PUBLISHED: 4/16/21
EDITED:
6 YEARS EARLIER
"You sure you don't want to come?" Lora had asked before she left this morning.
I dismissed her offer with a forced smile. There was no point in me going. I finished the work and will expect the degree in the mail at some point. Celebrating amongst all the pomp and circumstance felt wrong, even if I just went for myself. My stomach dropped at the thought of looking out into the crowd as I walked up that stage only to find that it wasn't a bad dream. With a final wave, I wished her good luck and watched her head out the door, cap and tassel in hand.
An hour passed. I stared at the clock, thinking about what I could've been doing—what I could have experienced with them. The intrusive thoughts of what everyone had voiced in passing bombarded my mind.
'You could still go.'
'It's your accomplishment.'
'You should celebrate your achievement.'
'I bet they would want you to.'
But I didn't want to. And for some strange reason, no one could accept that. It didn't happen to them. Why would they care? And why do they think I care what they have to say? Nothing would change my mind, even if that little bit of me yearned to be surrounded by people. I just couldn't do it.
My eyes flit up to the clock again. Another hour. I sigh into the pillow, face mashed into the cushy fabric. After surfing through every possible channel, nothing manages to distract me. With a huff, I grab a few things and decide to go outside for once. Maybe a change of scenery is what I need.
I nestle myself onto a bench outside of a small coffee shop. Headphones muffle the bustling noise and allow me to fall head first into my book. I fish a sour gummy out of the small bag and pop it into my mouth. My eye catches the shoulder strap of my laptop bag dip over the edge of the bench, and I promptly tuck it under my leg. I had tried doing some research on hellhounds, which both agents had advised I not do. What was I supposed to do, though—brush off the fact that a mythical creature took my parents down to Hell? But it was too overwhelming to swallow, and I really didn't want to have an incident in public.
My foot taps along to the soft music as I return back to the bound pages in my hand, hoping to sink right back into the fictional world. Groups of people pass by, tempting my attention. I squint my eyes and stare harder at the words, as if it will help. It doesn't.
Subdued voices bounce back and forth—one of them growing particularly closer. The approaching figure stops a few feet away and sits on the other end of the bench. I quirk an eyebrow, mentally taking note of the pepper spray linked with my keys, and slowly lower the book down.
Those signature hazel eyes and floppy hair greet me with a smile. "Hi."
I softly chuckle and pull the headphones down around my neck. "Hi, Sam."
"What're you reading?" he asks, taking a sip from his coffee.
This goofball just appeared out of nowhere and strikes up a conversation so nonchalantly. I smirk and slide the bookmark into place as he waits patiently for my response. It's adorable.
"Just your run-of-the-mill historical fiction. You probably wouldn't like it," I joke.
He hums in response, playing along. "Yeah, I hate that kind of stuff." I giggle from his blatant sarcasm, causing an immediate grin to pull at his lips.
He then reaches out for the book, which I promptly place in his hand. I watch him examine the cover, quickly reading, "The Alienist by Caleb Carr", before studying the summary on the back. "It any good?"
"Yeah, it's actually my favorite," I respond rather shyly.
This raises an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Why?"
"Why is it your favorite?" he clarifies, holding the book in his lap.
Caught off guard by the sudden deep question, I scramble for an intelligent response. Realistically I should be able to formulate an articulate answer that would rival some of my academic papers. But the blaringly intimate spotlight challenges my confidence.
"Uh. It's um..." He shifts to face me, placing a leg over the other, and drinks from his cup, eyes never leaving me. "It's an analytical dive into the human psyche. A group of people, each with their own investigative strengths, works as a team to piece together this complex depiction of a late nineteenth century serial killer. And I find it fascinating. The—not the killer part. Just the...you know what I mean."
I nervously fidget under his gaze and become self-conscious of my blathering. I'm not entirely used to being asked these kinds of questions as I'm typically the one who dishes them out, always seeking meaningful conversation. And he's the first to answer that call.
He smiles at my apprehension, almost admiring the passion and interest in my voice, and hands the book back to me. "I'll have to give it a read sometime."
I relax my shoulders from his calming reply. There's absolutely no need to be nervous around him, but sometimes I can't help it. "If you're into that kind of stuff."
Sam nods, smirking at the ground. "Totally."
"What made you leave campus to get a cup of coffee?" I ask. There are tons of places within walking distance from his dorm and he came all this way.
He turns the cup in his hand to point at the business label. "I wanted this one."
"Sam," I give him a look, "this is a Starbucks."
He glances around as if his decision to walk all the way to this one was completely devoid of any ulterior motive. "And?"
I narrow my eyes. "You just wanted coffee from this particular Starbucks?"
"Yep." He sneaks a peek to see if I'm buying his poorly orchestrated lie.
I'm not, for the record. "All right."
Tucking the book back into my bag, I reach for the candy and offer one to Sam. He quirks an eyebrow, inspecting the contents before grabbing a gummy. I pop one into mouth and watch some people passing by. It's quiet for a few moments between us, just enjoying each other's company, hidden in a small, intimate corner away from reality.
"I wanted to come congratulate you," he says, breaking the silence, "but you weren't at graduation."
My eyes dart to the ground. He went looking for me? Maybe I should have gone. Then he wouldn't have had to stand and wait for however long to realize that I wasn't there.
Well, at first I thought I couldn't find you," he continues, "but Lora told me you opted out and that you might be here."
Wait a minute.
I turn and pause for just a moment. "You waited outside to see me?"
Sam's eyes widen as he becomes a bit flustered all of a sudden. "Not the whole time. I mean, I didn't crash the thing. Just when people were coming out, I thought I'd drop by."
My stomach flutters from a swarm of wild, flapping butterflies. The law boy concentrates on my facial expression, anything that would give him an indicator of potentially stepping over the line. Truth be told, I never considered the idea of him being there, since it's typically a family-oriented event. But the thought of him standing outside the auditorium, waiting for those doors to open, hoping to see me...
I bite my lip to save myself from an embarrassing grin. "Yeah, I don't know. It just didn't feel..."
"You don't have to explain it to me, Ona," he interjects, "I get it."
Sam had told me a little about his family, but even from that I understood it wasn't the best dynamic. His mother had passed when he was a baby, and his father didn't seem to ever recover from it. He spoke about Dean every now and again, but I didn't really know where he stood on their relationship. Sam didn't have anyone back home to reach out to.
Another thing we have in common: we're both alone.
I sigh, pulling my knees to my chest. "You're the first person to."
He takes another sip from his coffee, contemplating the thought burrowing in his head. It gets stuck on his tongue but eventually rolls right out. "What're you going to do now?"
I pause, mulling it over. For the past few months, I had been considering my next steps—what to do when there's nowhere to go. The agents from my parents' case pop back into my mind, along with the deep, bloodied claw marks engraved in their cold flesh. But I bite my lip and bury it for another time.
"I have no idea," I sheepishly answer.
"There it is," a sharp voice cuts in.
A chill rolls up my back as I remember where I am.
The people in the street freeze in place, paused by a broken clock. Even Sam is fixed in place. He remains still, gracing me with that soft smile and caring gaze.
Zachariah snaps his fingers, and everyone vanishes, the remnants of their being lost in the infinite void of make believe. He sits down on the bench, taking Sam's spot, and holds his finger at me. "That face—the moment you thought you knew. Control. Free will. You were delusional at best."
I shut my eyes. "Stop tampering with my memories."
"You had it all mapped out in your head," Zachariah continues, ignoring my order, "but you weren't going to tell anyone, especially Sam. 'What would he think?' The boy wonder that gave you butterflies."
My fingernails dig into my palms as I try to arouse a bit of physical pain—anything to wake me up.
"Maybe you'd see him again. But who knows? The guy had everything. Why would he suddenly drop it all...for you, of all people?"
He lingers on that last bit, letting it settle in the pit of my stomach, and then turns to me. "Seems like Lucifer was on your side for that part, though. Without his help, Sam would have never fallen for you. Instructing Brady to kill sweet, little Jessica. Ordering Lora to carry out the deal with your parents. It all fell into place. Free will is just an illusion."
The blood in my veins runs cold. Lora? My roommate that I lived with the entire time I was at Stanford. The person I went to when I was having a bad day and shared personal information with. The one who introduced me to Sam. She was a...My body freezes as everything starts to click into place.
Satisfied with my horrified reaction, the pretentious angel smirks. "If Jessica was still alive, do you know where you'd be? Nowhere. You'd be forgotten—a lost memory. Another victim of a supernatural incident that Sam and Dean would forget along the way. Only Sam and Dean would have never reconciled, so it wouldn't even matter.
I grit my teeth. "Get out of my head."
"You're right." He sighs and stands up. "I'm tired of digging through this 'highlight reel' of you pathetically pining over him. You were doomed to always be his second choice."
"Stop it." My hands begin to shake, overwhelmed with all of this new information and amplified emotion. I just want to go home. I want to be with my family.
"But I still need something from you. So, I'll ask one last time..." His hand abruptly clasps around my jaw like a snake and lifts me into the air. I gasp as he squeezes tighter and I instinctively shut my eyes. It's just a bad dream. It has to be.
The pain doesn't go away. Strangely, it starts to intensify all over my body—my chest, arms, legs, face. My eyes flash open and the demon of an angel still glares back at me, his fingers bruising my skin. The coffee shop and bustling street are gone. Sam is gone. And in their place is a room of sickly pristine white, bleakness painted from floor to ceiling. A group of angels surrounds us, readjusting the clamps that restrain me to the chair. My neck is wet with trickles of blood from the spiked iron collar, but the sign of pain seems to only excited Zachariah.
"What deal did the Coven strike with Lucifer?"
"Screw you," I answer through clenched teeth.
He exhales through his nose and retracts. "What did they agree upon?"
The group of angels looms over me and I begin to recognize their faces. Each of them had a hand in the cuts and bruises that litter my body. Some of them even took trips into my head just for the hell of it. One catches me staring and cocks his head, daring me to do something, and then chuckles to himself at my bindings, sinking deep into my skin.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Zachariah nods and casually strolls over to a table, lined with bloodied instruments. He picks up a sharp, narrow blade and rolls it around in his hand, testing the grip. Then with one final glance, giving me an opportunity to spill the truth, I clench up in preparation. He grabs my head, forces it down against the seat, and lets the blade hover over me. My breathing becomes shallow and ragged as he waits for me to beg, but I don't give in. With a twisted smile, he holds me down and forces the blade into my forehead. I scream as he drags it down through my left eyebrow, excruciatingly slow as if he was carving a sculpture. He eventually pulls away, nicking my eyelid, and marvels at his work.
"Let's settle on a recap, shall we?" The blade clatters on the table. "The most powerful witch in the world is suddenly born and immediately pawned off to the Devil."
I hang my head, feeling the hot dribble of blood roll down my eye and nose. My hands grip the arms of the chair for strength. I can get through this. I have to.
"She is watched her entire life by demons who enact little changes, altering her course, making sure the floppy-haired vessel is always within her sight."
One of the angels slams my head back against the chair to pay attention.
"The witches eventually intervene to solidify their bond, ensuring that there's something more between them. But it's only to make sure she doesn't leave his side."
A word suddenly catches my attention. "Vessel?"
"The Coven calls you their Horseman." He picks up another serrated instrument. "Seems their making new additions to the Bible."
"I'm telling you; I don't know what any of this means."
Before I can blink, my hand is pressed down into the arm, fingers splayed out. The blade cuts right into my knuckle. "What has Lucifer planned for you?" Zachariah booms.
It pierces deeper, blood beginning to spill onto the red-stained floor. "I don't know!"
I turn away, keeping my cheek against the seat, awaiting the unbearable pain to engulf my nerves like a blazing fire.
There's a knock at the door and my hand is reluctantly freed. "Sir," another angel steps into the room, "the Winchesters have their heading."
Zachariah sighs, smiling, and wipes his hands clean with a fresh towel. He tosses the bloodied rag at the nearest angel, who flinches from the unexpected impact, and straightens his tie.
"Time to recruit the newest member of our team. Shall I give him a message for you? Maybe one for Sam? Something that really shows how selfless you are."
"Shove it up your ass," I growl.
"Be careful," he taunts, "I could report you to HR."
I snarl and am immediately rewarded with a fist to my already sensitive cheek. A groan escapes my throat and I hang my head once more. How many more times is this going to happen? How much longer will he keep this up before he gets bored? Or does he think he can break me? Does anyone even know where I am?
Not like it matters. I got myself into this mess. I only hope that no one out there is risking their life for my mistakes.
Minutes pass in utter silence. The angels seem to be telepathically communicating with one another, which is fine by me. I'd rather not hear them speak. It would only add to the psychological pain. One of them uncharacteristically shuffles in place. I lift my head up to find him frantically looking around as if something just spooked him. Another jerks to one side, searching for what just whispered into his ear. Their hidden blades slide down their sleeves and into their palms as they face the door, awaiting some mystery guest to blow it down.
A few seconds tick by, but nothing happens. I glance around at the paranoid maniacs in confusion. They wouldn't have responded so defensively if there wasn't a threat. I focus on the energy in the vicinity, but all I pick up is angel grace.
The door suddenly flies open, bringing with it a gust of wind that causes some of the angels to cover their faces. But once they return to their protective stances, they are met with an empty hallway, the spirit nowhere to be found.
A peculiar sound enters my ear, so slight that I almost don't catch it. I turn to decipher it, but the motion sends a sharp spark of pain into my neck, the iron collar catching me. As I return forward, a quiet clink hits and bounces onto the ground. A latch is released, and the collar feels peculiarly light as if it's been unlocked. The bounds around my arms swing open which alert the angels. And right as their eyes reach my face, the spiked contraption is pulled out from around my neck and snapped in half.
The flaps of a certain beige trench coat enter my blurring vision. "I do not wish to kill you," he says, moving in front of me, "but I will."
"Castiel," one gasps.
"You were...dead."
"Not anymore," he responds and draws his blade. "Your rule of torment is over."
One of them points his weapon dangerously close to my face. "She threatens Michael's succession. He must come out the victor."
A fleck of energy begins to flutter in my chest. It trickles down my arms and legs like water and gets to work patching up some of the open wounds. I close my eyes, finally feeling a bit of relief from the stinging ache, but it barely scratches the surface.
"The apocalypse can and will be stopped."
The magic swarms around like a growing windstorm, reacting to my body on the brink of shutting down. It tingles the top of my skin as it charges the electricity back into my hands. I flex my fingers, catching the attention of the nearest angel. His eyes widen in realization of what's about to hit them.
"You've gone off the deep end, Castiel," one condemns, "You're lost!"
Cas narrows his gaze. "No. I'm loyal to humanity."
Right as the angels charge the one who has rebelled, their blades freeze in the air, except Castiel's. He looks about them confused, expecting a fight to the death—again, apparently. His eyes then shift over to me. My body trembles from the overexertion of magic, fists clenched tightly to contain it. Breathe. Control the power.
Unable to move on my own, Cas grabs me and guides one of my arms over his shoulder. As we carefully weave through the crowd of paralyzed angels, I see the fear in their eyes, unable to manage their own bodies. They look down to their blades and then each other.
I struggle to hold them all, the veins in my hands pulsing under my skin. Cas notices as he peeks out into the hallway. "Do it, Ona."
"I don't know if I can," I whimper, biting my lip.
He grips my side. "It will create the distraction we need."
Burying the urge to throw up and pass out right onto the floor, I muster up enough strength to keep the spell going. Cas effortlessly takes all of my weight, allowing me to focus, and darts from the room.
"Now, Ona," he whispers.
And then I let it all go, the turbulent surge of power releasing from my hands as I unfurl them. The jolting clang of blades radiate from the room, growing quieter once we gather our footing. But then a burst of blinding light followed by a blood-curdling scream emerges and shakes me to my core. Cas notices my startled hesitation but keeps us going. I stare down at my hands and look back over my shoulder.
I compelled them to kill each other.
We bob and weave around so many corridors, it's hard for me to keep track. They all start to blur together as my body, absolutely depleted of energy, begins to drag. The angel speeds up and eventually finds the door he's looking for.
We burst through and end up crashing down onto a bed of coarse sand. I stumble into a pit and fall onto my back, coughing from rough impact.
Cas darts over and picks me up. His hand presses against my chest and a spark of energy sears deep into my bones. I yelp from the sudden jolt but don't think anything of it. Must have been from another sharp turn or breath. "We have to keep moving. I'll take you somewhere where you'll be safe."
"Where's that?" I force out with another cough.
"Somewhere familiar."
Like a blink of an eye, we disappear without a trace and reappear in the midst of a junkyard, filled with broken down vehicles and various rusted parts strewn about. I squint my eyes, weakly blocking the sun with my hand, and spot someone on the porch in a wheelchair.
The angel holds me steady and walks me over to the place I recognize as home. I wince every few steps, the movement brushing and bumping against the tender spots.
"Cas?" I manage to get out.
"Yes?"
I grab a handful of his coat, feeling my knees wobble. "Were Lora and Brady demons?"
He doesn't stop moving, but I sense him stare off into the distance. His mouth draws in as he considers responding. He's been watching me like a hawk ever since I was born, every decision I've ever made. But have they always been my own?
"Yes."
We eventually reach the steps leading up to the back porch. Bobby grasps the arms of the wheelchair upon the sight of me, barely hanging onto Cas like a ragdoll.
"Dammit, kid," he mutters, yearning to get up and grab me.
I humorlessly chuckle. "Hey, Bobby."
Cas takes us up to the door. "She's severely wounded."
"No shit," Bobby says. I smile.
He leads me over to the living room and sets me down on the couch. "Suppose you can't heal her like you couldn't with me."
"Like I said before, I'm cut off from Heaven's power," Cas replies while checking my face. "Most of her will recover rather quickly." His eyes shoot up to the cut through my eyebrow. "Some might take more time."
Bobby sighs and glances between us. "Well, thanks for getting her. The boys were looking everywhere. Sam was drivin' himself right over the deep end trying to find her."
"They would have never found her," Cas says bleakly. "Heaven is heavily guarded. And they would have had to—"
"—Bite the dust. Yeah. Knowing that, the idjit would've done it."
Cas stands there awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say. I reach out and barely brush the side of his hand. He stoically turns, looks down at our hands, and then over to me.
"Thank you."
He doesn't move a muscle, body rigid and firm like a trained soldier. But for just a fraction of a second, I could have sworn the corners of his mouth pulled up ever so slightly. He risked his life to save me.
"You're welcome."
And then he's gone.
I take in a deep breath and lean back against the couch, a comfort I've missed dearly. My fingers trail along the seams of the interior, the pattern along the fabric, and the creases in the pillows. Tears well up in my eyes. I never thought I'd make it here again.
"You okay, Ona?"
Bobby has that worried look on his face—the same one that watched me at my parents' funeral. At the time when he had asked the same question, I lied. There was no point in telling him how I really felt, and he had already known. There was nothing to do. He was a stranger standing beside me. But now when I look at him—the rugged and beaten down hunter that always manages to get backup—I see a father, troubled at seeing his child in pain.
My lip trembles. "No. I'm not."
He exhales, doing his best not to cry himself. His hands push the wheels of his chair closer to me, so he can take my hand. A tear emerges, but he quickly wipes it away and sniffs. "It's okay now."
I nod and squeeze his hand back. "I hope so."
He pats it one last time and wheels toward the kitchen. "Let's get you patched up. See if I can sew that."
I slowly follow him in, holding onto the furniture and walls for support. He instructs me to wash my hands and face best I can and take a seat at the table. I almost gasp as the cold water hits the open scrapes and cuts, waking me up in the process. I numbly reach for a towel to dry off and unexpectedly catch my reflection in the glass cabinet.
Bobby, waiting patiently at the table, notices me standing perfectly still, staring at myself. "Ona, come sit down."
For the first time in my life, I don't recognize the person staring back at me. Harsh, purple bruises span out across my cheek and jaw. Jagged cuts line the circumference of my neck, equally spaced out from the spikes of the collar. A deep, bloodied line splits my left eyebrow into two and leads down into my eyelid. The blood vessels of that eye, once clear and white, have exploded into a vibrant red. And my hair no longer dangles behind my back. It rests somewhat unevenly at my shoulders, as if haphazardly chopped to make me look like a prisoner.
My chin uncontrollably quivers at the ghastly sight. I'm not who I once was, and I don't know if I will ever be. She's gone—thrown in a ditch somewhere and left for dead. This is someone else.
Bobby grabs my hand again. "It's okay."
"Look at me, Bobby!" He retracts at my outburst but doesn't steer away. "Look at what they did to me."
I resist the urge to slam my fist into the glass, all the while knowing I'm too weak to actually do it. My eyes slam shut as a waterfall of tears cascade down my face. I break down, collapsing to the ground, and sob into Bobby's lap. He sighs and just strokes my hair as I let it all out.
Once it seems like I've tired myself out, he grips my arm and whispers, "You're still my kid."
--☽||☾--
A few hours have passed. Bobby managed to sew the cut in my face and did his best with the rest. After a painful shower, I changed into clean clothes and curled up on the couch. Bobby had told me what had happened after I was taken, how he ended up in the wheelchair, and where Sam and Dean were. Apparently, there's another demon on the loose that's just as bad as Ruby.
Bobby claimed he wanted to keep an eye on me and went to work skimming through lore books at his desk, which I was content with. The last thing I wanted was to be alone.
As I space out, staring at the grains in the floorboards, unraveling all the events that transpired, one of Bobby's phones buzzes. He picks it up, briefly glances at me, and answers it.
"I take it you're alive," he sarcastically greets.
"Heard you got your ass zapped back home," Dean says.
"Still wheelin' around in this damn thing."
There's a sigh on the other end. "We'll figure it out, Bobby. Just sit tight."
He grumbles to himself. "You find anything in that locker?"
"Yeah, actually. Bunch of friggin' angels. Zachariah popped down from his corporate office to pay us a visit. Tried to threaten us with Ona's life and then all hell broke loose. Cas showed up—thought he was dead—and sent him away."
Bobby and I exchange knowing looks. "Sounds fun."
"He said she was with you."
The ball-capped hunter pauses, knowing there's apprehension on the other end. They had been searching for days on end and to finally get a location must have made them wary. "Cas busted his way into Heaven and brought her back here."
"Heaven? How'd he manage that?"
Bobby shrugs. "I figure Ona helped."
"Is she okay?" Sam suddenly asks.
My hand slides up over my mouth as I shut my eyes, holding back the crashing waves of fear and relief. When I was trapped in Heaven, under the will of Zachariah's sadistic mind, I yearned to hear Sam's voice again. And I did, in passing moments, but they weren't him. They were fabricated memories, tweaked to satisfy the angel's needs.
And the time before when I had blindly sprinted down the stairs and even fought Dean to get to him. But it was never him on the phone. He was never truly there. I thought we'd never see each other, and it broke me to pieces.
"Bobby? Is she alive?" Sam urgently presses.
"She's still kickin'," he answers softly, "But you'll have to give her some time. Those angels did a number on her."
"How bad? Can I at least talk to her?" The desperation in his voice, grasping for anything to get to me, provokes more tears to flood my eyes.
"She hasn't slept a wink in weeks. Let her have a few hours and I'll tell her you called."
There's a moment of silence, followed by Dean's faint voice whispering to Sam. "We're on our way," he finally responds.
"See you tomorrow." Bobby promptly hangs up and then gestures to the blanket next to me. "You heard what I said."
I smirk, wipe my face, and oblige his request. My eyes become rather heavy as I tuck myself in, listening to the sounds of book pages being flipped. Within minutes, I sink into the couch and fall into a deep sleep.
--☽||☾--
It's the silence that wakes me. The room is dark, save for a small lamp in the corner. I sit up in a daze, feeling out of sorts from lack of sunlight shining in through the windows. My back arches as I gradually stretch my muscles and sigh. A handwritten note lies next to me.
"Went to bed. There's food in the fridge."
I squint over at the clock and deduce that it's a little after two in the morning. I must have been out for a while. Next to the note, peeking out from behind the pillow, is my phone. Cas might have retrieved my stuff from the hotel in Kansas City and dropped it off. I don't really know how these things show up out of nowhere anymore.
The bright screen makes me wince, but I continue to search through it. There are some messages from Jo, saying that she and Bela got out safely and laid low for a bit before joining up with Ellen. Bela apparently didn't stay very long and left with typical vague reasoning. Seems she didn't know if she would end up telling me this in person or not, but if the information got to me before she did, that's all she wanted. There's also a missed call from Ellen before the time she connected with Jo.
And then I see his name in bold letters, right above a message sent around midnight.
When you're feeling okay, please call me.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. What do I even say to him? What if I wake him up? I don't want to startle them if they're resting somewhere. Talking on the phone just so happens to make me anxious, as well. A swell combo.
Folding and draping the blanket onto the couch, I walk into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and narrowly avoid my reflection. Once it's empty, I refill it again and quietly head outside.
The familiar rattle of a collar brings a smile to my face. At the sound of my approaching footsteps, I can hear his tail thwapping against the side of his doghouse. He peeks his head around the corner and sprints towards me.
"Hi, Rum," I whisper, jerking the glass of water away as he jumps up to lick me. "Easy, boy. Go easy on me."
We make our way back to his little corner and I pour the fresh water into his bowl. As he happily laps it up, I sit down on the ground with a groan. The rottweiler continues wagging his tail and brings a trail of water right onto my lap.
"Thanks, buddy. I appreciate that."
Rumsfeld does a few excited laps around me and eventually settles at my side. He happily pants and then sniffs my face, offering a few more licks.
"You don't seem to be bothered by my appearance," I say, scratching behind his ears, "but I'm not sure you ever would."
I pull out my phone again and glance down at Sam's name. "Do you think he feels the same?"
Rumsfeld lets out a little whine as I had stopped scratching him. Rolling my eyes, I rub his head, causing him to close his. I stare at the text and eventually muster up the confidence to reply.
2:23 A.M.
Are you awake?
Not even thirty seconds pass before the phone vibrates.
Yes
The self-conscious tick creeps in again.
Do you need to sleep? I don't want to bother you.
I'd much rather talk to you than sleep
And you don't bother me, Ona
My thumbs aimlessly circle over the keypad.
Are you free to talk?
Always
Rumsfeld reads the nervous energy radiating from me and lays his head down on my lap. It's okay to call him. You've been waiting to hear his voice again. Just do it.
Sucking in a quick breath, I press the green icon and hold it up. My stomach tingles as it rings. The rapid beating of my heart pulses in my ears.
The ringing stops.
"Ona?"
"Hi, Sam," I answer shyly.
There's a pause on his end. A moment passes before I hear him sniffling. "Hey," he breathes out, "H-how are you? Are you okay?"
The ends of my hair graze the bandages on my neck. "I don't know," I say honestly. "I...look different."
"What do you mean?"
My bottom lip begins to quiver as I remember the image. "I don't think you'll want to see me."
"Ona, of course I do," he reassures, "All I've been doing is trying to get to you."
"Sam, it's—"
"I love you, Ona. Nothing will ever change that."
A tear or two rolls down my face and I quickly wipe them away. "Where are you?" I change the subject.
"At a gas station just outside of Chicago. Dean's inside getting food."
I nod to myself and absent-mindedly stroke Rumsfeld's fur. He lets out a long sigh. "I tried to find out where you were, but I couldn't..." My voice breaks.
"I know, Ona," he says softly, almost a whisper, "Dean told me everything."
An unexpected sob escapes from my mouth. "I was so scared. And I missed you so much."
He exhales into the receiver, uneven and strained. There's some rustling and the chime of small bell. "Can you hurry up, please?" Sam asks impatiently, pulling away from the phone.
"Sam, she's with Bobby. She's safe," Dean casually responds. Another pause. "All right, all right. Your turn to drive, Speed Racer. Easy on the pedals."
"I'll be there soon, Ona."
"Please be careful."
"I promise."
And the line goes quiet.
I stay outside for a little bit longer, comforted by the warm presence of the friendly rottweiler, and eventually head back inside before the sun peeks up over the horizon. After catching a few more hours of sleep, I spend the morning and early part of the afternoon with Bobby in his workshop.
My eyes are glued to the ground as I space out sitting on one of the bench chairs. Bobby goes to work buffing some scratches out of one of his ongoing projects, while Rumsfeld chews on a toy at my feet.
"You all right over there?" Bobby asks.
I sit up straight and shake myself out of my daze. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."
"You can go sleep some more if you want," he says. "I don't mind being out here by myself."
I offer a smile. "It's okay, Bobby."
I don't think I can handle being alone right now. And from the look that passes over his face as he sets the rag down on the trunk of the car, I know he understands. Being cooped up in that hospital room all day probably has him feeling the same way.
"Suit yourself." He rolls over to the front of the car, making Rumsfeld look up. "Might have you do some work under the hood, then."
"Great."
No longer interested in his squeaky bone, Rumsfeld gets up and paws at my chair. I pat my legs, prompting him to jump up, and rub his head. He licks my lightly bandaged hands, which burn less than they did before. Just like Cas had said, most of me is healing just fine, but there are other parts that are taking more time. And one of those parts is unfortunately the cut on my face. I'm worried it'll permanently scar and be the only thing people see. Rumsfeld still wildly wags his tail, despite the new additions, so maybe that's a good sign.
"Do me a favor?" Bobby asks, looking down at his phone. "Can you go around back? I think I might've left one of my toolboxes out there."
"Sure." I hop off the chair. "What does it look like?"
His mouth twist to the side as he thinks and responds to a text. "Uh...red."
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "That's it? No other indicators?"
"You'll know when you see it," he says. "Take him with you."
I look down at Rumsfeld who's already on his feet ready to follow me. "Okie doke."
The high-spirited rottweiler trots along with me as we walk around to the other side of the house, a space that we hardly ever frequent. Strange that he would have left something out here that should belong in his workspace.
A far-off rumbling crawls onto the property, but before I can get a good listen, a bird flies over Rumsfeld's head. He jumps back, startled by its fluttering wings, and barks.
"Seriously?" I wave the bird away and hold him back. "Some guard dog you are. Certain demons are fine, but birds? No way."
He tugs against me, trying to chase after it. I chuckle and hold him still. As I glance around the property, there's not a speck of red in sight. Maybe Bobby forgot where he put it altogether.
"Did ya find it?" the ballcapped hunter calls out.
"No, there's nothing out here," I answer back. "Are you sure it's not near you?"
"Maybe it is. Come on back."
The bird flaps around Rumsfeld again, obviously antagonizing him. "Come on, buddy," I encourage and grip his collar.
He jumps up at it, which forces it to fly back where we came. And before I know it, he's slipped from my grasp and taken off at full speed for the winged thing. I don't blame him. Wings are starting to piss me off, too.
"Dammit, Rum!" I start to sprint after him but realize there's no use and come to a stop at the edge of the house. "I swear, that dog—"
I suddenly notice a vehicle parked in the driveway. A thin layer of dust and grime rests on its sleek, black exterior, the beauty of its presence negating the wear and tear that it endlessly endures. But it's not the Impala that causes me to lose my breath.
The crunching of dirt under two pairs of boots directs my attention over to the porch. Bobby sits right outside his workshop, donning a slight smirk at my stunned expression. Flanking him are two tall figures, each carrying an assortment of bags over their shoulders. One holds his jacket in his hand, while the other has chosen to keep his leather one on.
They turn at the emergence of my voice from around the corner. Their eyes scan my wounded form, bouncing between all the bruises and bandages like a pinball machine. The older of the two stands there in shock, taken aback by the torment and abuse that stains me. But the other just looks at me. His chest rises as he inhales sharply and blinks, the glossiness of his eyes making it hard to see.
"Ona."
He drops everything in his hands, abandoning them entirely in the dirt and dust. A tear falls down my face as he walks toward me.
"Sam—"
I'm abruptly pulled into his arms and lifted up into the air. My legs subconsciously wrap around his torso as I absorb the confounding amount of affection and bury my face into the crook of his neck. His firm hands scale up my back, hitting some sensitive spots, but I could care less. I'd go through all of the pain in the world for him.
A delicate whimper escapes his lips just as a patch of fabric on my shoulder dampens. I hold him tighter as I feel more of my own tears begin to fall and run a hand through his hair. He exhales into my shirt and sniffs.
"I'm so sorry, Ona," he whispers.
I close my eyes and smile amidst the wetness that streaks my face. "It's you. It's really you."
He reluctantly pulls back, allowing me to see those beautiful eyes, red from several nights of insufferable despair. As I hold his face in my hands, he slowly blinks, and a tear falls from his long eyelashes.
He leans his forehead against mine to slow his breathing. "I'm never letting you go."
"You'll have to at some point," Dean cuts in.
I chuckle. Sam makes a small noise of disdain and dives right for my mouth. His lips are urgent in their desperation to meet mine, as if my kiss was the breath of air he needed to survive. The heat from his fingers melts right through my shirt and sends a comforting, sensual tingle up my spine. Our mouths, salty from the mixture of tears, unwillingly pull apart, the hunger to keep going interrupted by the reality that two people are indeed watching us.
Sam's hands play with the ends of my hair as he murmurs, "You're beautiful, Ona."
"That's my boy," Dean proudly voices to himself. A few more bags are picked up, followed by the sound of boots ascending the set of steps into the house.
"All right, lovebirds," Bobby calls out, "Get inside before I lose my breakfast."
I laugh, which makes Sam smile. He carefully sets me back down but keeps a hand at my waist. That silly dog finally returns, shakes out all the dirt on his coat, and gallops over to younger Winchester.
"Hey, buddy," he says, bending down to rub him. "You been protecting my girl?"
My heart swells. I catch a glance from Bobby and immediately look down at the ground, feeling the heat reach my cheeks. He snorts and shakes his head. Sam grabs the rest of his stuff and ushers me to go ahead of him.
"I'm beat," Dean says with an exhausted sigh, "Gonna catch a couple Z's. Try not to wake me up, all right?"
I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Glad to see you, too, Dean." He smirks and goes upstairs.
Sam passes through the door, still grinning like an idiot. "Hey."
"Yes?"
"Can I, um, stay in your room tonight?" he asks shyly. "And every night after that?"
I can't help but giggle at the adorable man. "Maybe."
He amusingly scoffs. "'Maybe'?"
"Mm-hmm."
I slip off my shoes, turn and walk towards the living room but don't get very far before he grabs me by the waist and spins me back to him. "What can I do to change that to a 'yes'?"
His mouth hovers dangerously close to mine, tempting me to give in and close the gap. I smile at his forwardness and drag my finger along his jaw. "You can show me how much you've missed me."
A lust-filled darkness washes over his eyes as they lower. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. "Any specific requests?"
My gaze drops down to his unbuttoned shirt and the glossy sheen of sweat on his chest. "Are you opposed to getting wet?"
One of his eyebrows raises ever so slightly as he makes the connection. "I could go for a shower."
"Good," I mutter. His fingers slide through my hair to pull me in for a kiss. "But we should probably move before Bobby comes back in."
He stops and looks around, remembering that we're still in the entryway. "Right."
"Also, Dean made it clear he doesn't want to be woken up."
The smirk that plays on his soft lips grows. "I can't promise that," he whispers into my ear, "Not with you."
I've got him back.
**Author's Note: Yes, I wrote another one. You're welcome. Head on over to "Beast in my Sheets" when you've finished squealing.**
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Another chapter (well, actually two) in under a month? Yeah, school burnout is getting to me and I needed the serotonin of a Siona reunion.
This may be the last time you hear from me until at least the end of May. Your girl is graduating (with honors) and I've got A LOT to do. Still doesn't feel real. But I'll have a website finished to showcase all of my graphic design work. I'll be sure to share it once it's published. Then you'll know my true identity...Maybe I should keep it a secret lol.
Anyways, keep going strong. I love reading everyone's comments and am so overjoyed at the amount of people that enjoy this story. I never thought it would blow up like this. Also doesn't feel real. Thank you for all of the love and appreciation. It doesn't go unnoticed.
Goodnight, friends. <3
P.S. We made it to season 5, y'all
Wham_Bam_Sam