dean motioned for Sam to head inside but gently held me back when I tried to follow.
I glanced down at his hand on my arm. His grip was soft, but it tightened with each passing second. "What's the matter?" I asked, sensing the tension radiating from him.
"What the hell happened back there?" Dean's voice carried an edge of frustration that caught me off guard.
"Wh—" I started, but he cut me off.
"Fire's not something you stare at," he said, the words coming out slowly, almost like he was trying to wrap his head around them as much as me. His tone was quieter this time, more measured, but the tension remained.
"I know that, Dean," I replied, my voice clipped. I didn't want to come to terms with what had kept me locked in place any more than he did. "I don't know what happened. It was like I— I wasn't—"
"You weren't what?"
"I wasn't alone."
"So the demon—" Anger flooded him fast like a wounded ship taking on water. "Did it do something? Did it touch you?" he pressed, horrified.
I felt the weight of my answer before it tumbled from my lips. "I think so."
With a snap that sounded painful, Dean's jaw clenched so tightly I could hear the grind of his teeth. His face flushed red, and his whole body coiled like he was ready to fight something—anything. "That son of a bitch–!" He turned, about to storm off, but I wasn't sure where he'd go.
I stepped forward, grabbing his arms to keep him still and in front of me. "It's okay, it's over with—"
"It's okay?! That thing fucking touched you! What if—" He stopped, the words choking in his throat. He didn't need to finish that sentence. I knew what he'd say because I could practically see the thoughts running rampant around his head. I'd come uncomfortably close to the same fate that had claimed Jessica—that had taken his mom.
I felt the heat of the flames against my skin—the scrape of short, jagged nails across my cheek. I dug my fingertips into Dean's arms in hopes the pressure would anchor him and push away my growing anxiety about what could've been had he not arrived in the nursery when he did.
"I'm here, okay?" I said, though my voice shook. I hated that. I didn't want him to worry more than he already was. "I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere."
Dean took a staggered breath, his rage ebbing just enough for fear to show through. "Seeing you so close to that fire… Tor, it scared the hell out of me."
"It scared me too," I admitted, barely above a whisper.
His eyes locked onto mine, the intensity still there but softened by a vulnerability that made my heart ache. "No matter what it takes, I'll never let anything happen to you," he swore, the sincerity in his voice wrapping me in warmth. "You know that, right?"
A small smile tugged at my lips. "I know."
Dean's hand slid up to my face, fingers brushing lightly over my skin. I shut my eyes, allowing his touch to drown out the memory of the demon's icy grip. He captured my lips with his, and I melted into his embrace. The world around us faded away—the smoke, the fire, the uncertainty. It was just him and me. That was it. But that was all we needed.
It was dark inside the motel room, and for a moment, I feared Sam had somehow slipped past us and gone back to that house, but when I flicked on a light, his form illuminated. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and head hung low. He didn't bother to look up when we entered.
I shut and locked the door behind us. The click of the latch made me feel a little more secure. However, I knew deep down that was bullshit. I scoffed at myself. Like that thin bolt and chain would stop anything from coming after us.
"Come on, Dad, answer your phone, damn it," Dean seethed under his breath. He snapped his phone shut and shook his head. "Something's wrong."
My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. I was hoping for some good news. "Nothing?" I asked, pushing away from the door. "Again?"
"Nothing."
Sam didn't give any sort of reaction, still staring down at the floor like we weren't even here.
"You hear me?" Dean asked him. "Something's happened."
"If you two had just let me go in there," Sam mumbled, his knee beginning to bounce. "I could've ended all this."
"Sam, the only thing you would've ended was your life."
"You don't know that."
I scoffed. A desire for vengeance was one thing, but being suicidally reckless was another. "I think we've got a pretty good idea of it," I said. "Be realistic, Sam."
"I am being realistic," he snapped.
"So what, you're just willing to sacrifice yourself, is that it?" Dean challenged, stopping his stride into the kitchen and taking a returning step to the bed.
"Yeah." Sam abruptly stood to face him. "You're damn right I am."
"Well, that's not going to happen, not as long as we're around."
"What the hell are you talking about? We've been searching for this demon our whole lives," Sam argued. "Dad dragged Tori into it. It's the only thing we've ever cared about!"
"Sam, I wanna waste it. I do, okay? But it's not worth dying over," Dean said, his eyes flickering over to me.
"What?"
"I mean it. If hunting this demon means getting yourself killed, then I hope we never find the damn thing."
"That thing killed Jess. That thing killed Mom." Sam said, confused.
"You said yourself once that no matter what we do—they're gone, and they're never coming back," Dean said, tears flooding his eyes. It broke him to say, no matter how truthful it was.
So fast that I barely had time to process it, Sam snapped and hauled Dean up by the collar of his shirt, slamming him hard against the wooden beam by the door. "Don't you say that! Not you!" he bellowed, his face twisted in anger and pain. "Not after all this, don't you dare say that!"
Though he was pinned, Dean didn't try to push Sam away or unclench his fists that crumpled his shirt. Unlike himself, he didn't fight back. Instead, his eyes were filled with something else, something quieter. It killed me to see him like this—so close to breaking but trying to hold everything together.
"Hey!" I rushed toward them, pulse pounding in my ears. Sam didn't even register my voice; his rage was all-consuming. A chill rattled down my spine. This was the angriest I'd ever seen him. "This isn't helping anybody!"
For a split second, Sam's eyes flashed toward me, sharp and untethered. I could see the conflict inside him, the war between his fury and the deep-seated pain fueling it.
Dean spoke, calm at first, but the vulnerable cracks in his composure were impossible to miss. "Sam, look, the four of us... that's all we have. It's all I have." His voice wavered, and he fought back a blink, trying to stop the tears before they could fall. "Sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together… and without Tori, or you, or Dad…"
Sam's grip loosened, and finally, he let go. He turned away, rubbing his forehead, trying to massage the tension away. I stepped closer to Dean, who was still breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on the floor. He hadn't moved an inch from the wall. Gently, I placed my hand on his arm, trying to coax him back from wherever he'd gone. The tension in his jaw gradually softened, and he glanced up at me.
I didn't say anything, but the look in my eyes spoke volumes—I just needed to know that he was okay.
Dean's eyes still glistened with unshed tears, but he gave me a faint nod, just enough to let me know he was holding on.
"Dad…" Sam muttered, almost to himself. His voice shook; he barely kept it together. "He should've called by now. Try him again."
Dean took out his phone and redialed John's number. Two trills came and went, followed by a crackle. I was close enough to hear the voice on the other end. "You really screwed up this time."
My throat tightened at the sound. Meg.
"Where is he?" Dean demanded.
She chuckled, a dark sound that came from the depths of whatever hole she'd crawled out of. "You're never going to see your father again."
Meg's threat sunk like a stone. Fear gnawed at the edges of my thoughts. Had the demons really taken him? Or worse…
Over the years, I'd had my fair share of qualms with John. Some of them were small—and, in hindsight, he was probably right—like the time he refused to let me go to a house party at fifteen. But others were bigger, harder to ignore: his overbearing, controlling nature, especially when it came to the boys—particularly Dean. And yet, despite everything, he saved my life. I had no one. Because he let me stay, I gained more than I thought possible after losing everything.
None of us could take another blow. Not after all we'd been through.
Only two more until the end of season 1! Thank you so, so, so much for joining me on the rewrite ride!