#dark!spn

     Startled, Zoë looks aside. Shit. How the hell did he pick up on that? Surely she’s a mess, but Sam must have the exact same symptoms in order for him to figure it out this fast. She cannot let him know, though, and so she recovers quickly.      “No, I didn’t. It's migraines.” She shrugs it off and looks back at the television.      Sam keeps reading her while the local TV station brings them the latest news. She tries to concentrate on the screen, but feels Sam’s burning eyes. Then she snaps at him.      “Stop trying to find things that aren’t there, Sam.”      “You’re lying.” Sam knows.      She sighs with an eye roll and turns up the volume.      “No, I’m not. Now drop it.”      “I’m not gonna drop it.” He steps between her and the TV, blocking her view. “You were dying to know about my visions from the moment you learned I have them.”      “I’m watching that,” she voices, annoyed with his intrusion.      “And I’m talking to you,” Sam returns with an attitude.

     She gives him a look that could kill and steps around him to have a clear view of the screen again, trying her best to ignore the hunter and not blow up on the guy. He better not push her, because he has no idea what would be coming for him.      “Headaches, black spots, nausea right after you wake up,” Sam sums up. “You have them.”      “Would you shut the fuck up for one second?!” Zoë hushes him violently.

     It’s just now that the news on the TV catches Sam’s attention. She’s not just agitated with him because she doesn’t want to talk about the paranormal powers they have in common; there’s actually something on the local news that’s worth their attention.

“In Paragould, the body of a man has been discovered. This morning, Bill Van Dyke was found deceased in his own home, and the Paragould Police Department are considering his death to be suspicious. Local authorities claim that the family were home during the time of death.”

     “Shit,” Zoë spats.      “What is it?” Sam glances aside.      She sighs, still watching the screen as another reporter at the scene gives more information about the incident. “He died the same way Robert Shire did.”      “The girl’s father?” Sam checks, remembering the surname of ‘Shire’ engraved on Laura’s tombstone.      Zoë nods in confirmation as the reporter in the studio takes over again.

“Bill Van Dyke, the principal of Woodrow Wilson Elementary in Paragould, was a pillar of  support to the local community--”

     Zoë doesn’t hear the rest of the report, the sound fading out as her gaze locks on the school building, which is shown on the screen. She recognizes that building.      “It’s her,” she knows.      “That can’t be. You salted and burned her bones,” Sam brings to mind.      “I’m aware of that, Sam. I dug her up myself,” she hisses, as she opens her closet and takes out her suit, her actions hasty and on the edge of aggressive. “Something is keeping her here, an object maybe. Fuck!”      “Guess you’re staying in town a bit longer than expected,” he concludes.      “Guess so, but I don’t have time for this shit.” Zoë mutters and takes off her shirt, putting on a white blouse as if she’s alone in the room.      Sam averts his eyes, awkwardly, but the huntress isn't bothered.      “Nothing you haven't seen, Sam,” she comments, perky.      Nevertheless he turns away from her, uneasily staring out the window. For a second he considers offering their help on this job, but he’s quite sure she will reject anyway. Besides, they have their own case to deal with.

     Rushing, Zoë gets into her dress pants, which she just pulled out of dry cleaner plastic a moment ago.      “How can you be so sure it’s Laura?” Sam wonders.      “Laura was a 4th grader at Woodrow Wilson Elementary” she explains.      He shrugs. “So? What did Van Dyke ever do to her?”      “Her gym teacher knew about the abuse. My guess is that the principal knew too and didn’t do anything,” Zoë presumes, pulling a thin leather belt through the loops.      “How do you even know that her teacher was aware? You couldn’t have seen her already, not in his short amount of time. Admit it; you see things,” Sam’s pushes.

     Zoë huffs, half shaking her head and well aware that Sam will not buy the bullshit. She wasn't planning on telling him, but the younger Winchester brother might be the one person she can trust when it comes to her abilities. He’s special, just like she is, and neither of them have a clue what is going on. He’s in the dark, just like her. Telling him would involve certain risks, though. Afterall, he is a hunter, one who she just met.      “Zo, start talking,” Sam coerces.      “Alright! I see things! There, I said it. Happy now?” she cries out.

     The confession is as much as a surprise to Sam as it is to Zoë; did she just say that out loud? Shocked, Sam stares at her, but he’s not sure if he’s so stunned by the information of the statement itself or because of the fact that Zoë just told him the truth. Disoriented, his eyes wander off as it slowly starts to sink in what this means; he’s not alone.

     “You have visions, just like me?” he recaps.      “Not entirely,” Zoë says as she buttons her jacket. “You dream about the future, I dream about the past.”      “Like flashbacks?” Sam questions.      “Something like that, yeah. But there’s no possible way I could know these things, you know? Most of the time I don’t even know the people who are involved,” she explains, frustration evident in her voice.      “Tell me ‘bout it,” Sam replies with a chuckle.

     A glint of a smile pulls at Zoë’s lips as she looks up. A feeling she hasn’t experienced in quite a while comes to her. Relief, recognition, as if a weight just fell off her shoulders now that she finally told someone about the secret she has been carrying around for so long. She wishes she could just get it all out of her system, tell him about the other issues that she’s involved in, but she can’t. Besides, there’s little time and still a lot to do. 

     Zoë slips into her pumps, takes her FBI identification out of her duffel and puts it in her inside pocket.      “That’s how you pick your cases, isn’t it?” Sam now understands how Zoë can get to a scene with not much visual evidence, at least not visible to outsiders.      “First I didn’t, because I didn’t understand what was happening to me. But then I thought: Hey, I’m having these flashbacks for a reason, I might as well check it out,” she elaborates before she steps into the bathroom and starts applying makeup.      Sam nods at that, agreeing. “Good point.” Maybe he should start seeing the dreams as clues, too. If he had listened to the visions in the first place, Jessica might still be alive right now. 

     He watches how the woman of many faces basically shapeshifts, going from the groggy, hungover girl in PJ’s to an autorical, tough as nails federal agent. Zoë ties her hair back into a tight ponytail, the look really sending the message that she will take absolutely no bullshit. But under that facade, the role she takes on and hides behind, Sam sees something else; she is nervous, restless, anxious even.      “What’s going on, Zo?” Sam confronts her, his tone supportive, however.

     For a moment she stops fixing her hair and places her hands on her hips. The huntress takes a breath as she searches for words, deciding what she can tell him without giving him too much information.      “I’m on a bit of a time schedule,” she admits. “I need to finish this case before tonight.”      Sam narrows his eyes, concerned, trying to read her. “What kind of time schedule?”      “It’s personal,” she cuts off, immediately.

     Her eyes bore into his, warning him not to ask another question. It’s clear as day that she is not going to give him an inch on this. Intimidated by her gaze, he decides not to dig further.      “What happens if you can’t put her spirit to rest in time?”      “I’ll make it,” Zoë responds, sure of herself.      “You don't know that,” he argues.      “I’ll have to leave town, case closed or not,” she adds simply, walking around the bed to pick up her phone from her nightstand.      “What?! You’re just gonna give up a case?” Sam disapproves.      “I’ve seen hunters do it before,” she says with a tone, straightening her back and standing a little taller.      “So? Then they suck!” Sam exclaims.      Zoë snorts, not disagreeing with him there, but the young Winchester isn’t finished yet.      “Laura will keep haunting this town and every one who might have the slightest connection to her death. Do you have any idea how many could end up dead?” Sam tries to make her see.      “I don’t. Have. A choice,” she states, pronouncing her words slowly and loud, as if Sam suffers hearing loss.      “You do,” Sam corrects. “You always have a choice.”      “You should have a poster made with those words, Gandhi,” Zoë responds sassy. 

     She has gathered her keys and her motorcycle helmet now, ready to head out. Sam doesn’t seize his plea, though.      “Let us help you,” he offers.      After halting abruptly, the huntress slowly turns her head and stares at him for a brief moment, then she laughs out loud.

     “No way in hell,” she chuckles, apparently finding the proposition ridiculous.      “Why not?” Sam wants to know.      “Because I don’t team up with others. The moment you depend on someone other than yourself, you’re vulnerable. You start to trust people you shouldn’t trust and when it all goes wrong, people die,”  she states.      “What about covering each other’s backs? Looking out for your partner?” Sam brings up the bright side of cooperation.      “Apparently that isn’t for me, and believe me; I’ve experienced it,” Zoë comments, a speck of pain edging her voice.

     Sam is not sure what the young huntress means by that, but he can read from her eyes that whatever happened, it still hurts her. He keeps quiet for a moment, but then continues with a calm tone.      “Hear me out. We can take over the case completely and you can go wherever you need to go. We’re in the same hunting fields, so why shoot at each other in order to get rid of the competition when we can split up. Dean and I can handle this,” Sam ensures.      “I believe you can, but I’m not the type who lets someone else do the dirty jobs. I got this one, I just need to make good time,” Zoë assures as she heads for the door. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have a crime scene to investigate.”

     She holds the door for Sam, her piercing eyes telling him without words to get out of her suite. The younger Winchester lets a sigh slip from his lips as he looks up at the ceiling for a moment. There’s absolutely no way to get through to that woman, he thinks to himself as he walks outside before she locks the door. The sharp thumps of her heels echo through the lobby, when she hastily parades to the parking lot while taking out her shades. Just before she walks out, Sam stops her by laying her hand on her shoulder.

     “Zoë…”      She spins around, not keen on the physical contact.      “If you need help, call me,” he insists.      “You know I won’t, Sammy,” she reacts, pushing the sunglasses onto her nose.      “Don’t - don’t call me Sammy,” he mumbles under his breath, watching her stride away to her Harley Davidson.      After putting on her helmet, she starts the engine and rides off, not even bothering to say goodbye. 

     Defeated, Sam turns to the Impala, which is parked on one of the taxi spots. A thin layer of dust covers the black car, which seems to boil in the early morning sun. It’s awfully quiet. No ear blasting rock tunes from the radio, no Dean jamming on his air guitar. Sam peeks through the window of the passenger’s side and finds his brother fast asleep. He can’t see Dean’s eyes because of the sunglasses he’s wearing to cut out the light his hungover brain cannot tolerate, but his head rests half against the window, tilted slightly backwards. Sam’s thoughts go back to the day before yesterday, when they parked the car in front of the pharmacy and Dean scared the shit out of him by slamming his fist against the window. Of course, Sam can’t resist doing the same thing and hits the window right on the spot where Dean’s leaning against on the other side.

     “Kelly Clarkson!” Dean cries out spooked, as he bumps his head up against the hardtop of the car.      With a big smirk on his face, Sam walks around the car just as victoriously as his brother did the other day, and settles in the driver's seat. When he sees his brother’s confused expression, he can’t help but laugh.      “Man, that’s so not cool,” Dean mutters with a raspy voice as he rubs his face.

     “Got what I came for.” Sam holds up his Blackberry.      “Did you have to wake me up for that?” Dean takes off his shades and narrows his eyes against the bright sun.      “No, that was just for fun,” Sam grins.      “Bitch,” Dean grumbles.      “Jerk,” Sam returns with a smile. “I have another update by the way.”      “Oh, yeah? What’s that?” Dean wonders, carelessly, resting his head against the cool glass again.      “We’re staying in town for a couple more days,”  Sam informs.

     He got Dean’s attention with that notification, all right. His older brother looks up at him and although he can barely keep his eyes open, Sam can tell that he’s curious for more info.      “What? Werewolf turned out to be a coyote?” Dean assumes.      “Not really, but there’s still a case here,” Sam begins to explain, while taking the car keys from his pocket.      “So? It’s Sullivan’s case, I ain’t touching that with a ten foot pole,” Dean makes clear.      “Aren’t you happy you can hang out with Denise?” Sam persuades, hoping to change his mind.      “Oh, no. I know what you’re doing.” Dean sits up straight and smirks, on to his little brother’s persuasiveness. “You’re trying to make this seem brochure perfect, but this isn’t about Denise. Spill it.”

     Sam sighs. Damn, there goes his master plan. Although he gets the impression that Dean can't stand the female hunter, Sam decides to tell the truth.      “I think Zoë needs help,” he admits.      “The last time you thought that I ended up in a bridal suite with a shapeshifter and you got dumped in a septic tank with our damsel in distress,” Dean recalls. “Did she ask for your help?”      “No, not re--”      “- Did she accept your offer?” Dean asks again.      “No, but --”      “- Then we ain’t helping her,” Dean decides.

     “Come on, Dean. We can’t leave her like that,” Sam tries.      “She’s a big girl, Sam. And a damn good hunter too. She’ll be fine,” Dean assures.      “I don’t know, man. Something doesn’t seem right,” Sam ponders. “She told me she’s on some sort of time schedule or something.”      “Yeah, her period. Guessing it’s coming up to that time of the month,” Dean grumbles, sarcastically.      He has lost interest in the conversation and crosses his arms in front of his chest, tugging deeper into the seat.

     “She’s gonna leave town tonight, case closed or not,” Sam clarifies.      Dean opens his eyes and looks aside. “You really think she would leave a job unfinished?” Dean wonders.      Sam shrugs. “Apparently.”      “That deadline must be pretty damn important,” the oldest brother concludes. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt if we stay until tonight, see if she manages to wrap up the case in time. But after that, we’re off to Texas. I was looking forward to that wolf hunt.”

     Satisfied with that compromise, Sam starts the engine. Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Looking Out My Back Door sounds from the radio of the classic car, built around the same time that this song was hitting the charts.      By the time the Chevrolet leaves the parking lot, Dean has looked up Denise’s number and is on the phone with her. Fuck the appropriate time to wait until reaching out. This is a booty call; the regular rules of dating don’t apply.

     “Hey… No, you didn’t forget anything. I just couldn’t wait to call you…. Yeah, I’d love to get together again. I’ll probably have to leave town in a few days, so… tonight? Alright, sounds great.” Dean gives Sam an exaggerated wink.      “At her place,” Sam half mouths, half whispers, making sure Denise doesn’t pick up on his words.      “One sec, sweetheart.” Dean presses his hand on the microphone and looks aside. “Having plans for tonight, Romeo?”      Sam glares at him and Dean returns his attention back to Denise, who started talking to him again.      “Your place, you say? At eight? Cool, I’ll see you tonight then… looking forward to it, too… Alright, bye.” They both hang up and Dean smirks satisfied.      “You are unbelievable, you know that?” Sam comments while shaking his head.      "Oh, I'm unbelievably irresistible,” his brother replies, victoriously.

     Just as Sam decides to turn right, a weird soft roar sounds from inside the car.      “What the hell was that?” Sam looks around.      “My GPS is telling you to make a left,” Dean explains.      The youngest of the two looks aside at his brother who’s pressing his hand on his hungry stomach. Now Sam looks over to the left and spots the yellow zigzag arrow above an In-N-Out restaurant. He laughs, he should have known.      “I see,” he grins and makes the turn. “Drive thru?”

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page). 

Read chapter seven here  

Jo woke with a start. Dean slept with his head on her stomach, and his body between her legs. They both still wore their boots. She reached down and rubbed a smudge of dirt off of his nose. She blinked a few times, and searched her surroundings, forgetting, just for a second, where they were.

The inside of the RV smelled musty, like it’d be closed up for years. It probably had. The air was thick, but she didn’t dare open a window. She couldn’t let in what was outside, not while he was at peace.

Dean never slept anymore. It was all too hard. He was too strong. It was all on his shoulders, even more than it used to be. He still wasn’t hers, not really. He never would be. Sams words to her still rang in her ears.

“He thinks of you like a little sister. He wants to protect you, sure, but he will never want you like that.”

He didn’t mean to be cruel, but he was.

She wanted to move, to shift her weight. The gun on her hip was digging into her skin. She knew she’d have a bruise. What’s another bruise against her tattered skin?

Growing up, her mother always told her that monsters were people. The bullies in her school, the men who expected too much, the butt of a gun. “There’s nothin in your closet, Jo. There’s nothin to be afraid of here, go back to bed.”

She was wrong. It took almost two decades to prove to her that the monsters Jo was afraid of were real. She just couldn’t have imagined that they would be this way. She couldn’t have imagined that there were monsters that you could shoot that would just keep coming. She couldn’t imagine that nightmares would continue even when she was awake.

The only thing that made it a little better was him. The freckles on his cheeks. The way he slept with his mouth slightly open. The scruff on his chin, even though he had no good excuse to shave, he always did. He had aged a decade since it had all started. Wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. He wasn’t a young man anymore, but he looked even older than he was.

His muscles were tense, and his fingers were still wrapped around his firearm, like always. He was ready to strike at all times. Jo was convinced he was the reason they were alive. She couldn’t thank him enough for it, but no matter what she said he seemed so distant. He wasn’t really there, especially now.

He grunted and opened an eye. “Why’d you let me sleep?”

“Because if you don’t sleep you’ll die.” Jo said, looking down at him. He had bags under his eyes, she could tell even in the morning twilight. “You’re no good to me dead.”

Dean grunted and sat up. “Just don’t like letting my guard down.”

“I’ve been with you for five years, Winchester. I think I know what you’re like. You don’t have to explain”

He smiled a bit. “Maybe you can hold up the fort after all.”

“Nice if you to notice.” She smiled back at him.

“You heard from Sammy?”

“No.” Jo said slowly, with caution. He wasn’t looking at her face. He was checking the rounds in his gun. “He’s probably still on the supply run.”

“Yeah, of course.”

He was worried. He was always worried. Especially when it came to Sam.

Jo could hear the sound of the dead. They were more restless during the day. She wondered if it was the sun. The heat on their rotting flesh. Or if they remembered, in the daylight, all that they’ve lost. Perhaps that’s why they moved faster. Yowled louder.

Eventually they would all be like the dead. Aimless. Eventually they’d all die, and even then they would never stop. They’d never stop moving, but they would never have anywhere to go.

Jo knew that the moment Dean found out that she would lose him forever. She wasn’t ready for that. How could she ever be?

“Dean?”

“Huh?”

“What if the world was different?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Like... not this way. Sometimes I think about if it never happened. The disease. The death. I think about if the Roadhouse hadn’t burned down. I think about if my mom was still here. It’s just us, you know? Even then, most of the time I feel alone.”

Dean turned toward her. “You’re not alone, Jo. Yeah, this world sucks. It fucking sucks. All we do is fight. We fight to live. We fight for everything. We never stop.”

“It’s all never going to end.”

“It’s gonna end. It’s gonna end bloody. I always knew that. All we can do is fight for every breath. Me, you, and Sammy.” He reaches for Jos hand, squeezing it. “We’re family, and that’s what family does. We don’t give up. No matter what.”

Jo forced a smile. That’s what I’m worried about. “You’re right.” She stood up. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Be careful.” Dean said, watching her walk out of the RV. She latched the door behind her, her gun slung over her shoulder.

The door shut behind her and she walked. The leaves, and sticks crunches under her feet as she forced herself forward. She couldn’t hide it anymore. She went to the river and crouched. She dipped her hands in, splashing her face.

The sight of herself in the water was too much. She didn’t recognize the dirty blonde in front of her. Her own face had aged. She had a scar across her cheek. She wore no makeup. Her hair was dirty. She was crying.

Jo stood up and crossed the river, her boots and pants got soaked. She had to make it. It was time. There was no more delaying it.

She looked up at the sound of a twig cracking across from her. “Hi Sam. I can’t let you stay out here anymore. As much as I want you around... it can’t be like this.” Jo said, gripping the strap from her rifle.

Sam tilted his head to the side knowingly. He didn’t have to say anything.

“You can’t be here anymore. I don’t know what I’ll tell Dean. It’s just too fucking wrong. He will never be the same. This will break him, but I can’t keep putting off the inevitable. The truth is, you’ve been gone for awhile. No amount of stalling will change that.”

Sam moved toward her, tugging on the chains around his wrists. They were raw from tugging and pulling. Bloody drool rolled down his chin. He snapped at her, biting a bit. The open wound on his neck from his bite was oozing and covered in blood. He smelled like death. Flies danced around his open wound, but in his dead, empty gaze he didn’t seem to mind.

His hair was grimy from lack of washes, and blood. He still towered over her by a lot. If it were in any other circumstance Jo would’ve been proud that she could subdue Sam, but there was no pride in this.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She moved her gun to her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

He tugged a little harder. Maybe he knew it was the end. She glanced down to take off the safety. In the second it took to release it, Sam broke through. His gray skin hung over, limply, his pearl white bones showing through his rotting flesh. He stumbled forward, unbelievably fast. She pulled up the gun to see him a foot away from her. She screamed out, and pulled the trigger sending a buck shot through his chest.

Sam stumbled back groaning loudly before lunging forward again, going straight for her throat. She was caught off guard, and his clammy, rotting hands connecting with her chest sending her falling backwards.

He was on top of Jo. She could feel the bloody drool drip down his chin onto her cheek, her neck, as he snapped at her like a turtle. Her gun was just out of her reach, and she kept Sam at an uncomfortably close distance with her arms, her palms against his chest. “Sam stop!” She cried, knowing it wasn’t him. She shouted even though she knew he wouldn’t understand, even though she knew it was over.

She kicked him away, and turned to crawl for the gun, but his bony, rotten hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him. Her fingers dig into the mud, the grass, her nails scraping at anything, anything that could save her.

She felt the wetness of blood, and drool through her jeans. She felt the wetness before the pain. Before the sting, the ripping of her flesh, his teeth tanking through the fabric and meat of her leg. She cried out, as the poison, the disease, coursed through her veins. It was over.

A shot rang out through the air, and she felt a heavy weight against her lower half. She opened her eyes, the world spinning in front of her. When it stopped twirling, her eyes landed on a familiar pair of brown boots.

Dean squatted down in front of her, his head tilted to the side. “He’s been dead this whole time.”

It wasn’t a question.

He reached down and held her chin, making her look at him. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know.” She whispered, as he pressed the barrel of his gun between her eyes.

She could see the light disappear from his smokey green eyes. The man she’d known was gone. He died there with Sam.