PUBLISHED: 3/9/19
EDITED:
"Sam!" Dean's shout echoes around in my clouded mind, as I'm unable to look away from the transfixing sight hovering inches from my face.
Tracing over the delicate curve of his soft cheekbones to the subtle point of his nose and slight gruff along his sharp jawline, my mind says it's him—the one with the golden heart but misplaced judgement. Yet my eyes say otherwise, retreating to the soulless abyss that has replaced the comforting specs of brown amongst the brilliant green in his hazel orbs. The black, infernal horns, curled around the sides of his head, let out a hiss, sizzling from the heat that radiates from him, and the sky above forms into dark clouds.
I blink once, ridding my mind of the ridiculously absurd thought that enters it. But, like the haunting visage before me, it won't go away. It stays, pestering like a parasite, burrowing its way into the very depths of my nightmares.
Is this...Satan?
"Get her in the damn car!"
This beautiful, demonic beast jerks his head at the urgent order, allowing me to take in the elegance of his ungodly profile, illuminated by the fiery glow of the sun. From down below, a deep rumble vibrates every part of my body that he touches, as if they were the heavy guitar chords of Black Sabbath. His solid black eyes pass over the blood stains on my shirt and hands, quickly flitting up to my entranced face, and then scoops me up in his arms.
As soon as my body is frantically thrust into the back seat of the Impala, the red tinge covering my eyes fades away, reigniting the burning sensation from the bullet in its place. Someone closes the trunk in a hurry, jostling the car, and exchanges a few more hastened words with the other two hunters departing in Bobby's truck.
Sam tries to squeeze himself into the spot next to me, keeping his warm hand around the back of my neck. But once the opposing car door suddenly swings open, his head and eyes snap up. "Nice try, Winchester," Jo scolds, immediately replacing his hands on my crumbling body with hers.
Sam frowns, firing quite an intimidating glare, warning her to stand down. But she doesn't, matching the intensity with her defensive body language. Ever since our departure from the boys in Santa Cruz, Jo's developed a relatively questionable opinion of the younger one, supposedly in my defense. The fact that the two of them have never spent time together outside of a hunt—usually only being in proximity to one another because of me—pops into my mind, but I quickly tuck it away as I sense the strain between them escalating.
"Hey," Dean starts, turning in the driver's seat, "We need to get this bullet out, now."
"That's what I'm trying to do," Sam says through his clenched teeth, almost exclusively to Jo who snidely cocks her head in response. His fingers wrap around the edge of the leather seat in a death grip, one hand by his thigh while the other resides between my legs. The two of them never break eye contact, challenging one another to make the next move, as if battling over territory.
In all honesty, I am truly interested in seeing how this particular fight would play out between the two of them, but we don't have that kind of leisure at the moment. As the bullet remains lodged in my flesh, allowing more time for the iron to seep into my bloodstream, the burning pain accumulates, causing a heightened state of panic to take over my actions. Hastily wriggling out of their grasps, I swiftly, yet painfully, reach back with my cut hand and pull my shirt up and over my head. A strangled cry climbs up the back of my throat and out through my gritted teeth. The bloodied spot of the fabric sticks to the wound, while the rest sits under my chin, covering my bra and stomach. My head falls back against the top of the seat as I close my eyes and focus on steadying my breathing.
"Woah, easy there--"
"Careful, Ona--"
"Don't move. We'll--"
"Somebody better before I do!"
The car is dead quiet for half a second, my sudden burst catching them off guard but quickly setting them all back into emergency procedure. After a beat, where I'm assuming Jo and Sam exchange another mutually aggravated look, the weight on the seat next to me disappears, followed by the begrudging closing of the car door. The Impala's hearty engine roars to life, rumbling my nerves as Sam drops himself, angrily, into the passenger seat.
Within moments Dean steps on the gas and we're flying down the road, putting as much distance as possible between us and the wreck of body-ridden devastation...that I had caused. The hunters figuring out that I'm a danger to society and trying to take me out right then and there...To think it could have happened to, if the bullet had instead been a few inches to the right. And then the witch, pouring more salt to the already open and fresh wound, adding to the guilt-ridden doubt in my gut. Having my eyesight stripped away nearly scared me half to death. All I could hear were the sounds of screams and gunshots, voices shooting out into the dark. And I couldn't do anything to protect them.
"Ona, I need you to slow your heart rate down," Jo cautiously warns as she unzips a small medical bag.
But then I heard them, all of them; and then they found me. They came back for me. Armed with a frantic heart and limited sense of sound, I had to rely on Dean's guidance and the building tension in his hands. I pushed every ounce of fear into the back of my mind, concentrating on the sharpness of his exhales and the meticulousness of his steps. He wasn't going to let go. He was going to die for me.
"Sam."
"What, Jo?"
"Stop hovering."
There's a pause, most likely accompanied with a heavy glare from Sam. "Would you like me to move somewhere else?"
"I'd like for you to back off."
"You know I can't do that."
Thick black vines suddenly sprout out of the wound, climbing up and around my shoulder and neck at an alarming rate. My free, yet cut-up hand trembles as I grasp a bundle of my shirt and press it down to suppress the bleeding, but it only adds to the pain. I shut my eyes so tightly, gritting my teeth so forcefully that they might crack. This can't be it, can it; dying amidst all the chaos that I have caused between the people I care about? Or would my absence fix it all?
"Because you always have to come in and save the day like some kind of 'hero'? Is that how you see yourself, doing what you think is right? Hoping she'll just come crawling back to you once this is all over?"
Should I even be here right now? I mean, I unintentionally forced my parents to sell their souls away. What kind of daughter am I? I keep putting everyone in danger, but the attention is always on me like a trained spotlight. What kind of selfish person have I become?
"So I'm the bad guy."
"If...the shoe...fits."
Out of nowhere the Impala screeches to a surprising halt—or maybe not so surprising. "All right," Dean says, shoving the gear into park, "That's enough. If you two don't get over yourselves, she's not going to make it."
There's a slight pause, and then I feel everyone's eyes on me just as a ripple of shock courses through my body. "We're out of bandages." Jo panics, rummaging through our small medical bag. I manage to make out Dean's hand gesturing out the windshield to a building, prompting Jo to drop everything and fly out the car door.
"I'll get a bathroom key," Sam voices in response, following after her with a bit of reluctance.
Where the hell are we? My head rolls to the side as I try to pinpoint our location through the pane of dirt-speckled glass. But my vision is still considerably blurred, causing my frustration and overall endurance of agony to reach another peak.
Without warning, the door on my side swings open, allowing a bit of the early spring breeze to blow onto my perspiring face. A shadow falls in between us, blocking the wind, and reaches over me for what I can only guess is the medical bag.
"Hey, Hardy."
My cloudy eyes find Dean crouched at my side. "Hey, Winchester," I manage to whisper, out of breath.
He looks over his shoulder, scanning the area, and then down at his watch. "We're gonna take you around back, okay?"
It's then that I notice warm dribbles of liquid, racing down my bicep from the blood-soaked piece of my shirt. "I got blood on the seat, didn't I?"
Before I'm lost staring down at my trembling palm, stained in vibrant crimson, Dean shifts a dry section of my shirt and places it over the wound. "Keep pressure on it," he commands, pushing aside my worry for ruining the interior of his beloved car.
At some point I'm brought to my feet, supported by Dean's steady grasp. My weak knees wobble like a newborn fawn with every step we take towards God-knows-where. I was barely able to tell that we were outside just a few seconds ago.
"Dean!" Sam calls out, running out of the building to catch up with us. I still have no idea what it is.
And with that disorientated thought, another wave of agony explodes from the embedded bullet, causing me to startlingly fall into Dean's side. The older brother curses as he tries to pull me back up while regaining control over his own balance. "Help me out here," he grunts, but Sam didn't need to be told.
The inside of a jacket brushes against my back and is then draped across my shoulders, its clean yet musky scent very reminiscent of a certain tall, broad-shouldered Winchester. "People are staring," Sam mutters discretely to his brother as he shifts some of my weight over onto him.
"First time seeing a topless woman?" I do my best to synchronize my footsteps with theirs, continuing to march our way around to the back of the building. But I'm unable to ignore Dean's humorless suggestion, throwing a disgruntled groan his way.
I can almost sense the blatantly displeased glare radiating from Sam. "More like a kidnapping."
"Do you want me to go in and tell 'em we didn't drug her?"
"Yeah, that'll go over well."
The brothers manage to work together at a quickened pace, almost lifting me entirely off of my feet until we make it to a door. Using the key attached to a worn wooden plank by a small chain, Sam unlocks it and practically kicks it open.
Ah, yes. A grimy gas station bathroom. I should have guessed.
The dim, flickering overhead light draws my attention over to my horrific reflection in the clearly smeared mirror. All the color from my face has been drained, like the streaks of blood still running down my arm. The dark vines infecting my veins have reached all around neck and across my chest like a deep ocean coral reef. It looks like I just stepped off of a horror movie set.
Dean grabs a discarded cleaning bucket out of the corner, flips it over, and slides it to Sam, who sets me down on it like a makeshift chair. The door to the bathroom slams shut, causing both brothers to spin around, but it's only Jo, breathing heavily.
"Either of you have a viable alibi for this?" She exhales, tearing open the packaging of some gauze.
Dean takes the bottle of alcohol that had been tucked under Jo's arm and unscrews the top. He pours a few shots worth over the pair of needle point tweezers gripped between Sam's fingers, lightly brushed with my blood. My heart starts to pick up again and they notice.
"Hey, Ona," Sam whispers earnestly, brushing all of my hair behind my back with his free hand, "You're gonna be okay."
"Hang tough, kid."
Jo comes out from around them and kneels before my wound. She carefully peels my shirt, stiffly held in my unmoving fist, away from my skin, trying not to wince at the sticky noise it makes. "All right," she exhales and douses a wad of gauze with the alcohol, "this is going to hurt."
Without so much as a countdown, Jo repeatedly presses it down on the deep gash, igniting an explosion of knives and daggers to pierce through my shoulder. The agonizing yelp that bursts out of my chest almost morphs into a full-fledged scream until a hand is slammed over my mouth—Jo's.
"Oh, God. It's spreading," Sam breathes.
The blonde hunter before me blinks back a few tears. "This isn't going to end well."
"Come on, Hardy!" Dean frustratingly barks, blocking out every negative thought in his head that would break him.
Once the stinging pain finally subsides, I find Sam's eyes, staring back at me like a child watching a horrific scene unfold before him. The fear swimming around in his hazel pools stirs up an unsettling sensation in my chest, like watching the bits of hope and optimism remaining in his heart being stripped away. I met this face in the moments before I had died in that abandoned town, when he knew he couldn't save me.
"Sam!" Dean startles his young brother, knowing a painful flashback is plaguing his fragile mind. Shaking off his jitters, Sam clears his throat and repositions the tweezers in his hand.
"Hold me down."
Their three bodies freeze, the state of my scratchy, undoubtedly distressing voice catching them off guard. But they oblige my request. I know I'm going to thrash around and scream out in misery, but it needs to happen. If I don't let it, how will I know things will be better once it's over?
Dean takes hold of my wrists, while Jo stands behind me, ready to brace my head. Sam glances up at her, most likely returning a silent smart remark that she had thrown at him. But once the air settles and the only thing anyone can hear is coarseness of my breathing, he looks to me, rests his free hand atop my shoulder, and begins the life-threatening search for the bullet.
I can feel the sharp point of the tweezers poking and prodding at my flesh, but I try not to let it show. At certain points my knuckles turn white as I do my best at containing the body spasms and shakes that are screaming at me to pull away. Dean sends reassuring squeezes. "How's it lookin'?" he asks.
Lines form between Sam's brows as the tip of his tongue slides over his bottom lip. "I think I found it," he informs.
But just as the medical instrument clutches the bit of lodged iron and pulls, a lightning strike lacerates every nerve-ending with a white hot lash. Jo clamps her hand back down over my mouth just as I cry out and cradles my head, absorbing my bucking motion. Her fingers tremble against my hair.
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay," Sam frantically stammers, reluctantly keeping his gaze on the wound that's causing me to scream. "I've almost got it."
My muffled cries become more fervent with every centimeter that the bullet passes through my torn flesh.
"Sammy, we're losing time."
I can't even feel the rawness of my throat over the intensity of the dark magic and iron poisoning me, fighting against my body's instincts to retract it.
"I know, I know."
As it is being pulled further away, merely scraping by my heart, the strength of its potency intensifies in retaliation.
"Take it out, Sam! She's dying!" Jo yells.
The power flares in order to take control over my body, setting fire to my blood and boiling it into oblivion.
"Jesus Christ, I know!"
Before I know it, he successfully extracts the damned thing, holding up a gray bead covered in blood. But for some reason, my body doesn't react as quickly as we all had hoped. The poisonous black vines make no move to fade away or rid themselves of their painful side effects. In fact, it's as if nothing has happened at all. Are we too late?
"What..." Jo stares at the bullet and then back at me in disbelief. "No, no, no. What's—what's wrong?"
My body begins to tremor as every sensation travels from the ends of my fingers and toes to the cage of shattered bones around my heart.
"Why didn't it work?!"
There's a sudden pounding on the door. Dean stands, turning the safety off of his pistol.
It builds into a calamitous war inside my chest that doesn't feel like victory is leaning in my favor at the slightest. Three more harsh raps against the door force Jo to slip away and join Dean, her own gun at the ready. As their suspicions rise with the impending dangers that lie outside, the remaining energy in my body drains rapidly.
"No..." A pair of rugged hands shakily travel up my arms to the base of my neck, his blood-tinged fingers hooking themselves around the strands of greasy hair. "No, please..."
With the expectant arrival of a certain numbness expanding across my chest, I start to lose any and every feeling that brushes against my cold skin. It slips away with the shallow breaths that manage to course through my caving lungs.
Sam frantically checks my pulse, long seconds passing in between each dull beat, and then readjusts my head in his tremoring hands. "Ona! Ona, stay awake!" he commands in a somewhat hushed tone.
But even I can't prevent my heavy eyelids from touching down. As a long quiet exhale leaves my nose, the weight sitting on my back slumps my shoulders forward. Sam roughly jostles me, in an effort to jump-start my failing organs out of their inevitable spiraling state.
"Don't do this to me, Ona," his voice trembles, almost falling off into a desperate whimper close to my ear, "Don't you dare die on me again."
I can feel the darkness greeting me once more, opening its ever-encompassing arms, ready to swallow me up but for good this time. I am beckoned by its comforting promise of safety and rest, where all of the bad will be put to rest. Only peace will remain. The pull is strong and inviting, waiting for me to close the gap between life and death.
But a heart-breaking sound mixed with the wetness of tears enters my mind, just on the brink, calling me back to the land of the living. "Please..." it cries, "don't go."
Suddenly, the brute knocking against the outside of the bathroom door ceases. There's a long pause before a heavy thump enters the air, indicating a body dropping to the ground. I sense Sam turn to the other two, bringing my limp, presumably dead form closer into his arms. No one makes a sound, listening carefully as they figure out what to do from here.
Then, without warning, the lock on the handle bursts apart and the door swings open. I can feel its heavy presence, standing valiantly in the doorway, the silhouette of this mighty figure trapped in human form yet radiating pure power with every intent to use it. Sam tenses at the slam of the door, instinctively covering my body with his own. The familiar click of Jo's gun fills the room, but she doesn't fire.
"Hold off," Dean says to her.
Knowing Jo, though, the appearance of this unknown person or creature will not be taken kindly. "Who are you?" she demands, refusing to lower her weapon.
"Jo—don't! He's not--"
"No time," the figure cuts Dean off, proceeding to enter the room.
The swiftness of his pace causes the bottom flaps of his coat to swish against the legs of his dark pants. His shadow blocks out the dull lighting from the flickering bathroom fixture, looming over us like an otherworldly being. The grip around me tightens.
"Sam." His voice is earnest yet commanding, urging the hunter that I am cocooned with to step away.
The young Winchester's trembling fingers stay latched around my arm and ribs, his breathing heavy and aggressive. "Don't take her."
There's a slight pause of confusion from the celestial. "I am no reaper," he states, moving closer, "And she is not dead. Not yet. So I suggest you move aside." The slight edge of his tone serves as a clear warning, that if he does not act quickly, it will be too late. With nothing else left to lose, Sam complies, sitting me against the wall with free range for the angelic being to complete his task.
The shadow reaches over me, and the room grows silent with anticipation. For several moments I feel nothing. A dull rumble swims around in my ears as if I am sinking further and further. The dark stormy waters churn, pushing me down into the depths until I reach the ocean floor.
Before the coarse and grating sand swallows me up into the abyss, a flash of light shines out from above, cutting through the water in streams of gold. I feel a strong force tug at my chest, lifting me and pulling me towards the surface. The numbing around my fingers and toes begins to dissipate as I'm raised higher and higher, abandoning the desolate empty beneath me. Heat radiates from the globe of light, warming the shallow waters that invigorate my body, and just as I reach the top...
A life-jolting shock rolls through me, throwing my upper body forward as I gasp for air. My widened eyes are met with the cool blue irises of a certain angel, his penetrating gaze intensely pensive. The gleam of light, reflecting off of his eyes, surges over my shoulder once more before dimming and disappearing back into his palm.
As the overhead light flickers above us, a wave of clarity engulfs my senses, bringing feeling back in my limp limbs. But this 'savior' standing over me provides no further notions of assurance, leading me to believe that his true intentions are being masked by the glorified halo atop his head. The intense fear and anger that fueled me before rises up again, sparking my instinct to immediately shove him away.
"Ona!" Sam exclaims, his outstretched hands reaching out towards me, "Woah, hey..."
I keep my eyes trained on the angel, whose form hardly moved from my forceful push. His permanently furrowed brow deepens ever so slightly at my reaction but doesn't move to defend himself, which honestly is a little insulting.
I scramble to my feet, feeling the cool air on my shirtless skin and the soreness in my shoulder. The iolite stone strapped around my neck radiates heat and warmth on my sternum, and goes to work soothing the rest of my body. As the pendant noticeably begins to ease my nerves, I catch the angel's watchful gaze drawn to it.
"Stop staring at my chest," I order, my voice deep and gravely.
Castiel pauses, twisting his head as he narrows his eyes, and then grabs me by the arm, practically dragging me out of the bathroom. He seems to forget, or more so neglect, the other armed hunters standing in his way.
"Hey. Hey!" Dean shouts, reaching for the angel's trench coat as he passes through the doorway.
In the split moment that passes, I chop at Castiel's wrist, breaking his hold on me, and spin around to throw a punch. But the damned angel had been expecting my resistance and effortlessly blocks my attack. He jabs his fist in my gut and twists my arm behind my back, slamming the side of my face against the outside wall. I grunt in annoyance.
"Hands off, Inspector Gadget," Jo commands, shifting the safety off of her pistol and pointing it right at the angel's head. He doesn't turn around or acknowledge her, though.
"Let her go!" Sam's threatening voice booms, causing a stirring sensation in my stomach.
At this, however, Castiel stands a little straighter, his shoulders stiffening, and turns his head, a menacing glare piercing right through the tall, broad-shouldered hunter. "Keep your distance, Demon Boy."
A deafening silence crashes down like a bomb. I don't even need to see Sam's face to visualize the stab at his wavering dignity, tearing right through that self-assured front. Castiel's hands stay firm around my wrist, his knuckles digging into my back to affirm his commanding position. I can feel him tense up and flare his feathery wings, as if challenging us to get in his way.
"Hey!" an abrupt voice shouts, its shadow reaching the bottom edge of the door. That's when my eyes drop to the body of an innocent man slumped in a small puddle of his own urine in the gravel. He must have been the one pounding on the door before Castiel deemed it necessary to knock him unconscious. Wouldn't that be fun to wake up to?
I crane my neck to throw the angel a 'nice job, genius' look from my slanted eyes. He doesn't falter, however, confident with whatever makeshift strategy he has brewing up in that robot brain of his.
Dean huffs, guarding his pistol behind his thigh. "You better have a plan, Cas."
At this remark, Castiel cocks his head and narrows his crystal blue eyes. He holds the bow-legged hunter hostage with his gaze, the judgment and conviction from the divine presence searing through the coat of leather. "What would yours have been?"
I roll my eyes and mutter under my breath. "High and mighty."
"What's going on her--" A scruffy-looking man, probably in his mid to late fifties, comes to a startling halt, spotting the unconscious man lying in the dirt. His green faded ball cap almost falls off of his bald head as his hand nervously slides down the back of his neck. And then he sees me, shirtless and covered in a sheen of dirt and sweat, forcefully pressed up against the wall by a very defiant-looking man. His eyes grow wide. "What the..." He makes a mental note of every other person standing guarded in the bathroom, and I don't even want him to finish his thought.
"Is this...some sort of 'exchange'?"
Oh, he's thinking it. God dammit.
"Uh, hi there." Dean walks out to greet him, slipping his pistol into his waistband, out of sight from the quite befuddled man. "Yeah, I can assure you, sir, that this is...definitely not what it looks like."
"Well, I can surely tell what it is, son. Where'd you find her, the side of the road?" He gestures to my undoubtedly startling appearance, causing me to vulnerably avert my eyes. This group has consistently seen me weak and defenseless, even more so being stripped of my dignity and left exposed. It's utterly humiliating as this man further proves that I'm the sore thumb sticking out of the crowd. I'm the one that doesn't belong.
"Cas," Sam mutters under his breath, clearing his throat as he places his hand on my shoulder. After a moment spent hesitantly staring back at the long-legged hunter, the angel eases up and steps away, allowing Sam to gradually pull me back towards him.
A breeze kicks in through the doorway, rustling my messy hair. His cool fingertips brush over my now shivering skin, the subtle heat from his palm providing some solace. He picks up his bloodied jacket that I had been wearing moments ago and gingerly wraps it back around my shoulders. As he adjusts the shielding material around to my front, he turns my face towards him, making sure my back is to the unknown man.
"Doesn't look like the type Al would take in down at Swallows. That hard face wouldn't attract many customers."
Sam's eyes suddenly flit up, his hooded lids darkening the cold stare aimed directly at the shady gas station owner. I shakily exhale and sink my teeth into my lower lip. Jo's finger twitches on the trigger of her shotgun, practically itching to unveil itself and empty every shell into this guy. I feel a sudden tug at the front of the jacket and glance down to find Sam's knuckles, white as bone. His hands haven't left the pockets, tightly grasping them as his deadly eyes stay fixed ahead.
"I'm sorry. What did you say the place was called?" Jo asks humorlessly.
"Swallows—like the bird," the man answers without hesitation.
She stays quiet for a few uncomfortable moments and then sharply inhales. "Yeah, that's totally what came to mind."
"Couple streets down. Real classy on the inside. Lots of velvet, low lighting," he turns back to Dean, addressing him specifically, "You should stop by there sometime."
As expected the leather clad hunter tilts his head, intrigued by the opportunity. He even smiles at the thought, matching the man's own pleasant expression. The warm air from Sam's long exhale tickles my face.
"Dean, I swear to God," Jo grumbles through her clenched teeth, attracting only the scornful eyes of Castiel for her cursing words. "Oh, cool it, Flappy." His face scrunches up, taken aback from her blunt response, probably assuming that she would've paid more respect to someone she just met—particularly an angel.
He's in for a rude awakening.
"What's your name, honey?" The man directs his attention back onto me, and a shiver rolls up my back. "Maybe I could pass it along to the big guy, if you're lookin' for work."
My nose twitches as I shut my eyes, suppressing every urge to lash out and tell this guy where he can shove it. For all we know, he could have ties to the group at the warehouse. Even if he doesn't, we shouldn't give him any reason to notify people of our presence in this town, or any after it.
I should be able to quickly spew out a fake name with incredible ease, brush it all off with a condescending smirk, and be on my merry way. But the frog in my throat says otherwise. Apart from Sam's firm hold on the jacket, my body is frozen in place. And I just want to bury my head in the ground.
"Her name is Iona--" Castiel suddenly speaks up, unleashing a bombardment of various hasty and loud attempts to cover up his mistake.
"No!"
"No, no. It's—um."
"That's, that's—that's not her name."
"No, she's—uh—she's..."
"No...na."
I stare wide-eyed up at Sam. He looks down for a brief second, meeting my glance with just as much confusion and disbelief, but there's nothing we can do now.
"What's that?" the man asks, leaning forward.
So, in order to effectively play off this new persona, Sam clears his throat and stands a little taller. "Nona. Her name is Nona." The confidence of his tone is enough to persuade the man, ridding the situation of any questionable doubt. But we're still nowhere near freedom.
"Hmm. Never heard that one before. Might consider changing it for the stage. You know, a lot of girls--"
Not even letting him finish, Castiel strides forward and presses his fingers to the man's forehead, causing him to limply fall to the ground, perpendicular to the other body. All of us just stand there, eyes wide in shock. First of all, why hadn't he done that sooner? And second...
"What the hell's wrong with you?!" I furiously break away from Sam and shove the trench coated figure with all of my strength. He hardly moves, his form like solid concrete, but he seems a bit peeved by the action alone.
"He wasn't going to let us leave in peace. The man talked too much."
The obliviousness of this creature, or better yet, his lack of empathy, or even a care in this damn world aside from that robot programming, fills me with rage. He doesn't even realize—he can't even comprehend. "Man, do I wanna punch you in the face."
Jo whips the pistol out from behind her, taking three fearless steps forward as she readies it in her steady hands. "Give the call, Ona."
"Woah, hold up there," Dean interjects, blocking the barrel. "This doesn't have to get--"
"Guys, we should just get out of here before--" Sam tries, but nothing is going to coerce me or this stubborn angel to stand down.
"You should be grateful," he finally speaks, his voice low and heavy.
"Oh, would you like me to thank you?"
"I saved your life."
"Saved my li--" I scoff in disbelief, running my hands through my hair. And then a wave of utter seriousness falls across my face, every ounce of humor melting away from the heat of my anger. "No, you didn't 'save' me. You kept me alive."
His frigid eyes narrow, the space between his brows closing in. The threatening stare that could very well send a grown man to dig his own grave only provokes me more.
"You have something planned, just as much as they do. You don't care if we die in the end. Angels, demons, even the damn witches—they're all just using us. So cut your whole 'holier than thou' stunt."
The words feel like fire as they leave my lips, slowly dying down as my accelerated heart recovers from the shot of adrenaline. No one speaks, some even contemplating what I've said with the context of the angels' increased interference. We all wait for him to answer, coaxing him to prove me wrong.
"Uriel was right. You are dangerously impetuous."
His wings force a gust of air into my face, blinding my vision for a half of a second. And before I know it, those cold blue eyes are face-to-face with mine, fingers raised over my head before I, too, drop to the ground.
☽||☾
Uncontrollable things may be getting in the way of stuff you actually want to do, like writing, drawing, reading, etc. The time once devoted to these glorious activities may dwindle and leave you feeling less motivated than before. Please don't let that get you down. Keep working hard on the top priorities, even if they suck, but also take frequent breathers. Sometimes your mind needs a break--more times than others--and that's okay. Most importantly though, remember that these stories--your stories--will always be here, waiting for you.
Love you, guys. You keep me going.
Higher. Further. Faster.
Wham_Bam_Sam