𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇

TEN

HOME

IT'S A colonial-style house, nestled beneath the shade of two large trees with sprawling branches. The green color almost looks gray as the night sky takes over and the moonlight shines down. Bikes and soccer balls are strewn about the front yard, and the cracked sidewalk winds its way to the front door through freshly trimmed grass. Campbell's seen this before. Where, exactly? She doesn't know, but the place gives her a pit in her stomach. 

That's when she sees it, the woman banging on the center window on the second story. She's panicking, screaming at the top of her lungs for somebody to save her. The windowpanes rattle with each slam of her palm against the glass. Campbell's bad feeling from earlier grows and grows, snowballing until she feels like she's going to explode. 

The youngest Winchester shoots up panting and shaking, sweat beading down from her forehead. She's curled up on the couch of the crummy motel room they've chosen this week, drawing the short straw after somehow losing to Dean in rock paper scissors for the other queen bed. Was that really just a dream?  Her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room and find Sam sat up in the same position, out of breath and quivering. "Bad dream?" he croaks. Campbell nods her head. 

"Me too. C'mon," he throws the covers back a bit and Campbell scooches off of the sofa. She pads over to his bed and climbs in, taking in Dean's starfish form on his bed. 

"I feel like I'm eight years old all over again," she mumbles in embarrassment. 

"Well if you're eight that makes me ten," Sam chuckles quietly and turns to face away from his sister.

☾

The next morning comes too soon, and Dean has to quite literally drag Campbell out of bed. She's now seated on the couch again, watching the news. Sam is scribblings something onto a piece of paper on the opposite side of the room and Dean is sat at the kitchenette table reading out headlines. 

"... cattle mutilations in west Texas," he looks up from his screen to find that neither of his siblings is paying attention. "Hey! Hey!" Dean snaps his fingers, "am I boring you with this fighting evil crap?" 

Campbell's eyes are still glued to the tv, although her brain wanders back to the nightmare from last night. Way too vivid, way too realistic, she thinks to herself before shoving it to the back of her mind for what seems like the millionth time that morning. 

"No, no," Sam looks up from his pad of paper, "I'm listening."

Dean groans, "and it says here that a Sacramento man shot himself in the head... three times..." he begins to wave his arms around trying to capture their attention, "anything blowing up your skirt here pal?"

Sam flips through his pad of paper again then springs up from the bed. He rushes over to his ad and digs, finally whipping out their father's journal and tossing it onto the bed next to his drawings. "I know I've seen this before," he mumbles. 

Campbell continues to keep her eyes on the TV, the boys' voices like white noise in the background. She's not truly listening to what the weatherman has to say either, more or less just observing the colors as they dance around the screen. Although something quickly catches her attention, and she realizes its the weatherman calling to her. "Campbell Grace," his voice is gruff, "Campbell Grace Winchester."

"What the hell," she whispers and blinks a few times. Nope, this is real. This is happening, the TV is talking to her.

"Sam is right. Follow him," the weatherman states.