8Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, the Winchesters, or any ounce of sanity. Thank you.
AN: Readers of my Believing Improbable Things universe will recognise the parallel. P.S. guys; I can't update tonight. Will do A.S.A.P. this week, though. Pixc
1. The First Date's The Worst Date
Dad told me as we crept up the stairs that my job was to protect the girl; he'd take care of the spirit, Sam'd keep a look out in case it tried to sneak up on our asses, and I just had to baby-sit one scrawny thirteen year old chick, get her out of there if I had to. Nice and easy – I'd be able to keep an eye out for the spirit and on Sam too, without bruising his ego, which is what Dad's plan was, didn't have to be a genius to work stuff like that out. Sam was turning thirteen soon, and had a chip on his shoulder as wide as Montana – and a rebellious streak – bigger than the growth spurts he was going through. He thought he knew it all, and Dad was letting him for the time being.
This whole gig was supposed to be simple, no casualties, in and out. Smooth sailing. We'd get there at midnight, surprise the thing before it had a chance to attack anyone – it hadn't hurt anyone yet, only scared the girl – what was her name, again? She'd been able to keep it back some. Instinct, Dad had said, no real research or basis. Rosemary candles for chrissakes – the Hail Mary. I'd never try shit like that, not if I wanted to live. If the spirit didn't kick my ass, Dad would.
It was midnight now, and it had all gone to plan so far; she'd left the front door unlocked like Dad'd told her too, and he knew the way to her room, 'cause he'd met her before now, asked her some questions for our hunt. We'd first read about it in the paper; all these old hicks dying off around the town, only connection being a past relationship to the woman who lived here; mother of the girl, and two boys besides. Found out the spirit was just another old geezer who'd hooked up with the woman, Marie, hereabouts, before she up and married the guy she was with now.
We were trying to be quiet; but then we heard thumps from along the hall we gave up on caution and ran full tilt to the only lit room. Dad kicked the door in, and I saw her for the first time.
She stood off to the side of the room, body shaking, holding this shotgun out in front of her that was bigger than she was, look on her face that I took a second out to place – the look I always saw on Sammy when he was about to kill some little nasty. Scared as hell, tears running, even – but still defiant.
My eyes took in the rest of the scene at a glance – frilly white curtains and Mötley Crüe posters; pink bedspread with torn up jeans and beaten up biker boots peeking out from under it. There were two bodies on the floor – their guts hanging out everywhere, blood spatters on the wood around them – the ghost was looming on the other side, pale flickering, and grinning, and then I was tackling her, the crack of rock salt gunshots ringing in my ears as Dad shot the spirit.
The thump as we hit the floor, me trying to keep most of my weight off that skinny ass frame, was only rivalled by the noise I made as her elbow hit my sternum, completely winding me. I lay on top of her, trying to get my breath back, as all these gold curls tickled my face and I watched that gun she'd been holding as it rolled away from us across the floorboards.
I tried to get above her on my arms, tried to say something, but the look on her face stopped me. She was completely dead in shock now, just watching Dad swap his shotgun for Sam's axe, telling my brother to keep an eye out, as he started hacking at the back of her cupboard, pulling out the corpse in there. I'd seen it before, the numbness that comes from major trauma; Dad always said we had two jobs in a hunt – kill the evil and patch up the victim.
She hid her face in my neck then, arms coming around to clutch at me, whole body shivering beneath mine. I felt the shape of her nose against the skin of my throat, wet tear tracks on the underside of my jaw, and didn't know what to do with myself. If only we'd gotten here quicker – we should have staked the place out – done more research – anything. Our jobs were to make sure no one had to go through what we had, had to lose their families like this – and tonight we'd failed.
When I heard the familiar sound strike of a match bursting into flame, I looked up again from studying the pitted floorboards, stood, helped her up with me. I looked down into eyes that were this crazy, wet mixture of colours – little specks of blue, and orange, the main iris green and gold and brown – spiky eyelashes with tears clinging to them, physical signs of my letdown. More ran down pale cheeks and into a cherub mouth, and I lost my train of thought, watching that bottom lip quiver.
I had no idea what to say – couldn't say anything to make this alright. So my mouth just blurted, "So, I'm Dean…and you are? And…are you okay?" It just made me hate myself more. I was a complete idiot.
"Lauren," she said, voice blank and colourless. "And, no."
Her eyes went past me to the burning corpse on the bed, and the disembowelled ones of the guys on the floor; then she vomited on the front of my shirt.
AN: MissJenni struck me – read 'beat me over the head' – with this idea for Dean's thoughts underlying the Believing Improbable Things Universe, a while ago now, and how the hell could I resist? Each chapter will probably also be pretty short, and yeah. No regular updates. This story is far, far back on the list of priorities. I don't have a schedule for them. Reviews are love, of course!