Chapter Text
I’m in the same motel room I’ve been staying in for about two weeks now. I came here to hunt a vengeful spirit in an abandoned school building and stayed afterwards, simply because I have nowhere to go and am not in the mood to look for another hunt yet. My nights are spent mostly watching TV, reading old books, and drinking myself into a stupor. I’ve been telling myself I just needed time. That I’d move on when I was ready. That moment hasn’t come yet.
After Dean died, Lilith tried to blast Sam, but failed. Something about that seemed to terrify her, and she fled. All other demons in the neighborhood were gone after that as well. Bobby spoke to the family briefly while Sam continued holding his brother’s lifeless body. The only thing I could do was stand there, completely numb.
It’s been four months since that day. The last time I spoke to Sam was three months ago. I tried to stay in touch with him, but he completely shut down after the hunter’s funeral and he’s no longer picking up my calls. I speak to Bobby sometimes, who sends me on hunts here and there. I suppose it’s because he thinks it’s good for me to keep moving, more than anything else. When Bobby asks how I’m doing, the answer is always the same — “I’m still alive.”
Russ calls me every now and then to check up on me and has asked to join me on hunts, but I find myself preferring solitude over companionship these days. As he’s always done, he respects my space, but I know he worries about me like an older brother would. A part of me feels guilty for keeping them at a distance, but I just don’t have the energy to deal with people right now — even those closest to me.
I’m still asleep when there’s a heavy knock at the door. I wake up with a start and rub the sleep from my eyes. For a moment, I consider pretending I can’t hear whoever’s at the door, before I recognize Bobby’s and Sam’s distinct energies, making me sit up straight in bed. If they’re here, something must be wrong.
And then I feel him. Dean. I’m almost convinced it must be someone else and I’m just fooling myself into thinking it’s him, but I stumble over a pile of clothes as I rush to the door.
The first face I see is Bobby’s. “Hey, kid,” he says with a wry smile.
I don’t respond. My eyes wildly scan around, looking at Sam and then at who’s behind them, and then my heart stops for a moment.
“Holy shit,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t hear Bobby’s next words as I push him aside and completely ignore Sam as he greets me, rushing to Dean and throwing my arms around his neck, pulling him into the tightest hug I can muster.
“Hey, Sue,” he murmurs against my hair, his arms folding around my body to keep me locked against his.
I feel like we’re standing like this forever before I pull back a little to look up at him. His face is exactly how I remember it; in fact, he looks as healthy and strong as ever, aside from clearly being rattled. His energy tells me it’s undeniably him, but there’s an undercurrent of unimaginable trauma that wasn’t there before, tightening my chest. My hands slide from his neck to the sides of his face as I scan him, my eyes widening and my breathing growing shallow. What I sense in him shatters my heart — fear, pain, shame… and, for some reason, an immense burden of guilt. It hurts just to touch it, but somehow I can’t let go.
“Whoa.” Dean freezes under my gaze and then recoils, as if my hands, now dropping to my sides, burned him.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, my voice hoarse, tears stinging my eyes as I realize what I just did crossed a line. “I shouldn’t have… shit, I’m sorry.”
“What happened?” Sam asks, and my head snaps to him as I suddenly remember he and Bobby are here as well. My eyes narrow; I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something is different about Sam too. He’s still him, but there’s a darkness that wasn’t there before. I immediately sense his discomfort at my attention being on him, which only makes me more curious about what he seems to be hiding.
“Nothing,” Dean lies. “But I have to say, it’s nice not to have holy water thrown over me or having to cut myself with silver to prove it’s me.”
I look back at him, still in disbelief that he’s actually here, alive. “I don’t need that stuff to know it’s you,” I remind him.
“Right.”
“Maybe we should take this little reunion inside, kids,” Bobby says, looking around suspiciously.
I nod and gesture for the men to come inside, closing the door behind them and instantly restoring the salt line on the floor. I turn around and see all three of them taking in the state of my room — dirty clothes all over the floor and slung over chairs, a wall covered in paper clippings, old lore books on the table, as well as empty and half-empty bottles of bourbon and tequila.
“Jeez, Sue, not exactly living the good life here, are ya?” Bobby says.
Dean’s eyes fall on me, and I’m suddenly very aware — and ashamed — of my appearance. I know what he’s seeing, because it’s the reason I stopped looking in mirrors a while ago: I look like shit. I’ve lost weight and my clothes hang loose on me, I’m pale from rarely going outside, my hair is a clumpy mess because I haven’t brushed it in days, I have dark circles under my bloodshot eyes, and I probably stink of sweat and alcohol.
I feel my cheeks flush and look away, avoiding his gaze. “I guess. The last few months haven’t exactly been easy.”
A surge of emotions from Dean follows my statement — worry, sadness, guilt. I see his body lean toward me as if he wants to reach for me, but then he stops himself. I ache to reach out to him again too, but I’m afraid of crossing more boundaries, so I don’t, creating a strange field of tension between us.
“How is this possible?” I ask, my voice thick with barely contained emotion.
“I don’t know,” Dean says. “All I know is that one moment I was being torn apart by hellhounds, the next I woke up underground.”
I look into his eyes. He’s lying. My gaze flicks to his hands, where I see the clear marks of a man who had to dig his way out of his own grave. I swallow, tears threatening to spill again.
“Show her what you showed us,” Bobby says, and I look at him, puzzled, before turning back to Dean, who is rolling up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, revealing a bright red handprint on his upper arm. It looks like it was burned into his flesh. I step forward and raise my hand, but before I touch it, I look up and meet Dean’s eyes, silently asking for his consent.
“It’s okay,” he says.
I look back at the mark, placing my hand on it gently, expecting the touch to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. I instantly feel the power humming under his skin — the mark was left by something incredibly powerful.
“Whoa,” I say. “I’ve never felt anything like this before. And you didn’t see the thing that left it?”
“Woke up with it.”
“Can you make something of it?” Sam asks, and I realize he’s been quiet this entire time. “Do you recognize it?”
“No,” I say, “but it’s powerful. Very powerful.”
“That’s just great,” Dean mutters sarcastically.
I let go of his arm, my hand dropping to my side. “I may know someone who can help. A psychic. Her name is Pamela Barnes”
“Right,” Bobby says. “I know her, that’s a good idea. She's one of the best damn psychics I know.”
I look around for my phone and spot it on the nightstand. I grab it and sit on the edge of the bed as I call Pamela. Bobby sits down on one of the chairs, Sam on the other. Dean sits on bed opposite to me, his knee almost touching mine.
The line connects. “Barnes,” I hear on the other end.
“Hey, Pam. It’s Sue. Sue Numan. I know it’s been a while since we spoke, but we have a situation we could really use your help with.”
I describe the situation to Pamela. “Well, you don’t hear a story like that every day,” she says in a surprisingly casual tone. “This is something I have to see for myself. How fast can you be here?”
I look at Dean, whose green eyes are fixed on my face, and I feel my stomach do the little flip it’s always made under his gaze. It’s been a while since I’ve felt that. “If you’re still in Kansas City, that’s about a seven-hour drive. We can be there by early evening if we leave now,” I say.
“Okay. See you tonight, then.”
I end the call and let my phone drop onto the bed beside me. I feel three pairs of eyes burning into me.
“Pam’s expecting us. Let’s go,” I say in a monotone voice.
I push myself off the bed and start grabbing my things almost on autopilot: my duffel bag from the corner, the weapons laid out on the table, the jacket slung over the back of a chair. I shove clothes inside without folding them, toss in my journal, my knife, my boots, and books.
Dean watches me from the other bed, silent. I can feel his confusion, his caution, and something else underneath. Hope, maybe.
“Okay,” he eventually says, getting to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Bobby nods once. Sam just watches me, something unreadable in his eyes, before giving a small, almost relieved nod.
I grab my keys from the nightstand and take one last look at the room that’s been my home for the last two weeks before heading to the door. When I step outside with them, the world around me feels different. Like it was standing still and has started moving again.
I see the familiar sight of the Impala and get into the back seat like I’ve done so many times before. The smell of leather and gunpowder clings to the interior, and it feels like returning home after a hellish trip.
It all feels the same. And yet everything has changed.