Chapter 8
Although Dean pressed and pushed, Sam wasn't budging on telling what the problem was until Farrah was awake. It didn't take long.
Less than ten minutes later Farrah was yawning and stumbling into the living room, where she collapsed on the couch and laid her head on Cas' shoulder. "Why are we back here?"
"Sam and Dean were worried when they could not find you."
She sighed. "Great. Why were you two looking for me?"
"Yeah, Sammy. Why were you looking for her?" Dean asked, anxious for some answers.
Sam sighed. "Dick Roman's back."
"We knew that," she sighed as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. She realized that they were about to have a conversation where she needed to actually be mentally present.
"No, like he's actually back. He spent the past month establishing a cover story as to where he's been for all this time, and now he's reinserting himself into the government. Here, look."
Sam pulled up a video clip and Farrah blinked at the man named Dick Roman. Her mouth went dry. "S-Sam, that's not the man I helped escape."
Everyone stared at her. "What?" Dean finally said.
"That's not him!" She jumped to her feet and started to pace. "The man I helped get out was about three inches taller than me, he was almost bald, he was fat, and he had a five o'clock shadow. He-he looked more like Megatron than this man!"
Sam pulled his laptop back to face himself and played the video. His face paled. "Farrah, is this him?" He showed her a man standing behind Roman, and she nodded before starting to bite her nails.
"Is-is that why he felt so different from Castiel?" she asked. "He felt...heavier. Like maybe there was more than one soul there. Is that possible? How many did I help escape?"
No one answered her. Cas stood up and was about to go see when Sam's jaw dropped. "At least a hundred."
~
For five days no one could find Farrah. She hid away, trying to figure out what to do. Should she go after Roman alone-act ignorant to who he really was and just talk to the one she saw? Slowly recover from purgatory and strike with her family? Or would she ever recover? Maybe she'd suffer from PTSD her whole life, and she'd just have to learn how to live with it.
If that was her plan, she'd have to live alone. Then she wouldn't accidentally hurt someone she loved. She would be able to live with just herself and her own messed up mind. On her good days she could visit her family, and on her bad days stay away.
Even the thought of that plan cut her like a knife. She loved her dad and uncle, how was she supposed to abandon them? She couldn't. But she might have to.
Having a ton of money in the bank still, Farrah decided to buy a small little house and keep it as a backup in case she had to leave suddenly. She'd change her name on the deed, then no angel or demon would ever find it. On her bad days she could just escape there, and then she could live with her family.
The doors to her room, the one in Crowley's house, swung open. Farrah sat up abruptly. She didn't think he could hear her.
"Well, nice of you to let me know when you drop in," snarled Crowley.
"Up yours. I've been through a lot and I don't need lip from you."
"Your year in purgatory made you harsh, sweetheart. What do you say I whip us up a couple of drinks and you tell me all about it."
"You already know."
"I know you let out over a hundred leviathans, but I'm not stupid enough to believe you did it on purpose. Come along. I'm not going to kill you."
"How reassuring," she muttered as she crawled off her bed and followed him out.