A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you ahead of time for reading. Just a few things, this is a story that takes place a week before the events of Season 4 Episode 19: Jump the Shark. Something to note, I am a fan of pre-writing and have already written a good amount of this story, meaning that I will regularly update on Fridays. There may be exceptions, but I will inform when these will be. Thanks again and have a nice day!
She was gone. Though she lived on in the raw memories in my mind and in the many pictures that her friends and family left, she now existed as a clean granite tombstone with "Sierra Love Pearce" etched into it, preceding the date of her death which I refused to look at any further.
It was her kidneys that killed her. PKD runs heavily in in her side of the family. I'm no exception. I would be lying if I said I wasn't even a little scared. Though my mother left me alone to live in our house with no close relatives in the country and no immediate means of making a living, what scares me the most is dying alone, which I'm sure to do.
Now that my mother is dead, I have no one. She was the charismatic one. She was the one with lovers and close friends. She was the one with a social profession, always meeting new people and swapping stories. I am the loser daughter who lived under her mother's shadow, studying up on her cryptozoology in a going-nowhere passion. My mother never really got into what I was reading and researching about through the years, but she still smiled and asked questions. Sometimes I would look away from the many articles of wendigo sightings throughout history to see her taking notes in order to catch up and remember what I was saying. She was great like that.
But now she's gone, and I'm still here, a walking kidney time bomb whose only plans after her mother's funeral consist of snuggling into a blanket with the latest book on Nordic folklore.
My mother was the one who got me into monsters and myths in the first place. She told the same story every time she got the chance. Years ago, before I was born, she was locking up the bar after a long night and was attacked. She refused to specify exactly who, or what, it was that attacked her, but what she did tell me over and over again was that a man named John Winchester saved her. She told me how he was a hunter and hunted monsters like vampires and ghosts and the like. I thought it was just a scary story, even as a kid, but the stories got more detailed as I got older and I could see the pain in her eyes, the mental scars left behind. To this day, I never asked her about the physical ones, the scars on her neck, but I never stopped wondering about them, especially when she'd periodically rub them when telling her tales.
That man, John Winchester, is my next stop. He's my father, at least that's what my mother always said. They apparently had a fling after he saved her and then he was gone a few days later. Despite his swiftness in her life, there was no fooling who my father was.
My mother only had one photo of John. It was a still of her work's security cameras. She tampered all the footage of the attack and of him ever being there to protect his identity, but she still kept that small keepsake as a reminder of her savior in her direst moment. Even in that security footage still, I could see the resemblance. Mom said I had his smile.
So after I have my fill of gazing down to the fresh grave at my feet, I will go home and pack my bags. I will be leaving the not-so comfort of my now empty home to go out and find my father. Without my mom or any other immediate relatives near me, I will surely die in waiting for a transplant when the day comes for my kidneys to fill with cysts. That is unless I find my next of kin.
There's no guarantee John will want to help. I'm not exactly daughter of the year, and I have little to offer a man who – supposedly – hunts Scooby Doo villains. It's not like a heroic rogue will want to start a father-daughter team with a twenty-one year old do-nothing dunce fighting werewolves or mummies or trolls or Loch Ness monsters, but that's not what I'm asking of him. I'm just after his kidney. When I'm lying in a hospital bed, attached to numerous tubes and surrounded by falsely sympathetic glances from nurses and doctors, I at least want the chance of surviving, unlike my mother.
Will Mr. Winchester be by my side, providing actual comfort while I lie sick and dying in the uncomfortable hospital bed? Absolutely not, but I'll at least have his life-saving organ. I have to. I don't want to die alone, and I don't have forever. Even though I have nothing to live for, at least I have something to strive for. I promised my mom on her deathbed that I would live on for her. I promised her I wouldn't sell out, that I wouldn't give in to the soul-crushing loneliness that suffocated me whenever she wasn't by my side. I promised her that I'd go forward in life, even if that led me to different corners of the world. She knew I was never happy here. I've never been one to break a promise.
I'll take my leave now. I'll give my mom one last goodbye before I have to go off on my journey to find my lost family. I have to find a match. I have to find someone to help save my life. I have to find my John Winchester. I have to, or before I know it, I'll be gone, too.