#stss

     Then there’s her powers. Finding out that his little brother has visions still keeps him up at night, but after this new revelation, the plot thickens. Apparently Sam is not alone. The three of them meeting seems too much of a coincidence all of a sudden. What could this all mean?

     Contemplating, he catches the leather ball one-handedly and continues the motion over and over. Not just to keep busy; he also hopes to trigger a response from Zoë. It’s starting to work, because the huntress rests her head back against the wooden surface with an annoyed sigh as her eyes start to follow the ball.      “Are you gonna stop doing that?” she more demands than asks, firmly requesting him to knock it off.      “Are you gonna start talking?” Dean returns, clever.

     Zoë narrows her eyes at him and sets her jaw before she redirects her gaze to the window; she clearly doesn’t plan on it. As the man who she’s stuck in this little hut with continues his therapeutic occupation, she tries to tune out the sounds inside. She knows the hellhounds are still on the threshold, determined to claim her. She can hear them sneaking around the cabin, sniffing the snow and testing their boundaries. They have been doing so since Dean snuck out on his mission to get the satellite phone. The smart creatures seem to be waiting for another slip up, ready to finish the job they are trained to do. 

     The pounding of the baseball against the timber drags her from her thoughts. Although having flesh-eating, demonic pitbulls right outside the door is enough to have her on edge, Dean is beginning to add to her exasperation. Brown eyes observe the fast moving object, tracing the motion. Right after the toy bounces off the opposite wall from where Dean is sitting, it makes a sharp turn. The hunter is ready for the catch, but his brows hit his hairline when he witnesses the change of course. Zoë snatches the ball out of the air and places it on the floorboards next to her, letting out a relieved sigh as she closes her eyes, enjoying the silence. She can’t see how her companion is doing a double-take with his jaw agape, wide eyes glancing from the huntress to his empty hand and back. The sheer thought of catching the cocky Winchester off guard has her fighting the smile that is tugging at the corners of her mouth, though.      “Seriously, Zo, this is freaking me out!” he exclaims.

     She giggles and opens her eyes again, taking in the baseball by her side. Strangely enough, she knows where he’s coming from. The first time she got angry and broke a mirror about six weeks ago, she thought it might have been a spirit or an almost insensible tremor of the earth, considering she was in San Francisco at the time. But when a full pint of beer broke in the hands of the guy who cheated during poker, she started to get suspicious. The third time another mirror fell victim. She remembers that moment precisely. Zoë rented a hotel room near Cherry Hill in New Jersey and stared at her reflection in the bathroom. If this were true, she figured that anger was the trigger, so she got angry. It didn’t take much, watching herself was quite enough to get disgusted and furious. Then, just like that, it shattered. For a good minute she kept staring at the broken being in the distorted image. Once, she considered herself normal, but the person looking back at her was so far from it, that the huntress would investigate a case like herself. The shards on the wall were the confirmation she was looking for and yet hoped not to be true. She couldn’t make up excuses anymore. There wasn’t an earthquake in San Francisco and the cheater didn’t squeeze his pint too tight. She had done it with her mind. 

     Panic hit soon after. She hid, curtains closed, door shut, crying under the covers like a child. After days of not looking at anything made out of glass, Zoë came to the conclusion that she should either deal with this or go live in a cave. So she embraced it and as it turns out, it’s actually quite a cool trait, especially when she figured out she could control it. With a lot of practice, she didn’t need anger anymore, just focus. Her experience with the Johnny Walker bottle in Beetle’s Bar down in Rochester, Minnesota was a new one, though. She wanted that whiskey so badly, that it actually shifted towards her, until it fell off the sill and broke into a million pieces. She didn’t blow it up, she moved it. There is a big difference between nudging a small object only a few inches, or slamming the door into the faces of a pack of hellhounds, but apparently she’s able to do much more than she thought she would be capable of. 

     Zoë picks up the baseball, holding it in the palm of her hand and concentrates on the white leather and red stitching, until it begins to float. Content, Zoë smiles; she’s getting better. 

     Dean watches the huntress work the small object in complete awe. If he wasn’t seeing this with his own two eyes, he wouldn’t believe it to be possible. For a moment her ability doesn’t intimidate him, on the contrary. The hunter is impressed with how she handles the toy, allowing it to levitate and slowly spin around its axle graciously. It’s amazing how she’s able to have complete control over the ball, making it do whatever she wants. It’s a supernatural phenomenon, yet beautiful at the same time. 

     With a gentle gesture, Zoë sends the baseball back to its previous owner. Slowly, it crosses the room and dances in the air before Dean’s face. Stunned, he observes, green eyes fixed on the object. Wanting to rule out that this isn’t indeed a smart magician’s magic trick, he moves his hand above the ball to test if there are any strings attached. When that theory is proven wrong, the hunter carefully takes the toy between his thumb and index finger, examining the little thing from every direction. With no other explanation left than that this is in fact real, he peers at the woman who possesses the power of telekinesis.

     “How the fuck are you pulling this Yoda stunt?” he asks, fascinated.      Zoë shrugs. “I just concentrate on it and tell it what to do.”      “You ‘just’ concentrate? I can concentrate the hell I want, it ain’t movin’,” Dean brings to mind, nodding at the ball.      “That’s because I am a Jedi and you’re not,” she nags.      He chuckles. “Well, may the force be with you. I’d rather be Batman.” 

     Zoë grins, but she gets why he’s apprehensive. At first, so was she, but now that she has accepted this to be a part of her, she has grown accustomed to it, not fearing her abilities anymore. Where they might come from, now that’s a whole other story. Face it; these things she’s able to do, it’s not human. She’s too afraid to say it out loud, but these powers are edging towards the demonic. No wonder Dean thought she was possessed.

     She glances at the hunter, but his thoughts seem to have wandered off. The baseball sits on the floor next to Dean’s outstretched right leg, his left pulled up and serving as an armrest. A frown is edging lines between his brows while he gazes through the window, the evergreens outside sharing the color of the man’s distinctive eyes. 

     Although she can think of more than a few reasons why the Winchester is pondering, she knows who is on his mind. “Worried about Sam?”      Dean snaps out of it and looks at her, puzzled. Is it that obvious? The fact that she’s right doesn’t mean he’s going to admit to it, so he shrugs it off. “Why would I be?”      “I just figured, with him having those visions and all,” Zoë replies.      “Having weird dreams is something entirely different than moving things with your damn mind,” he states, judgemental.

     But his female companion doesn’t agree. “I train my abilities. Sam pretends he doesn’t have any. That’s the only difference,” she responds rationally. “Besides, it started with me just like it did with him, and around the same time as well.”      “Wait, what?” Dean stammers, not sure what question to ask first. “You had visions too? And this all kicked off like two months back?”      Zoë nods confirmingly. “The first dream hit me about six weeks ago. I don’t have visions, though. More like flashbacks; I see the past,” she corrects.      The hunter stares at her, staggered. He can’t tell what is more disturbing, that her abilities started out just like Sam’s or that she just used the present simple, meaning that she still has them. “You still do?”      “Yep, together with migraines and the feeling like I’ve been run over by a train,” she scoffs.

     Processing all this new information, Dean rubs his eyes. This all sounds way too familiar, yet there is a difference between Zoë and his younger sibling, and it’s not just the different levels of expertise. 

     “So you see what has happened? How is that helpful? How can you change something if it took place already?” he comments.      “You don’t get it, do you?” she chuckles, amused by his narrow mindedness. “History is the key to the future.”      “Alright, we’ve already established that you’re Yoda, but cut the fucking words of wisdom, okay?” Dean says, not impressed. “What’s done is done; the past doesn’t give you jack shit.”

     “I see history unfolding and can prevent it from happening again, like Paragould,” the huntress elaborates. “I knew all about how the father abused that little girl, and my bet was on a revenge-seeking spirit from the jump. Usually, I can get to town in time before the first kill, but when Laura got to her daddy first, I wasn’t even shaken up about it.”      Dean understands now. “That’s how you cracked that case so fast.”      “Yeah, well…” she admits, after which her gaze drops to her hands. “I wish I could’ve saved the principal and the teacher, though.”      “Hey, that damaged kid was on a rampage. A lot more people would’ve gotten killed if you hadn’t stepped in so fast,” the hunter offers, hoping it will give her some solace.      Zoë half nods, pursing her lips. “I had a little help.”      A small smirk pulls at the corner of Dean’s mouth, appreciating the hit of gratefulness in her words. “We make one hell of a dream team, the three of us,” he says. 

     For once, Zoë doesn’t reply with a snarky remark, the silence a symbol to her agreement. She dips her head and stays quiet, allowing her colleague’s conclusion to sink in. She cannot deny what he says is true. Yes, they butt heads. Yes, she would rather fly solo. Sometimes, though, accepting help is the only way out of a tough spot. It applied for the case in Arkansas, but will it also be the case here? She doubts it, but doesn’t voice her negative assumption.

     Outside, the wind is picking up, cold air howling through the trees and breezing through the cracks of the cabin. The weather has steadily grown more restless, seemingly apprehensive of what’s to come. It’s as if the sun has never really risen at dawn, the skies remaining a dark tint of grey. The hellhounds are laying low, at least for now. The constant howling and barking earlier made their prey anxious. The silence between the hunters isn’t helping to put Zoë’s troubled mind to rest either.

     “So…” she starts out of the blue. “Why did you come out here?”      Wanting to prevent a rain of questions, she decides to turn tables. It works, although Dean doesn’t answer with words. He takes his phone out of his pocket and tosses it towards her. With one hand she catches the small Samsung and opens the lid to reveal the display.      “Inbox. Latest text,” Dean says.

     She does as told and opens the message which was sent to him by his father. It contains only the word ‘job’ and a bunch of numbers.      “Coordinates,” she concludes. “No background info, no other leads, just coordinates.”      “You’re starting to sound like Sam,” Dean scoffs. “But Dad has never been a man of many words.”      She agrees with a nod, but then frowns as a subtle grin starts to show on her face. “You received a message from Erin. Who’s Erin?”      Dean looks up and suddenly remembers the text conversation he had with the cute brunette from Waco. Shit! He didn’t empty his inbox yet. The things they discussed in those text messages after two nights together is not something he wants to share.      “Give me that,” he demands, rushing over to retrieve his phone.      “Hi Dean,” she starts reading the text message with an exaggerated feminine voice. “Are you still in town? If so, my place tonight? I want to lick your--”

     Bug-eyed, she reads the end of that sentence, but then the person who it was meant for snatches the phone from her hand. Annoyed, Dean shoves the device in his pocket and strolls to his side of the room where he settles on the floor again. He continues to throw the ball across the small space, letting the same ‘thud-thud-pause’ fill the silence. Amused, Zoë monitors his actions.

     “Still a womanizer as ever, I see,” she comments with a grin.      Dean shrugs, a cocky smile on his lips while he perks one eyebrow.“I can’t help it that all the girls like me.”      “Not all the girls,” she corrects.      “Oh, don’t go breakin’ my heart now,” he says jokingly, throwing the ball again.

     The huntress smiles at that and allows a pause to interrupt their banter for a moment, only to give Dean the impression that she’s letting him off the hook, of course.      “So, was Erin any good?”

     She pops the question shamelessly, not a sign of  sight uneasiness to detect. Perplexed, Dean looks sideways at the huntress, who is curiously waiting for an answer. He huffs, shaking his head. Did she just ask him if the sex was alright?      “I’m not gonna tell you that,” he chuckles, somewhat flustered.      “Oh, come on, don’t be such a baby. I thought that was a guy thing, bragging about how mind blowing the sex was?” Zoë eyes him, amused, sparkles bringing out the amber shades in her brown eyes. She’s cornering him and she’s loving it.      “Yeah, it’s a guy thing,” he claims, attempting to remain confident. “Meaning we brag amongst guys.”      “Or,” she rephrases victoriously, “- is it that you don’t wanna open up about your sex life with other women to one you hit on?”

     She slams the nail right on the head, because the staggered look on Dean’s face says more than a thousand words. And men think they are so mysterious.      “I do not hit on you!” he exclaims, his voice hitting higher than anticipated.      “Oh, you were so into me back then,” she says knowingly, narrowing her eyes.

     Dean is aware that she’s talking about the time that he and his father were working her case. He has to admit - although he doesn’t want to right now - that he was hoping for a little fun that week at the Californian coast. When he first saw the twenty-one year old, she blew him off his feet, but he was disappointed soon after when he learned she had a boyfriend, who she was disgustingly in love with. Funny enough he was attracted to her when she was still this normal sweet surf chick scoring A’s in med school, but now that she’s a kick ass huntress infiltrated into the supernatural world, bossing him around like she’s God Almighty, that feeling disappeared. Although he must admit, she looks even sexier than she did back then, riding a Harley and dressed in leather. She matured beautifully. If he didn’t know her, he’d hook up with her anytime. 

     He sighs reluctantly while he catches the baseball and throws it again. “Maybe so. But I hope you’re not presuming I still am.”      “You’re not?” Zoë pouts, pretending to be surprised and disappointed.      “Cute,” Dean comments.       “And why this change of heart?” she asks, daring and amused.      “Face it: You’re an arrogant stuck-up bitch these days,” he returns, saying it as it is.      “Thank you,” she chirps proudly and not even a bit insulted. “But you have to admit, you’re not really Mr. Nice Guy either.”      But Dean doesn’t agree. “I’m actually quite charming when it comes to the ladies.”      Zoë chuckles and clears her throat sarcastically. “Yeah, I've noticed.”      “I said with the ladies, not with arrogant stuck-up bitches,” he corrects smartly.

     The white leather ball, which just came bouncing off the wall again, suddenly gains speed, adjusts course and hits Dean in the head. He lets out a startled ‘ow!’ and stares at the round object hopping away from him on the wooden floorboard and then eyes Zoë, who is having trouble breathing while laughing. Despite her injury, she can’t help it but to roll on her side and wheeze. She wouldn’t give a damn if she turns demon because of these abilities, she loves them. Tears run down her cheeks as she does her best to get a decent sentence out.

     “That was - that was priceless!” she hiccups.      “So not funny,” Dean mutters, rubbing the spot on his forehead where he got hit.      His glare is answered with another burst of laughter, but she quickly gets herself together. “Oh, c’mon, Dean,” she chuckles. “Can’t I have a little fun before I die?”      “You’re not gonna die,” he says determinedly.

     Zoë scoffs and looks away, not convinced by his positive view on the world. “I hate to break it to you, but we are locked in a cabin on a mountain in the middle of nowhere and - oh, right! There are a bunch of hellhounds waiting on our doorstep ready to shred us to pieces,” she notifies cynically.      “Aren’t you a bucket full of sunshine,” he sneers.      “I was a moment ago,” she grins darkly, aiming for the prank she just pulled on him. “I’m not a pessimist, Dean. I’m a realist.”      “I don’t care what you are. Sam is on his way and he will get us out,” he ensures, trusting his brother.      “And then what? He can’t keep us safe from these creatures. I checked everything, there’s just no way,” she counters.

     Dean keeps looking at her, but doesn’t respond. Her emotional state is spiking up and down and he can’t really blame her. He’s trying to keep faith, but when Zoë brings it like that, it’s beginning to sink in that getting these hellhounds off her back might be an impossible task. She’s a smart girl, she got a full ride for UCLA. If she says she looked under every stone, she did. 

     Even though the huntress seems careless when it comes to danger, he’s sure she doesn’t want to go to Hell. He saw her response when she faced those pit bulls; they terrify her. Zoë Sullivan is scared to death. Dean takes a breath and allows the air to flow from his lungs again. Fuck, so am I, he realizes. 

     When he saw those red eyes glowing up from the dark, he didn’t see eyes, he saw the flames of Hell. Right then and there, he understood that the road that leads to death is only one path, but there’s a different exit to take for those who make a deal with the devil. The weak ones, the people who are not willing to work in order to achieve their dreams. The people who take the easy way out, in exchange for a shorter lifespan.

     For a moment he observes the young woman, who stares at the door with a thousand yard stare. Zoë Sullivan, who fights everyone’s worst nightmares and faces death on daily bases, made a deal. She is the last person on earth he could imagine doing something like that; trading her soul without reading between the lines. Then there’s the other question; what did she get in return? Money? Her powers?

     “Why did you do it?” he wonders, unable to keep his curiosity at bay anymore.

     Zoë turns her head to look over, for a moment not sure how to act, let alone reply to that question. He doesn’t need to be specific, she knows what he’s talking about. Not intending to answer him, the huntress retreats back into her shell like she has done when he started his interrogation earlier today, but then it hits her. This might be her last chance to have a good conversation, to speak up or pass something on before it’s too late. Maybe even find redemption. 

     Besides, Dean got dragged into this mess too, thanks to her and a little ‘help’ from John. She has to clear up a few things, she owes him that much. Before she starts talking, though, she reaches inside her jacket and pulls a Marlboro pack from her inner pocket. 

     Dean watches how she opens it, takes one out together with her zippo, and tamps it in order to condense the loose tobacco. “Didn’t know you smoke.”      “Only when I’m stressed and out of comfort food,” she replies.

     Casually allowing the cigarette to hang from her mouth, she protects the lighter’s flame by cupping her hand around it as she sets fire to the end. She closes her eyes and inhales, the air being pulled through the filter flaring up the burning tip. Dean can see she really needed one, because she lets out a satisfied sigh while absorbing the nicotine. Without using words, she holds out the small box, proposing him one.

     “Apparently those cancersticks will kill you,” Dean comments.      Zoë chuckles. “And the job won’t?”      “Touché,” he admits.

     He takes her up on the offer and gets up, crossing the distance between them and settling down on the ground next to Zoë. The hunter pulls a cigarette out of the gold and white pack, the blend that Zoë preferes. He holds the filter between his surprisingly full lips while she ignites her zippo, holding the tiny flare in front of the man next to her, the yellow glow complimenting his handsome features. Dean hollows his cheeks as he sucks the air through the tightly rolled paper, the end of the cigarette catching fire. Only then does she lower the lighter, putting it back in her pocket. 

     Intrigued, Zoë watches him. This isn’t the first time he smokes, the way he has the cigarette between the scarred knuckles of his index and middle finger and allowing the toxins to cool in his mouth before he inhales. He lays back his head against the wooden table surface and allows the toxins to flow from his nose, enjoying the flavor of the nicotine. There’s something incredibly seductive about it.

     “Didn’t know you smoke,” she returns, copying his previous words.      “I used to when I was sixteen or seventeen, until Dad found out,” Dean tells. “He made it very clear that if we’d ever get chased down and wouldn’t be able to keep up because of my ‘charcoaled lungs’, he’d leave me there, so I quit.”      Zoë scoffs, not surprised that John would say such a thing. “Yet here you are.”      “Yeah, here I am,” he sighs.

     The young woman by his side puts her pack away and stares ahead as the two share a moment in silence, only moving when she has to flick the ash. The question that had her dying for a cigarette in the first place is raging through her mind as she tries to figure out how to answer it best. Why did you do it? It’s a solid question, of which she has never shared the truth before. After a silence that feels like it takes ages, Zoë finally begins to speak.

     “Because I was desperate.”

     Her voice is so much more fragile than she ever wanted it to sound. The troubled huntress doesn’t look at him, she simply can’t. She’s ashamed of the fact that she has to explain herself to him, and yet she doesn’t regret what she did. 

     Her only company follows with another question. “What did you make a deal for, Zo? What on this God awful earth is possibly worth your soul?” he asks, unable to understand how she could give up something like that.      She swallows apprehensively; this is gonna be a shocker.      “My father’s life.”

     Speechless, he stares at her, his green eyes growing large and his mouth hanging slightly agape. The unexpected revelation has him turning his head away from the huntress slightly, his gaze focusing on nothing in particular. She made a deal for her father?

     He goes back to the dreadful day in June, 2001. Dean remembers well what happened to Mr. Sullivan, the unpleasant sight carved into his memories. Four and a half years ago, after a day of shopping on Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles California, Zoë returned home and found her father alone. Somewhere in the big city she got ambushed without even knowing it, by something called a Diligo Vesco demon. A nasty son of a bitch, which feeds on the loved ones of the person possessed. It only manifests when the victim truly loves someone, and Zo sure loved her Dad. In a flick of a switch the creature from Hell took over and viciously killed Mr. Sullivan, after which it returned to its hideout, leaving Zoë in distress over the corpse of her father. 

     She saw the killing with her own eyes and lived through the horror show as if she was the one committing the murder, but she wasn’t able to control her body until the job was done. But Zoë didn’t understand what was happening. She had never heard of demons before, she didn’t even believe in ghosts. Petrified and confused, the poor girl called her sister. 

     Abigail knew exactly what to do, though. The family had been successful at keeping the youngest safe from all that is supernatural until that dreadful moment, but the first born Sullivan was well aware of what really hides in the shadows. Back then, she didn’t hunt full time, only occasionally picking up a case here and there. Nonetheless, Abi is a familiar face in the business, and the name ‘Sullivan’ sent shivers down creatures’ spines long before Zoë ever drew her first salt circle. 

     The huntress knew people who could help her terrorized sister and rang the very best for help; John Winchester. Dean was sitting next to him in the front seat of the Impala when his father got the call. He remembers, because he had only seen him so frustrated and upset whenever the memories of Mary were too painfully vivid to comprehend. The second he heard about Robert Sullivan’s death, he dropped everything and raced to Huntington Beach. It was clear that he knew the man.

     There was no saving John’s old friend, though; he was dead as can be. But now Zoë is actually telling him that he is alive and kicking?      Completely stunned, he turns to his colleague again. “How did you figure out about dealing with demons?”

     “Dad left me a locker which I was only allowed to open if something bad happened. I thought this would be the appropriate time to do so,” Zoë explains. “It contained just about everything I needed to know about the supernatural. Books, pendants, all kinds of weeds and spices, a key to the armory, locations of the storage units, everything. I began reading his journal. At first I thought he was a part of some kind of cult, that he was crazy, and Abi too. But after what I experienced…” Her gaze goes blank for a moment, the images she wished she could erase from her memory pushing themselves to the surface. “I knew it was true. So after you and your father left, I started studying.”

     He listens intently without interrupting her. It’s strange how calm she remains, her voice monotone and her body barely moving. She must be casting out her emotions in an attempt to protect herself. The only sign of her feeling anything at all is a stray tear, clinging to her eyelashes as she refuses to blink, the smallest flutter probably enough for the drop to fall. She sits up a little straighter and continues her confession.

     “I learned about crossroad demons after a few years of hunting. A deal was the first thing that popped up in my head. All I had to do was bury a tin box containing a bit of graveyard dirt, a black cat bone, a picture of myself and some other shady shit in the center of an intersection and I could get Dad back”, she tells, smiling slightly for a brief moment.

     “I reckon the demon showed up,” Dean presumes, considering the current situation that they are in.      “He did, but instead of the usual ten years, I got one. The demon claimed he couldn’t bring the soul of a former hunter back for the average price. Especially since Dad had quite an impressive track record on smiting demons.” She begins to struggle now, her voice losing strength. She clears her throat in the hope it will return.      “I didn’t care about the steep price, I just wanted him home so bad. Abi, she, uh - she left, soon after you did, and - and I wanted my family back together. I thought…” She takes a shaky breath, fighting the surfacing sorrow. “I thought that if I could bring him back, everything would be alright again.”

     Tears drag a shimmering path in their wake, but she keeps fighting those she hasn’t shed yet. Her cigarette, which she’s almost finished with, trembles because of her unsteady hands.      “But it didn’t,” Dean assumes.      “No.” She shakes her head. “Abi disappeared along with Dad. Everything changed and it won’t ever be the same. When you know--”      “- you can never go back,” he finishes.

     Dean barely remembers the moment that everything changed for him. No wonder, he was only four years old at the time. But he recalls how devastated he was, having lost so much, his life altered forever. Even at that very young age, he realized very well what was happening. Four or twenty-one; it doesn’t really matter. Knowledge like that is destructive at any age.

     He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the floor, glancing at her sideways. “I’m sorry, Zo,” he acknowledges, hoping that him being here will help her feel less alone in the dark world they live in. “I know it’s tough.”      She bites her lip, unable to accept his kindness. “I don’t want your sympathy, Dean.”      “Give yourself a break here. You’ve been through hell,” he returns, seeing right through the mask.      “No, I haven’t. I’m going to, though,” Zoë comments, forcing a cynical smile.

     Dean keeps watching her, though, witnessing how the tough armor of the warrior beside him crumbles. Normally, he isn’t good at this. Sam is the one who comforts the grieving, but right now he feels so sorry for her that his hand seeks hers on the timber floor. She closes her eyes when they touch, and remains unmoved when the man who she can resonate with traces her soft skin with his thumb. Zoë allows it, but doesn’t want him to go any further. If he pulls her into an embrace now, her fragile, glass heart will shatter into pieces so small, she will never be able to glue herself back together.

     “Don’t,” she warns, quivering. “I can’t break. I never did and I will not now.”

     Her brown irises have lost their sparkle, the desperation in them scaring Dean. He sees so much pain and sorrow inside the gloom of her pupils, so much he recognizes yet doesn’t understand. He thought he had it bad, his mother perished, his Dad gone. But Zoë, she’s on a whole other level. She actually experienced her father's death, felt his bones break, saw the life leave his body. Like she said; she has his blood on her hands, and that’s something she will never be able to wash off. Her sister Abigail disappeared from the face of the earth for God knows what reason, and he doesn’t even know the story of her mother. Zoë Sullivan is completely alone and has been for more than four years. He himself is going nuts after three days without his brother. How could he impossibly go through life without anyone by his side?

     “You see, Dean? Do you understand why I’m careless?” She half shrugs, so much agony in her piercing gaze, that Dean is afraid that the vision might haunt him. “Why I don’t give a fuck if I live or die?”

     His jaw clenches, muscles flexing underneath his scruff. Then he swallows down hard and can’t look at her anymore.

     “There’s no one to stay for, there’s... there’s no one left,” she whimpers. “Honestly, I wish I’d just get killed during a hunt, or get hit by a bus. I’d rather be dead. I already am inside anyway.”

     She wipes at her face with her free hand and forks her fingers through her tangled hair. Tears mixed with mascara inflict dark lines on her cheeks, reminding Dean that there’s nothing he can do to help heal these deep wounds.           “I just - I don’t wanna go to Hell, not after what I did. Can you imagine what they will do to me down there?” she croaks out. “I - I just want this to be over, I wanna lay down and never wake up. I need a break from this constant pain in my chest.”      She places her hand over her heart, her fingers clenching into a fist as breaths pass her lips hitching, struggling.      “I just want to die,” she cries.

     This entire time, all Dean can do is sit by her side and listen. So this is her, this is Zoë. All the smartass comments, the sarcastic remarks and clever answers; it’s just a facade. Underneath that costume, she’s still the girl from California who got caught in a web of tragedies. The torment he is witnessing is unlike any he has ever seen before, the embodiment of pure sorrow and self-hatred. He didn’t know a human being could feel like this, and that says something coming from him. 

     He glances at her again, noticing her blank expression as the huntress stares at the fire. Despite that his conscience tells him to do so, he doesn’t lay his arm around her shoulder, nor does he pull her into his chest, simply because she asked him not to. He doesn’t want to break her, so he just continues to hold her hand, hoping the connection can offer her some solace. Hoping that she will come to understand that she’s not alone, not anymore.

     Absent, the huntress stairs at the flames, wishing the ones that once set her heart alight wouldn’t have been extinguished by all the horror that has tainted her life. She can’t speak anymore, neither can she cry, a numbness slowly taking over her mind and enveloping her in darkness. It baffles her that she’s able to shed a tear every time she feels like this, because honestly, she thought she ran out of those a long time ago.

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