Feels like I'm falling into a world
Into a world I can't control
I hear it calling
Down in my soul
Gripping my bones
It won't let go
…
Feels like I'm frozen
Nowhere to run, nowhere to run from here
These walls are closing
Closing me in
Wearing me thin with fear
…
Wake me up
Won't you wake me up?
Caught in a bad dream
Caught in a bad dream
Wake me up
I wanna feel the sun
Caught in a bad dream
Caught in a bad dream
Ruelle — Bad Dream
February, 1995
On a dreary day in Indiana, much like all the others, I got up bright and early to give myself plenty of time before school to get ready and eat breakfast without having to rush. Although we didn't have any plans for the weekend, it was still Friday, which meant I had an extra pep in my step. To add to my already good mood, I slipped on my favorite sweater: soft knit and fern-green, a color I often missed during the pale winter months. It reminded me of summertime, of freshly cut grass and newly sprouting trees.
Lately, the weather has been crazy. Several severe thunderstorms pelted New Harmony with golf-ball-sized hail and dumped inches of heavy, dense snow. It was frigid, gloomy, and, frankly, a tad bit unsettling. But this morning, the storms let up, and a sliver of sunshine even peeked through the clouds, helping to push aside my nervousness.
I said goodbye to Mom, slipped on my jacket, and slung my bookbag over my shoulder on the way outside. Hills of snow shoveled by Dad before he left for work lined the icy driveway.
"Be careful!" Mom called from the doorway, slippers teetering on the edge so she could watch me until I disappeared around the bend. This was her routine every morning since she and Dad finally let me make the fifteen-minute trek to school alone.
"I will!" I reassured, nearing the sidewalk. I dug the toes of my boots into the ground, trying to avoid a fall. After months of nagging and begging, I fought hard for this sliver of independence, and I wasn't about to let something as stupid as slippery concrete make Mom second-guess their decision.
In the distance, I spotted a small figure walking with quiet determination, their shoulders hunched and their hands tucked in their pockets. Her dark brown hair whipped around in the wind, a telltale sign of who it was.
"Gabby!" I called, hurrying my pace to catch up with her.
When she heard my voice, she slowed. "Hey, Tori," she said in a reserved yet happy way that seemed to only belong to her.
We hadn't known each other very long. Gabby and her family moved in across the street last September, and one day, I spotted her sitting all alone at lunch. Having grown up here, I never worried about being the new kid, but it always looked rough from the outside. I didn't want her to feel left out, so I introduced myself.
Her shyness never bothered me, and once she realized that, we bonded over shared interests, of which we surprisingly had a lot.
"Want to walk to school together?" I asked.
"Sure, yeah." Gabby smiled softly, pushing up her thick-rimmed glasses—which nearly covered the entire top half of her face and magnified her big brown eyes—with the back of her purple mitten-covered hand.
"Are you doing anything this weekend?" I wondered, hopping over an un-shoveled mound of snow blocking the sidewalk.
Gabrielle walked around the icy pile. "Not really," she mumbled, tugging her bookbag higher. "Just homework."
My face lifted. "You should come over!" I exclaimed and then remembered how strict Gabby's Mother could be. "You know, if your Mom says it's okay," I added sheepishly.
A smile of gratitude tugged at the corner of Gabby's lips. "I'll ask," she said. It didn't make our plans concrete, but it was good enough for me.
Most of my classes blurred together. I couldn't seem to focus, my thoughts drifting between the snowflakes tumbling past the windows and my weekend plans. Maybe I'd check out that new record store at the mall, scope out their vinyl selection. Sunday would be the same as always—church, then dinner at the diner.
After school, I met Gabby outside. Just before we began our trek back home, a dark blue car pulled up, its honking horn calling everyone's attention. Gabby's Dad hung out of the driver's side window with a friendly grin. He was much more laid-back than her Mom, yet his hair was peppered with shades of gray. At first, I thought that odd but eventually chalked it up to Mrs. Moore dying her hair its rather unnatural shade of auburn.
"Hi, girls!" Mr. Moore called. "Gabs, you have a doctor's appointment, remember?"
Gabby's cheeks flushed at the bolstered volume of her father using a nickname no one here knew but me. "I forgot," she squeaked. She looked back with an apologetic smile aimed my way before hopping into the backseat.
Mr. Moore checked his watch. "We've got some time. I could drop you off at your house, Victoria."
"That's okay," I politely declined. A leisurely stroll home seemed the best way to close the school week. "I'd rather walk."
"You sure?"
Our neighborhood was plenty safe, but his double-checking of my decision was nice, all the same. I nodded and smiled. "I'm sure. Thank you, though."
"All right." Mr. Moore wagged a playful finger. "But go straight home."
I laughed. "I will."
"See you, Tori," Gabby said with a gentle wave. I said my goodbyes to her and Mr. Moore and set off back home, following the same path that brought us to school.
A few minutes of bland scenery, then a sidewalk covered with trees that grew too tall and curved over the road, was followed by the cafe where Dad and I got coffee on some of our outings and a library where I spent a good month out of last summer break curled up in its deepest corners with a pile of books.
My parents weren't the outgoing type; they had their routines, and they stuck to them like clockwork. It wasn't an issue. I didn't mind small-town life. But when I needed an escape, reading was the way to do it. It was the only real adventure I'd known—aside from tagging along on some of Dad's business trips and the annual fair, which, despite its charm, didn't exactly set the world on fire.
Nearing the park, I slowed down over the stone bridge, admiring how the sun danced across the frozen lake below. It almost looked like one big crystal trapped inside the ice.
Halfway across, my skin prickled; a shiver clinked down my spine like a rattling chain. I looked over my shoulder, expecting to find someone, but there was nothing—save for a few birds that landed on the railing and hurriedly flew away when their feet got too cold.
Relieved, I exhaled a deep breath. The chill bit at my lungs, but it cleared my mind. I shook off the strange feeling and moved on.
About a mile from my house, I spotted a noisy snow plow in the distance and frowned. If I kept going this way, I'd get covered in the sludgy ice it sprayed. Not wanting to risk getting sick, I veered into the woods. Snow coated the branches and blanketed the ground, snuffling out their vibrant colors.
Not far in, my spine tingled again, but it fanned out across my entire body this time. When I took my eyes off the ground to look for the source of the feeling, my boot caught on a hidden root, and I stumbled, barely managing to right myself before falling into the snow.
Just as I straightened, a large, dark shadow slipped behind a nearby tree.
My breath hitched. I froze.
Then, the sharp snap of a twig echoed through the woods, setting my pulse racing. Whatever was out there wasn't just in my imagination.
My feet finally unstuck, and I bolted, the crunch of snow beneath me drowned by the pounding of my heart. Branches flew by, snagging at my hair and clothes. I prayed I wouldn't trip again. There was no way I could stop myself from falling this time.
Although my lungs burned from the gulps of freezing air I forced down, the thought that each time I glanced over my shoulder, someone would be there, just within reach, propelled me forward.
I didn't stop until my home's light blue walls and cherry red door came into view. I pushed harder, desperate to reach it. Once there, everything would be fine. I'd be safe.
Another branch snapped, but it was closer this time. I risked another look back and skidded to a grinding halt, snow spraying up around my legs. I couldn't believe my eyes.
Mere feet from me stood a large, shell-shocked deer. He stared at me, and I stared at him until the loud, thunderous rumble of the snow plow's engine made the animal scurry away. He broke branches as he fled, expertly dodging trees and shrubs, unlike me.
"Oh my god," I breathed, resting my hands on my knees. That's all it was: a deer. He was running scared of the snow plow, and I was running scared of him. Despite the ache in my chest, I couldn't help but laugh.
I let my heartbeat slow before continuing my path home. When I got close enough, I grabbed the white railing and used its support to hop up the stairs. I wiped some excess snow off my pants and fished out my key to unlock the door.
The heat was cranked up, and the gentle crackle of the fireplace and the scent of spices floating through the air reminded me that I was home. Mom appeared from the kitchen, an apron tied snugly around her waist and her dark brown hair clipped up in a way that always seemed effortless.
She greeted me with a warm smile. "How was school?"
"It was fine." I shut the door and dropped my bookbag. "Mrs. Caldwell gave us way too much homework again."
Mom huffed lightly, a familiar sound of disapproval. "I don't know why they push you kids so hard. You're thirteen—not signing up for law school."
Her comment made me smile as I shrugged off my coat, hanging it in the hall closet. "Yeah, well, tell her that."
"I will. Next PTA meeting." Her tone held just enough edge to make me believe her. She lifted the sleeve of her white blouse to check her watch. "Why don't you get washed up and help me finish dinner?"
My stomach grumbled in anticipation of a nice, warm meal to combat the cold. "Okie dokie." I kicked off my boots and lined them neatly by the door. "Also, I'm almost fourteen, so…"
Mom stopped on her way back to the kitchen, a teasing glint in her eye. "You know, you shouldn't rush growing up. You've got a whole month before your birthday. Cherish your youth," she said, a sculpted eyebrow raised with mock seriousness.
"I mean, I'll try," I joked, heading for the half-bath. I flicked on the light, illuminating the small, pale-yellow-painted room.
Below the window, a tiny stand held a vase of sunflowers. I pushed them back a little, just in line with the stream of sunlight coming through. It was probably my imagination, but they perked up almost instantly.
While waiting for the water to warm, I fidgeted with my hair. The curls I'd painstakingly put in this morning had fallen, settling into large waves. I sighed, blowing a strand out of my face, and tested the water. It was nice and warm. Finally.
Once I was done, Mom put me on cilantro and onion-chopping duty. I was extra careful with the blade this time, remembering when I had to take a trip to the ER a few months ago. All because my attention drifted while cutting an apple. I'd never make that mistake again.
The front door opened as Mom pulled a steaming pan of bubbling enchiladas from the oven. I knew that because of that small squeak it made, echoing down the foyer. Mom always asked Dad to fix it, and he always claimed it gave the place character.
"You're home just in time," she said as he entered the kitchen. His familiar scent—faint traces of printer paper and coffee—filled the air.
"Smells great," Dad replied, stepping over to plant a kiss on her cheek. Mom swatted at him, but she was smiling—the kind she only wore when he was around.
On his way to the cupboard for a stack of three plates, Dad gave me a one-armed hug and asked me how my day was. I almost mentioned my encounter with that big bad dear but stopped. I didn't want to risk losing my walking to and from school privileges, so I simply said my day was fine and listened to Dad recount something that happened at work, with Mom chiming in here and there.
Over dinner, we got on the topic of another after-school activity I could do in addition to Mom teaching me piano since my latest venture into karate was a bust. It wasn't my fault Sensei Davis kicked me out after I round-house kicked his stomach during a sparring match. He had it coming—he'd been taunting me all class about my lack of aggression.
The way he doubled over had felt like a small victory, even if it cost me my place in the dojo.
Eventually, we settled on some kind of dance class. I wasn't sure I'd be any good, but trying would still be fun. After dinner, I knocked out some of my weekly chores by helping clean up the table and doing the dishes. By eight-thirty, I decided it was time to get some homework done so tomorrow could be full of nothing but rest.
Saying goodnight to Mom and Dad, I left them on the couch and headed for the stairs, collecting my school bag on the way. I snagged a notepad and pencil from my desk, getting distracted by the corkboard above full of polaroids and memories. I always enjoyed adding to it, but lately, I've avoided a certain corner.
For some reason, tonight, it caught my eye. Enough to make me stop and look.
My child self was beaming, happy as could be, and the boys beside me smiled just as big.
The reason I stayed away from this particular image was purely selfish. Each time I looked at it, my mind drifted to unanswered questions. I never enjoyed that—the unknown. Neither Mom nor Dad would tell me exactly why they left and never came back, just that they had to go. But the misty look that overtook Mom's eyes let me know the real reason ran deeper and that whatever it was wasn't great. I didn't like seeing her so sad, so I always dropped the subject pretty fast.
Thinking about Sam and Dean still stung; their lives seemed so unstable. I was young, but I understood that much. They'd show up and stay for a few weeks, only to leave, all with no rhyme or reason. The longer they spent with us, the harder it was to say goodbye.
All I could hope was that they were okay now… wherever they were.
Peeling myself away, I ventured to my bed and sat cross-legged with my supplies spread around. I fished my CD player out of my bag, popped the headphones on, hit play on The Cranberries' newest album I received for Christmas, and got to work.
A loud, rattling thump from below startled me out of focus. I glanced at the clock. 10 p.m.
Before I could get up to inspect the noise, my door cracked open just enough to allow in a sliver of light from the hallway. Mom peered inside, wearing a tight-lipped smile that clenched my stomach, but I pushed aside the feeling and told her to come in, taking note of the full bag slung over her shoulder as she slipped inside.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, draping my headphones around my neck.
"We have to go," she stated breathlessly. She sounded scared.
I sat up straighter. "Why?"
"I'll explain on the way." Mom went to my closet and threw the doors open, rooting around until she found my suitcase. "Help me get your things," she said, beginning to pull clothes from their hangers.
Never in my life had I heard her so frightened, except maybe that one time when I was seven, and we hit a patch of ice driving home from the store. But even then, she kept her cool. If she was this upset, something must be very wrong. So, although it was hard, I forced my shaky legs to move.
I snatched my jewelry box and random items in my dresser and stuffed all of them into the suitcase's pockets. Before I even zipped it, Mom took my hand and towed me toward the door.
"Wait!" I cried, jerking back.
"We don't have time to wait!" she hissed in a whisper.
"Please," I begged. I couldn't leave without them; I wouldn't.
Mom huffed and relented, and I sprinted to my desk to pull the Polaroids from the chalkboard. The pushpins flew off and clattered to the ground. Some of their sharp needles narrowly missed my hands as they dropped.
When I returned, the top photo seemed to catch Mom's eye. The corner of her lips ticked up as she stared at the image of me, Sam, and Dean. She blinked rapidly and snapped back into action. "Let's go."
With my hand firmly clasped in hers, we raced down the steps. "Where's Dad?" I asked, craning my neck over the banister, trying to get a glimpse into the living room.
Mom dragged me toward the foyer, cutting off my line of sight. "He already left," she said. "We'll get in touch later."
"But—" The bang on our front door chopped off my voice. Mom planted her lip between her teeth and bit down. "Who is that?" I asked.
Is this what we were running from?
"Stay here; keep quiet," she instructed, leaving me on the stair landing with my suitcase. She unlatched the lock, and the door squeaked open. The sound sent a chill down my spine, and my pulse pounded in my ears so loudly that I could barely hear anything. I held my breath and stood on my tip-toes to peer through the frosted glass cutout beside the door.
Years had gone by, yet the foreboding structure of the man on our porch was exactly the same.
"What are you doing here?" Mom asked, resting her weight on the doorknob.
"I got a call," the gruff voice replied. He sounded the same, too—if not more intimidating—but Mom didn't cower.
"Not from me."
"No. From Mosley." He lowered his head and spoke even more quietly. "She said you needed help."
"Well," Mom scoffed out a laugh, "that's vague."
"It's all she'd tell me."
Mom shook her head, and her chocolate waves bounced. "We don't need anything from you, John."
He stepped closer, further into our home. "At least let me take a look around."
Before he got in far enough to see me, Mom stopped him. "That's not necessary."
"Where's Peter?" he asked skeptically.
"Asleep, if you must know." Why was she lying? If something was going on, someone we needed to run from, maybe John could help.
He didn't miss a beat. "Can I talk to him?"
"No. But you can go."
Mom began to shut the door, and John slapped a palm against the wood. The sharp sound startled me off the edges of my feet. I stumbled back, knocking over the potted plant in the corner of the landing.
John pushed into the foyer, his eyes darting between mine and the suitcase at my feet. "Are you leaving?" he asked, directed at me.
Mom shot me a stern look saying don't speak, so I shut my mouth. "Do you think we need to explain anything to you?" she challenged him.
"Victoria," John began, taking a tentative step closer.
My legs trembled, and I clutched the Polaroids tightly, the paper crumpling slightly in my grip.
"Don't talk to her." Mom angled herself between him and me. "Get out of my house."
John returned his eyes to the room, narrowing slightly as his gaze swept the entryway. "Know what? You're right, as always, Rose," he sighed, slowly turning to take in the pictures on the walls. He ran his hand through his hair, fiddling with the silver cap on a bottle tucked into his pocket. "But one more thing."
Mom's shoulders dropped. "What?"
John pivoted suddenly on his heels, grabbing the canister and attempting to fling the contents at her.
Many things happened at once: with a flick of Mom's wrist, John hurtled into the living room, slamming hard into the wall and falling to the floor. A raw scream tore from my throat. Her head whipped to face me, but her eyes had changed—instead of their usual warm and welcoming honey-washed brown, they filled with pure hatred and shifted several shades deeper.
That wasn't my mom.
I tried to run, but she was faster. Her hand clamped around my wrist, nails biting into my skin as she yanked me down the stairs. Pain shot through my shoulder with a sharp pop, forcing a yelp from my lips.
John shouted for her to "let me go," but I could only focus on the wave of heat burning through me.
"No!" Mom yelled, eyes shut tight. Her hold loosened, fingers twitching and cracking until they unwrapped from my wrist. Then, her eyes snapped open. They were still wrong—still not completely her.
"Mom?" My voice trembled, caught between sobs. I couldn't tell if I should stay or run.
A muffled groan came from the living room. Over Mom's shoulder, I saw John moving, struggling to his knees.
"You have to go," she strained, her voice jagged. Her eyes darted to the basement door. The place she and Dad had always told me to go if anything ever happened—that I'd be safe there.
Tears choked me. "No–!"
"Listen to me!" she rasped, taking my arms in a desperate grip.
I glanced at her hands in fear, waiting for another rush of pain.
Mom's expression shifted, just for a moment, into something softer—something that combatted the darkness. "Everything will be okay," she whispered, raising a trembling hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. "I love you, Mija."
Those familiar words, ones I'd never gone a day without hearing, sent a fresh wave of tears streaming down my face. I wanted to scream, to tell her I couldn't leave, but the sorrow in her eyes stopped me; it stopped everything.
And this time, when she shouted for me to go, I didn't hesitate. I turned and ran, socks sliding across the hardwood floor as I scrambled to the basement.
My hands could barely turn the handle; my chest burned from the bubble of air lodged between my ribs. The railing was ice-cold; the first step creaked as I tore into the stairwell and slammed the door shut. I crumbled into the rough wooden stairs and clutched my head between my knees.
—JPOV—
I used the couch to get my bearings, ignoring the throbbing pain in my head as I searched the immediate area for my flask. I could see the whole living room from this vantage point. Nothing was out of place except for a turned-over potted plant and a dying fire. But on the other side of the couch, draped across the large tweed carpet, was Peter, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, his body crumpled like a rag doll.
It didn't take a closer look to know he was gone.
"John!" Rose spoke in a panic, her weakened legs barely carrying her closer. "John, please, I don't have much time–" Her face twisted in pain as she fought impossible odds. "You have to get her out of here; you have to keep her safe! They–"
Rose's spine snapped straight, and her eyes shot up to the ceiling. A languished sigh escaped her lips. "So much talking," she tsked, her voice dipping an octave. "A little too much, don't you think?"
I took a step forward. "Let Rose go."
"Wait, wait." She held up her hands and looked me up and down. "Let me get a good look at you first. John Winchester," she purred, speaking my name like an old friend. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
"Fun's over," I demanded, standing tall despite the ache in my bones. I grabbed a rosary from the pack around my waist and held it out in front of me.
She rolled her eyes, moving slowly closer. "You never were the sharpest tool, were you? You think I'm doing this–" she gestured to her body, "For fun? It's merely a necessity."
My blood boiled at her casual tone, but more than that, at her choice of words. My eyes pinged to the suitcase with articles of clothing still peeking out of the zipper. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Rose barked a sharp, hearty laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Tell me, or else."
"Or else, what, John?" she spoke slowly, punctuating each syllable with a blunt edge. "You don't scare me."
Being unable to trap her, I didn't have the luxury of time to continue an interrogation. Instead, I pulled my journal from an inner pocket and started to read: "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus–"
"Ouch." Her lips pulled down in a pout before she bore her canines in a sardonic grin. "That smarts, Johnny Boy."
Try as I might not to show it, a breath of fear jammed in my throat. Had I recited it incorrectly? Not once did any lore book or hunter I'd spoken to state the failure of an exorcism. Hell, Bobby gave me a crash course, and there was next to nothing he didn't know about demons.
It worked. Always.
"Don't do anything stupid. Sammy needs you." Her taunting caught me off guard.
With a renewed sense of anger, I began the exorcism again, holding the rosary tighter. Rose's lip twitched, but her grin remained. I kept going until her smirk faltered, and her eyes ticked to the ceiling.
Lights flickered and clicked. The room shook; at least, that's how it felt under my feet.
"Dammit," she huffed. Her eyes fluttered shut, and when they snapped wide, a gash spanning the length of her abdomen opened up.
Before my fingertips could graze her, smoke billowed from Rose's mouth and fled through the chimney. The flames sparked, bellowing out past the firescreen. No longer under the demon's control, Rose collapsed to the ground with a thunderous thud. I pressed two fingers to her neck and waited, even shutting my eyes to focus on the feeling below my fingertips, but there was nothing. No thumps of a pulse, not even a faint one. She was gone.
My head dropped, chin touching my chest. I cursed under my breath and forced myself to stand, every movement slow and heavy.
Rose's face was frozen in a moment of horror, her wide eyes staring at something that was no longer there. The front of her white blouse was soaked in red, a stark contrast against her olive skin.
My gut twisted at the sight; it was too damn familiar. I swallowed hard, trying to push down the memories clawing their way up my throat, but the taste of ash and blood lingered in the air, making it hard to breathe.
Then I remembered that this house—once full of life and warmth—hadn't gone barren and cold just yet. Not entirely. Victoria was still here. I turned toward the basement, dread pooling in my chest. She was behind that door, locked in the dark, probably scared out of her mind.
With one last glance at Rose and Peter, I moved toward the basement door. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of what I had to do pressing down on me. Victoria had lost everything tonight, and I couldn't begin to tell her why. Her parents… they always wanted to keep her away from this life, away from the blood, the loss. They fought hard to shield her from this world. I'd bet my life on the fact that hadn't changed.
But none of that mattered now, did it? The only thing that did matter was getting her out of here. Getting her somewhere safe, where she could be as far away from this wreckage as possible. I couldn't fix what happened, couldn't take it back, but I sure as hell wasn't going to let her drown in it.
"Victoria?" I called at the door, reminding myself to use a more gentle tone. Since the boys had gotten older, I wasn't accustomed to it anymore. "You have to come out."
A moment passed before several locks clicked on the other side of the door. It cracked open slowly, revealing Victoria's tear-stained face and red, swollen eyes. "Where's my Mom?" she asked, trembling.
There was no easy way to tell her, no way to soften the inevitable blow. My throat tightened so much I could barely breathe, let alone talk. Her face was covered in lines of worry far too deep for someone her age. I hated it. "Listen–"
Before I could finish, Victoria's eyes widened. She must've seen the truth already written all over my face. Faster than I could react, she shoved the door open with a strength I hadn't expected.
"Mom!" She sprinted out of the basement, her small frame darting past me.
"No, don't!" I shouted, lunging forward.
This time, I didn't miss. I grabbed her just before she could fully see the scene in the living room and yanked her back. But a single glance was enough, and what little she managed to take in forced a gut-wrenching scream from her lips.
"Let me go! We have to help them!" she wailed, thrashing in my grip, clawing as she tried to break free. She was light, but her desperation made hauling her into the adjacent room difficult. Victoria fought me with everything she had, but I wasn't letting go.
"We can't!" I exclaimed. I held on tight, my arms a cage around her. I knew too well what it was like to live with the haunting image of someone you loved—someone you couldn't save. Victoria didn't deserve that. Rose and Peter didn't deserve to have their daughter's last memory of them broken and bloody on the floor.
"We need to try!" Her tears flowed freely now. I had no clue how to comfort her—to stop her cries or ease her pain. I was never good at that, not even with my own children.
As her punches and kicks finally slowed, I did the only thing I could. Instead of releasing the shell-shocked girl, I hugged her. I told her she would be all right, reciting it as though the repetition would make it so.
But it wouldn't; how could it?
Minutes passed, and Victoria's sobs finally began to tamper down. If that thing came back, we couldn't be here. Victoria couldn't be here. Rose made that perfectly clear in her last moments. Demons terrorized and destroyed for the pure enjoyment of it, but this one seemed to be luring her somewhere. Why, I didn't know, and we sure as hell wouldn't be staying long enough to find out.
When I felt the threat of her bolting had passed, I released her. "You have to listen to me. Can you do that?" I asked.
Victoria hesitated; her water-logged blue eyes dipped down with uncertainty. I followed her gaze to the thin stack of polaroids between her fingers. In the one on top of all the others were two things I hadn't seen in a while: Sam and Dean's genuine smiles.
Before the image could raise any long-battered emotions, I looked away.
After one final glance at the photo, Victoria stuffed the stack into her back pocket and nodded, answering my question.
Because I refused to allow her into the living room, the only way to the Impala was out the back door. The temperature outside was steadily dropping, and the last thing she needed was to freeze. I peeled off my jacket and hung it around her petite shoulders. She drowned in the leather, but at least it would keep her warm in the early-morning dew.
On the way to the car, Victoria didn't say a word. I got her inside, cranked the heat up, and locked the doors before returning to the house. It felt colder now, emptier, their absence more tangible with the fading warmth of the fire. The quiet seemed almost oppressive, as if the house held its breath.
My eyes drifted from the front door to the kitchen. I couldn't help but recall the first time I'd stepped into this house. The boys had been small—too small to understand what happened, the reasons we'd come here. More than anything, I wish they could've held onto that innocence, but it was never in the cards.
I forced myself to look away and focus on the tasks at hand. First, I'd get Victoria to safety. That was most important. Then, I'd return to do what needed to be done. No matter how much I dreaded it, as hunters, regardless of how long they'd been out of the game, it was what they deserved.
Avoiding another glance into the living room, I took Victoria's suitcase from the landing, grabbed the smallest coat in the hall closet, and tossed it over my arm.
Through all the jostling of the car, Victoria barely glanced in my direction. The skin surrounding her eyes was red and puffy, nearly forcing her upper and lower lashes together. She sat exactly how I'd left her—slumped shoulders, blank stare, head tilted forward like she was too tired to hold it up.
Perhaps I should've said something, but I put the car in drive and silently rolled away.
With a two-hour drive ahead of us, I wanted to fill Dean in on what happened since last he knew, I was just heading out here to check on the Evans. I stopped at the nearest payphone and double-checked that the car was locked. Victoria didn't look in my direction as I left.
I dialed the room number. It rang twice before he picked up. Dean's voice cracked, the worry seeping through despite his usual composure. "Is everything all right?"
"No," I replied bluntly. There was no point in sugarcoating it. He was too old for that.
I heard him suck in a sharp breath. "What? What happened–?"
"I'll explain later, Dean."
"Are they all—gone?"
"Not all of them. Victoria's–" I nearly said okay, then stopped myself. She was far from that. "Alive," I said instead.
Dean let out a breath, but the relief didn't last long. A weighted silence followed.
"We're heading back now." I ran a hand through my hair and leaned on the cold metal. "Clean up the room; make sure there's nothing she doesn't need to see."
I could tell he wanted to ask more, but all he said was, "Okay." His voice softened at the edges, just enough to let me know he understood what it meant to bring her into our world, even temporarily.
—TPOV—
Everything had been a blur; the only thing that registered was the cool night air nipping at me as John steered me toward the sleek black car Mom always complained about for being too loud.
My legs moved on their own—mechanical, distant. I didn't even notice I was sitting until the door slammed shut, sealing me into the back seat. John started the car, ticked on the heat, and disappeared. It was quiet, save for the rumble of the engine. I was still cold, but it didn't matter.
It felt like a hole had opened in my chest, sucking in all the air before it got to my lungs.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours. I wasn't sure—before the back of the car buckled. A thud echoed throughout, and then the trunk slammed shut. Snow crunched beneath boots as John walked to the driver's side and got in, his face set like stone. He glanced at me, my coat in his hand, but I didn't look. Instead, I stared out the window, so he shifted the car's gear and began pulling away.
The whole time, I kept my eyes glued to my home as it vanished behind us.
While the road blurred under the soft glow of the headlights, I watched the passing trees, but it felt like I wasn't seeing them either. I was stuck back there, stuck on the sound of my Mom's voice as it turned into something else entirely.
My hands trembled in my lap, fingers gripping the hem of John's heavy, smoke-scented jacket, but I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel much of anything. All I could do was think. Think of how everything seemed so normal until… it wasn't. Until she wasn't.
All of it flashed behind my eyes, too quick and too sharp. The sound of Mom's voice coating with a thick layer of malice I'd never heard from her before, the way her nails sliced into my skin. The sudden burst of bells that blasted through my mind before silence took over.
The car hit a small bump, and I flinched, partially breaking out of my thoughts. I looked at John, half-waiting for him to say something—to explain, to make sense of it all—but he just stared ahead.
We pulled into a dark parking lot, a nearby streetlight on its last leg the only thing to light the way through the mist. John got out, digging around in his pocket as he walked to a payphone hidden between overgrown shrubs. He popped in a coin and held the receiver tight. I watched him talk, but the conversation was brief. Before I knew it, he was back in the car.
My throat burned, begging me to speak, to demand he answer all my questions. But I feared my voice would get lost in the engine's noise as it roared to life, so I didn't even bother trying.
"We're almost there," he said, clipped and quiet, as though that's what I was wanting to know.
There didn't mean anything to me. There wasn't home.
Another hour had come and gone in the blink of an eye. I'd only been able to count the minutes since passing a sign that read Welcome To Terre Haute. It wasn't often that we left New Harmony, but we'd come here once on one of Dad's business trips a couple of years ago. It was nice.
Now, the memories of this otherwise picturesque town started to make me sick. Rather than staring out the window like I had been, I brought my eyes to my lap.
The car groaned to a halt outside a run-down motel, its flickering neon sign washing the empty lot in sickly green and yellow. John turned off the engine. I stared straight ahead, unsure if I even had the strength to move.
Blinds moving inside a nearby room caught my eye. Two figures were on the other side, one considerably taller than the other. Somehow, I instantly knew who they were. I always thought that if we saw each other again, it would be under better circumstances.
John cleared his throat, circled to my side, and opened the door. "Come on," he coaxed, his voice softer than before but still rough around the edges.
I didn't trust my voice, so I just nodded and climbed out. It felt like I hadn't walked in days, but I managed to move.
The motel door creaked open before we even reached it. Dean stood there, silhouetted against the dim yellow light spilling from inside. I knew it was him because even though his hair was a little longer on top, it was still spiked in that familiar, careless way. However, now, it was neatly trimmed along the sides like he was trying to look older—tougher. He stood several inches above me, his frame lean but solid.
When his eyes landed on me, I could see a shift in him, a flicker of something untraceable, as if he didn't know whether to be relieved or horrified that I was here.
Behind him stood Sam, who was nearly nothing like how I remembered him. The last time I'd seen him, he was pudgy and barely tall enough to reach the kitchen counter. Now, he was at eye level with me, lanky and awkward in a way that hinted he was at least beginning to grow into his limbs. I did the quick math; he was eleven now. The only thing reminiscent of the small boy I'd known was his shaggy brown hair.
He looked unsure and nervous, his hands shifting in and out of his pockets, his gaze flicking from me to the ground as if he wanted to say something but didn't quite know how.
We all stood there, staring at each other like strangers. I wasn't stupid. I was fully aware of how many years had passed, but it suddenly hit me that we weren't little kids anymore. It was different now, just like everything else.
"Make some room," John ordered his sons away from the door, and they immediately took several steps back, giving us plenty of space to enter.
I hesitated, the musty smell of the motel room mixing with something burnt in the kitchenette. Popcorn, maybe. I caught sight of a worn brown leather couch on the far right beneath a window, an old TV perched precariously on a rickety stand, and a small table piled with books. To the left, an off-white door was cracked open, revealing half of a sloppily made bed and the corner of another, more tidy, one.
A strong breeze kicked up, rushing beneath the overwhelming leather jacket draped over me and straight into my bones. I hurried the rest of the way inside. In my haze, I barely heard John mention something about getting my suitcase from the car as he left. The door shut behind him, cutting off the world.
It was comforting, knowing I was in here and everything else was out there. Then I remembered how easily my home had been invaded, and that feeling of calm fled.
Dean was the first to speak, his voice cautious and low as he greeted me with a quiet "hey."
I tried to say something, anything, but the words got stuck in my throat.
"I'm gonna crank up the heater," Dean mumbled, mostly to himself, and turned for the back of the room.
"We have lots of blankets," Sam piped up, his crackly voice catching me off guard. "And I can make you some coffee. Or hot chocolate."
The simple offers hit me harder than I'd expected. They were such small gestures, yet they reminded me of the comfort I'd lost—the sense of safety that had been torn away. What by, I wasn't sure. I just knew it was gone.
It wasn't until then that I realized I was shaking. Badly. I wrapped my arms around myself in a feeble attempt to control the trembling, but that didn't work. It wouldn't stop. My teeth chattered, smacking against each other in loud, alarming snaps.
Sam's hazel eyes went wide and full of worry. "Maybe you should sit?" he asked, gesturing to the couch.
Dean returned, looking from me to his brother, the door, and back. His furrowed brows deepened with concern. He stepped forward, the space between us feeling too wide yet too small all at the same time. "Let's get you warmed up, okay?" he spoke softly like I was a wild animal who might get spooked if he were too loud. "Tor?"
The use of that nickname—one I hadn't heard in years—somehow broke through. My eyes focused, locking on his army-green gaze. Dean smiled, not a big, flashy grin but a small, earnest smile that asked me to trust him.
When I didn't flinch away from his outstretched hand, as it seemed he'd expected me to, Dean gently touched my shoulder. His warmness radiated through the freezing leather of his father's jacket. It wasn't easy to unstick my feet from the floor, but as Dean ushered me toward the end of the couch nearest to the heater, its warmth led me forward.
"Here you go." Sam offered an old, thick, red wool blanket.
I shrugged off the weighted leather jacket, letting it pool behind me, and quickly accepted the blanket. To my surprise, it smelled good—like fresh linen with a hint of cedar. I gave Sam a small, thankful smile and snuggled further into the soft fabric, inhaling deeply as the scent wrapped around me like a gentle hug.
It was almost too hot with the blanket and heater combined, but the overwhelming heat was nothing compared to the piercing cold. Then, the door creaked open, and my body locked up. I was scared to peer over my shoulder, afraid of what I'd find standing there.
John barked Dean's name, his voice rough and calloused. The abrupt sound was enough to draw my attention. Even after knowing it was him, it took a minute for my chest to loosen enough to breathe. His expression was carved in stone—hard and unreadable in the dim light of the motel room.
He set my suitcase next to one of the beds.
"I need to talk to you," John told Dean, nodding outside.
Dean's expression tightened as he stood, steeling himself for something he wasn't ready to face. He followed his father out and closed the door firmly behind them.
Sam glanced at the couch and then at the window, leaning on his tiptoes to try and get a glimpse out of the partially shut blinds. He shifted again, hands in his pockets. Finally, he spoke, eyes sparking with an idea. "Do you… like to read?"
It should've been an easy answer—one simple word. But my mind felt sluggish and stuffed with cotton, my response floating just out of reach.
Sam headed for the table, picking up a familiar dog-eared book and holding it toward me. "It's about Greek mythology," he said quickly as if he figured that'd make it more appealing.
I opened my mouth in an attempt to speak, to tell him I'd read that for school, when another squeal from the door's rusted hinges bounced across the room.
Dean dragged himself through the entryway, white as a sheet.
John trailed in after, the bags beneath his eyes somehow more prominent now than before. "I'm leaving for a little while," he announced, his voice low and deliberate.
Sam's head popped up at this. "Why?"
John gave him a glance. "Need to take care of some things," he replied flatly, picking up an empty duffel bag and disappearing into the adjacent room.
Dean tapped Sam on the shoulder on his way into the kitchenette. Sam plopped down, flipped open the book, and the room fell quiet. I stared at a loose thread on the blanket, twisting it between my fingers.
If I pulled hard enough, would the whole thing unravel?
After some time, John returned, the now full bag slung over his shoulder. "Stay put," he told his sons. "And do everything I told you," he added, eyes locking on Dean.
"Yes, sir," they said in unison, though Dean spoke slightly louder than his brother. Still, their voices were steady, like they'd done it a hundred times before.
My face scrunched at the formality, but neither of them seemed to think twice about it.
John stepped in front of the couch and lowered onto the coffee table. It groaned under his weight. "Try to get some rest, okay?"
The words barely registered. If I kept hearing Mom's voice in that unnaturally deep, spine-chilling tone, kept seeing flashes of her covered in red and Dad lying unmoving on the floor while I was awake, I refused to find out what would happen when I drifted off.
"You'll be safe here," he reassured, voice softening.
Safe? I thought bitterly. Something was out there—something horrible—capable of destroying lives in the blink of an eye. Was anywhere safe?
"Whatever you need, Dean will get it for you, okay? We'll head out in the morning, get you settled in somewhere else, okay?"
My eyes snapped up; my thoughts raced so fast that I could hardly breathe. In the morning?
Deep down inside, I knew staying with them wasn't an option. But I didn't expect to be handed off like a piece of unwanted luggage so soon.
Needles pricked at my eyes, and I looked back down, blinking against the tears.
John's posture shifted. He sighed, not with anger, but something like uncertainty. He lingered for a moment longer, then stood and left.
The door clicked shut behind him, followed by the metallic scrape of locks being fastened. That should've made it easier to breathe, but it didn't, not when the weight of what he'd said still pressed into my ribs.
Dean crouched down and pulled a large gray duffel from under the bed, retrieving a clear container filled with tiny white pellets. The muted light glinted off the plastic, making it hard to see what was inside.
Sam kept reading like this was just another normal day while Dean went to the windows. He poured a thin, deliberate line along each sill, then at the door. Watching him stirred something deep in my chest—a tug of familiarity, unsettling and strange.
Countless times, I'd found Mom doing the exact same thing.
When I asked her, she convinced me it was an old wives' tale, something she followed to humor a silly superstition taught by her mother. It was weird, sure, but I didn't think much of it and got used to finding sprinkles of salt around the house. But that was years ago. From what I could remember, she hadn't done it in a while.
Seeing Dean do it brought up all my long-suppressed questions. What was the real point of it? And why did she stop?
To combat the tightening in my chest, I focused on the sounds around me: Sam occasionally flipping pages in his book. Dean messed with the TV remote before finally settling on an old sitcom rerun. The static-filled laugh track and over-the-top sound effects were just loud enough to occupy my brain.
Nobody talked, at least not to me. Occasionally, Sam muttered something to Dean, and vice-versa. That was okay, though. I wasn't sure I could find my voice if they tried to include me, anyway.
I cringed when Sam's chair suddenly scraped loudly across the scuffed linoleum. He shot me an apologetic look as he got up for a drink of water, mumbling something about "going to bed."
As the door creaked halfway shut, Dean brought the TV's volume down a few good notches. The black-and-white image seemed fuzzier now that the extra noise was gone. At first, I thought it was my eyes, but no amount of blinks took it away. I didn't like it one bit. It made everything feel… wrong.
Without my permission, my eyes flickered to the clock—3 a.m. John had been gone nearly two hours.
Dean used the extra space to stretch his legs and prop one elbow on the chair's armrest. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm and yawned. "I'll be right back," he announced, nodding toward the bathroom.
It wasn't far, just a few steps away, but as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, the room twisted. The air felt too thick, too stuffy. Filled with the kind of silence that got right under your skin.
3:05. It'd only been five minutes, but it felt like an hour. It was only a matter of time before John returned. Before I got carted off into the unknown.
A black cone circled my vision. My breath lodged in my throat like a rock. That hole in my chest seemed to open even wider. In the deafening quiet, the truth sank around me, impossible to ignore.
This is all there'd ever be—me, alone.
No matter where I ended up, I'd be with people who didn't know me, people who didn't care about me. I would always be alone, always be afraid of the shadows and what lingered within them.
I shut my eyes as tight as they'd go, hoping if I gave in to the weight trying to pull me under, I'd wake up from this nightmare.
Sudden pressure eased on my shoulder, striking through me like a lightning bolt. I whipped away from the feeling, my fist shooting up in defense.
"Whoa, slugger!" Dean exclaimed, quickly backing off, hands up in surrender.
My pulse thundered in my ears. It took a second—too long—to remember where I was, who I was with.
"You okay?" he asked.
I tucked my hand back under the blanket. "I'm sorry," I whispered, the words rippling through my dry throat.
"It's all right," he replied casually, using the towel slung over his shoulder to pat water droplets off his face. Some still clung to his hair, dripping onto his forehead as he headed for the fridge. Dean glanced over his shoulder. I noticed that he appeared a little more awake. "Looks like you got a mean right hook."
I huffed a short laugh and settled back in the same position, only to crane my neck and watch him sift through the refrigerator. Inside was a half-empty gallon of milk and some takeout containers. A few bottles of beer lined up alongside several water bottles.
Dean grabbed a water, hesitated for a second, and then grabbed another. I didn't think much of it until he returned and placed one on the coffee table near me. I should've thanked him, but my lips stuck together, refusing to let anything slip out. He didn't seem to mind, though. Just sat down at the small dining table and leaned back in the chair again.
I stared at the condensation gathering in tiny beads along the plastic bottle. Despite the ache in my throat, lifting my arm felt impossible, like trying to move through quicksand. I dropped my gaze. Maybe later.
Across the room, Dean's knee bounced under the table, rhythmic and steady. Whether he was antsy from exhaustion or just keeping himself occupied, I didn't know, but the sound—quiet as it was—reminded me he was here. Knowing that allowed my muscles to loosen, if only a little.
—JPOV—
Minutes blurred into hours, the numb monotony of the road broken only by occasional headlights slicing through the darkness. I'd already reviewed the checklist multiple times to ensure I had gathered everything. Sheets, rope. Kerosene. A few other supplies.
I turned down the street that led to the Evans' house, but rather than being met with a faintly lit suburban road, bright red and blue lights strobed across the misty backdrop.
"Shit." I eased the car to a stop under the cover of large oak trees.
Cops milled around the property, their faces pale, their movements heavy. Some clustered near their cruisers, engaging in low, urgent conversations, while others disappeared inside. They all shared the same horror-stricken expressions.
Across the street, a red-haired woman clung to her husband, her face soaked with tears. Neighbors. Probably the ones who'd called it in.
I stayed there longer than I should've, staring at the house, waiting for something to change.
But it didn't. It never does.
Then, the coroner's van pulled up, and my grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles ached. For just a fraction of a second, I debated getting out. Spewing some crap to the cops to get inside. But what good would that do? It was too late. I'd failed. Again.
I couldn't save Peter and Rose. Couldn't give them the burial they deserved. Worse now, I had to go back and look their daughter in the eye, knowing I'd let her down, too.
Barely registering my route, I found myself in that abandoned parking lot. It'd been a long time since I looked to another person for guidance, but I stood before that payphone, dialing her number on autopilot.
"I was wondering when you'd call," her airy voice drifted through the poor connection.
"Cops are all over the place." I rubbed a hand over my face and gritted my teeth. "I should've gotten there sooner."
"You did what you could," Missouri cut in, her tone a mixture of sharpness and mourning for her friends. "Don't start with all that guilt foolishness."
A rough exhale left my mouth, turning into smoke. "Victoria's all that's left. I'm bringing her to you in a few hours."
The line crackled, going silent just long enough that I feared we got disconnected until I heard her breathe. I shifted my weight to the other foot and waited.
"No, John."
"That thing is still out there," I spat, my bitter tone aimed at myself for even letting it get away.
"And you'll find it," she said like it was just that simple. "But Victoria coming here, that's not how it's supposed to be."
Her voice was steady, carrying enough weight to grip my lungs. "What the hell's that mean?" I barked.
"Listen to me, John Winchester," Missouri cut in with that no-nonsense tone, whether I wanted it or not. "You know what I do, don't you? I see things, feel things. Things that ain't always easy to explain. That little girl has a path—one that doesn't lead to me."
"Then where does it lead?"
Another beat of silence lingered, followed by a quiet exhale. "I think you know."
I shook my head. Victoria had Rose's fire, but none of her armor. She had Peter's steadiness, but no foundation left to stand on. At the end of it all, she was just a kid. One who might not be ready to face the world for what it really is.
"She's not cut out for the life, Missouri," I argued, every ounce of frustration I felt bleeding through.
"Neither were you." Missouri paused, measured, like she knew I wouldn't want to hear what she was about to say. "Or your boys." Her voice softened just enough so her blow wouldn't hit as hard. "She's got more strength in her than you realize."
My fingers stiffened around the receiver and I looked to the sky, its dark blue broken only by sparse grey clouds. My boys weren't the same. They hadn't had a choice. Then again, neither did Victoria. "Peter and Rose didn't want this for her," I deflected.
"This isn't about what any of us wanted, John. It's about facts. Everything that happened—everything she saw—she doesn't belong here. Now, you gotta trust me on this."
Most times, I dreaded the very thought of calling the Evans. Rose… well, she wasn't the easiest person for me to get along with. She didn't pull her punches, and I respected that more than I'd ever admit. Peter was quieter, but he wasn't soft. Not by any means. Just a different kind of strong, the kind that made people feel safe. They managed to live with one foot in both worlds.
It was a balancing act I couldn't pull off, no matter how hard I tried.
But I'd be stupid not to realize how much my boys loved them. The stability they gave—something solid, something normal. And now… now they were gone.
But Victoria wasn't. And she didn't deserve to get tossed aside.
It was time to repay a debt long overdue.
—TPOV—
As time ticked by, the couch's soft, old cushions formed around my body. Sharp ends of unraveled springs poked into my back. But I stayed here, curled up in a ball, fighting the urge to move like my life depended on being still.
It was a brand new day, but I felt the same. Maybe worse. Like nothing would ever change, and I just had to get used to it.
A clank of ceramic called my attention to the tiny kitchen where Dean had placed a stack of bowls on the table. Sam came out of the bedroom, feet dragging across the floor, his hair going in all different directions. He rubbed his face and tiredly fell into one of the chairs.
When his eyes caught mine, he perked up. "Morning," he rattled, raking his fingers through his hair to smooth it.
I smiled and hoped it didn't look as drained as I felt.
Dean picked up a bright yellow cereal box from the corner of the counter and set it down with a gallon of milk. Sam poured himself a bowl and looked my way. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked gently.
I shook my head, forcing the word out in a hoarse whisper. "No."
"Well, there's plenty here if you decide you want some," Dean chimed in, setting out an extra bowl and spoon. "I don't know if it's what you like, but the stuff's not bad," he added, almost offhand.
Sam scoffed, peering at the ingredient list and curling his lip. "Yeah, right."
Dean pulled out a chair and sat down, pushing up his sleeves with a huff. "Just eat it, it's fine."
"Says you."
The corner of Dean's mouth tugged upward in a sarcastic grin. "Exactly. And since I'm older, you gotta listen."
Sam rolled his eyes so hard, I could almost hear them wobbling around.
Their back-and-forth was easy and, strangely, familiar.
For the first time in hours, I didn't feel like I had to keep checking over my shoulder. I wasn't calm, far from it. But something about listening to them joke around made things feel… a little less empty.
Then, three quick, strong raps rattled the door's already thin window. My stomach did backflips and I sunk further into the couch. Sam barely moved, but Dean's spine straightened, and he crossed the room to peer through the peephole. A breath of relief escaped him, and he unlatched the door, swinging it open.
John stayed outside, keeping his voice so low, I strained to hear. "How is she doing?"
How would he know? I thought, the question hitting me before I could catch it.
Dean briefly glanced back at me and hesitated to answer. "I– I'm not sure. Okay, I think."
"And Sam?"
"Eating breakfast." Dean backed up, giving his father space to step inside.
John scanned the room before landing on me. There was something softer in his eyes for a second, but it was gone just as fast. He cleared his throat, ensuring all attention was on him. "When you're done, start packing."
This was it. Everything would change. Again.
"Where are we going?" Sam asked around a mouthful of cereal. It was hard to tell, but he almost sounded annoyed.
"Illinois." John pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together for warmth. "A place outside Carbondale."
My heart hammered in my chest. I'd never set foot in that state. What could possibly be there for me?
Dean stalled, his eyes flickered to me, then to his father. "Everyone, or–?"
John gave one curt nod of confirmation. "Plans changed," he said, looking my way again. "You're with us now."
The words landed like a punch to the gut—clear, final. But my pulse pounded so loud in my ears that I almost thought I'd misheard. I looked to the other two people in the room for clarity.
Dean's brows tucked in so far, they nearly touched. It looked like his thoughts were racing, trying to figure out each individual's next steps. Sam's lifted into his hairline, disappearing behind his bangs. He glanced at his brother, then back at me, like he was trying to figure out what I was thinking—what we were all thinking—but there was only confusion.
The room shrank and expanded all at once as the silence stretched.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, but it wouldn't budge. So, I forced myself to speak through it. I had to know. To prepare for the next blow. "For how long?"
John hesitated for a brief moment before pulling a deep breath. "This is how it'll be from here on out."
I had braced for a different answer—a timeframe of some sort: days, weeks, maybe even months. What I hadn't expected was that kind of finality.
Another decision I had no say in.
Then again, what would I even choose if I could? I had no home to go back to. No one waiting for me. Just an endless line of strangers who would look at me and only see what I'd lost.
The way the Winchesters lived, I didn't understand it. I wasn't sure I wanted to. The constant moving, the secrets. Being with them meant stepping into a whole new world, one I hadn't asked for. Just thinking about it scared me.
But at the end of the day, no matter how much time had passed, I knew them.
And that had to count for something, right?
Long time no see! How is everyone? I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks for sticking with me!
Next up is the finale!
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