Author Note: Hello, everyone! Thanks so much for reading. This chapter is pure fluff since I couldn't incorporate Monica into what Sam and Dean were doing. So, if you want to just skip it or scan it, that's totally cool. Actually, skip whatever you want. You don't need me telling you how to read a book. One thing though is the last scene is kind of important for later events, so you might want to check that out. Thanks again, don't forget to let me know what you think, and I'll let you get to it.
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After a few hours, Monica stopped for food. She was by now convinced she would have to live with this curse the rest of her life and was trying to make peace with it. She went to the kitchen and grabbed something chocolate and cakey. She didn't know what it was, but it tasted good.
As Jack walked by, he stopped and looked at her strangely.
She looked at him. "Don't judge me."
He smiled slightly and slid into a chair. "I'm assuming you didn't find anything."
"You know if I did I would have said something."
Sam walked into the room. "Hey. What are you doing?"
"Not much," Monica replied.
"Well, I gotta go help Dean. Just thought I'd say goodbye."
Monica looked him up and down, scanning every part and stopping at his face. "Okay. Uh, goodbye. Good luck."
Sam smiled. "Thanks."
Monica tucked her hair behind her ear and looked down, almost shyly.
"Bye," Jack said. "And, yeah, good luck."
Sam nodded and left.
Monica turned to Jack. "Where's Cass?"
"Upstairs. I think."
She nodded slowly. "Hey, Jack, just wanted to say...thanks. For donating hours of your time to read the worst books on the planet."
"Of course." Jack looked almost confused. "That's what family does."
Monica looked down for a minute. "Can we, uh, cut the mushy crap?"
Jack grinned. "Of course. So, what are you going to do for the rest of the day?"
"Well, no more research, that's for sure. All those ancient symbols are giving me a headache. And if Sam and Dean are gone..." She looked around. "I don't think there's much left besides Netflix."
He nodded. "The men of letters must have lived very boring lives."
"Yeah. And they didn't even have Netflix when things were boring. Just shelves of crappy books."
The siblings were silent for a minute, imagining life with no TV.
"What do you suppose Sam and Dean are doing right now?" Monica finally asked.
"Something exciting. Probably in a bad way."
Monica looked at her brother. "Duh. It's always in a bad way." She looked around. "Come to think of it, I think I'm actually sick of Netflix."
"Me too. I already watched all the good stuff."
She looked around. "Maybe I'll make pate a choux."
"What's a pat-a-shoe?"
She gave him the same, 'duh' look he had gotten a few moments before. "It's a pastry filled with cream."
"I don't know if Sam and Dean buy the ingredients for that sort of thing."
"Then I'll make something else. Something less complicated that you can wing. Pies. I'm good at pies."
"Where did you learn to make pies?"
"Foster home number three." It had been her favorite. The only reason she'd left was that Michael was going to kill them.
Jack nodded. "How do you make a pie?"
"Depends on what kind of pie you want to make. I like cream pies. Fruit pies are, in my opinion, stupid. Why waste dessert on fruit? I don't get why Dean likes it." She opened a cupboard. "I think we'll have to get creative." She glanced back at Jack. "You don't think Cass will mind, do you?"
He shook his head. "I doubt he cares."
"Okay, then." Monica pulled out another package of Oreos and a few pudding cups. "I don't suppose they own a cake pan. I guess a large bowl will work." Monica crushed the Oreos and was about to dump melted butter on them when Jack grabbed her arm.
"Uh, are you sure you want to do that?"
"Of course. Why?"
"I just don't think frosting and butter are going to mix well."
Monica thought. "Nah," she said, shrugging off his concern and dumping the butter in. "Believe it or not, most things taste better drenched in butter." She picked up a small handful of crumbs and placed them in her mouth. "Holy crap," she said, eyes wide. "I should get this trademarked."
Jack watched her, eyes narrowed suspiciously before trying it. His eyes widened like hers. "Yeah, you should."
"What are you doing?"
Monica turned to see Castiel. "We're making pie."
"Out of what?" He asked, looking down at the bowl of buttery cookies with suspicion.
"Oreos and pudding."
Cass just stared at her a moment before grinning slightly. "Uh, Okay. Whatever. I'm glad you seem to be feeling better."
Monica glanced down at her hands before stuffing them in her pockets. "Yeah. I am." She shrugged. "I don't need power."
Cass pushed her bangs out of her eyes. "We're going to figure something out. You won't have to live this way forever."
Monica looked down to avoid his too-deep and too-blue eyes. "Yeah." She nodded. "Um, can we cut the crap? I'm trying to bake."
Castiel laughed softly. "Yeah. Of course. Go ahead."
He looked at Jack, who just responded with a, 'at least she's okay,' glance.
They both watched her finish her creation, without making that big of a mess (surprisingly).
She put in the fridge in the hopes that it might set up a little, and slid into the chair across from Jack and Cass. "Have you heard anything from Sam or Dean?"
Castiel shook his head. "I'm sure they're fine. If they needed help, they would call."
"Unless their phones broke."
"Can you just worry about one thing at a time?"
"I am. Right now it's broken phones." She pulled out her own and toyed around with it in her hands, a nervous habit. She checked the time. 3:55. "I think I'll go research some more," she said, and went back to her room.
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She researched for three more hours until her vision literally blurred at the sight of Latin. Monica let out a sigh and closed her tab. She traced the outline of Sam on her wallpaper. She had accidentally taken a photo of him the other day, and instead of deleting it, she uploaded it to her laptop and made a wallpaper. She ran her finger over his curls and sighed again, this time for an entirely different reason.
Just then her door opened. Monica jumped and slammed the computer shut.
Jack looked from it to her and quirked an eyebrow. "Um, Sam and Dean are back. Just thought you'd want to know."
She blinked. "Oh. Um, yeah. Thanks." She managed a smile and stood up. She walked past Jack out the door.
"What were you doing, anyway?" Jack asked.
"Researching," she replied, and walked faster to get past him and see Sam. And Dean.
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"Dean."
Dean glanced back at Monica. "Hey." He was fixing something under the hood of the Impala. He didn't know what yet, he only knew it was making strange noises and needed to be fixed.
The girl stepped closer. "I think we should talk."
"About?"
"What's going on, Dean? With you. What are you doing?"
"I'm fixing my car."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it."
"Look, whatever I'm doing, if it was any of your business, I'd tell you."
"You're stressed, Dean. And scared. And so, so, full of blame."
He looked at her. "How did you know?" He asked in a mocking tone. "Did you read my mind with your psychic angel power? Here's the thing: I'm always all of those things."
Monica huffed. "Tell me what you're doing, Dean. I won't tell anyone."
"First of all, why should I tell you, of all people? And how do I know you won't tell anybody? You and Jack get pretty close."
"You should tell me because I'm a woman and you all need a woman to balance out all your stupid testosterone. And I can't believe you don't trust me."
"You suck at pretending you're offended."
Monica huffed and slid between Dean and the car. She perched on the edge of the hood. "I'm not getting off until you tell me."
Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Really."
She looked at him almost smugly.
Dean ran a hand through his hair. Since when had she been this obnoxious? He picked her up by the waist and set her down on the floor again.
She glared at him. "It has to do with Michael, doesn't it?"
Dean tensed. "Why don't you go back to bed?"
"What if I don't want to?"
He turned and looked her in the eyes, one on one. "If you keep being this much of a pain in the ass I might carry you to your room myself."
She flinched, then narrowed her eyes. "No, you won't. I still don't get why you don't trust me."
"This has nothing to do with trust."
She sighed. "Dean, it's not that I enjoy invading your privacy—"
"Then leave."
"--But I'm getting really bad feelings about this."
"You're a teenage girl. They dramatize everything."
"I am technically only one and a half. And that's kind of insulting."
Dean sighed again and looked at her. "Okay. How's this: I tell you what I'm doing if you tell me what's wrong with you. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you've all been acting. There's something going on with you. Tell me what it is and I'll give you your answer."
Monica swallowed. "I'm fine, Dean."
"Then so am I."
She huffed. "I'm just going through some...technical difficulties."
"Mm," Dean said. "What does that mean?"
"My power isn't exactly working that well right now. But I'm fine," She added quickly. "I'm peachy, actually. It's nothing. Now, your turn."
"I'm making something that'll keep Michael locked up for eternity."
Monica thought for a moment, then her eyes flared as it dawned on her. "A Ma'lak box," she whispered. "You're going to put yourself in a box."
"How did you figure that out so fast?" Dean muttered.
Monica stepped back. "It's too bad you feel so much responsibility for everything." She looked down. "I hope it doesn't come to this, Dean. I like you. But--if it does, know that we'll always be searching for another way as long as we're alive."
Dean listened to her steps as she slinked away, with much less spunk than she had entered with. He sighed. The only other person that knew was Sam. He doubted either of them would tell anyone else (or, with Monica, strongly hoped) but he knew eventually they would have to know, and he would need to tell them.
He shook it off and went back to his car.