Is this who you are now Sam?
Is this who you want to be?
Are you lonely?
Are you scared?
Is life without your brother the cold empty existence you thought it would be?
He's been coming to the dinner every day for nearly a week, a rudderless ship with nowhere else to go. Wearing the same scowling expression, the same hunched over stature, the same jacket she knows wasn't his a few weeks ago.
The only thing that changes are the books, a different one each day, though most with the same old leather covers looking so similar, it's hard to tell. Some of them she's never seen before which surprises her, always thinking she knew just a bit more than he did, always thinking she was one step ahead.
She walks over to his table, half-full coffee pot on her hand, perched and ready to fill his empty cup. A mumbled thank you carries over the lip of the book his face is buried in. It's enough to give her pause and smile down at him, a gesture she knows he sees and pointedly ignores.
Her eye catches some of the text, not English, not even remotely close to something spoken in the modern world. Something he believes can help him rescue his brother from hell.
"Better no let the locals see that," she says nodding at the yellowed pages.
His eyes finally lift to hers.
"Place like this?" She goes on with a smile. "They'll burn you at the stake."
He doesn't say anything, sizing her up as if it's the first time he's ever noticed her. A little detail he purposely inserts in his mannerisms but she knows isn't true. Caught in a stare, daring the other to speak, knowing she won't break, when a customer sticks their hand in the air to get her attention.
Sighing, she moves over to be accommodating.
He's gone when she makes her way back to his table, but a twenty dollar bill for a two dollar cup of coffee stares back at her.
He's walking slowly through the parking lot when she sees him again, peeking her head from behind the ratty curtain. For a second she think he's following her, that he saw right through her over the course of the last few days, and is doing what comes natural and hunting her down.
When he stops at a door far enough away from hers, and pulls a key from his pocket, there's slight irritation that she's never noticed him here before, that she's never felt his presence when before she could lock onto him so deftly.
It's different now, she tells herself.
He stops suddenly, looking around as if he can sense someone watching him. A fraction of a second from being spotted she pulls back from the window, heart fluttering inside the body. When she dares to looks again he's still standing there scanning.
She holds her breath until he moves through the door without a word.
She watches for a full minute after it closes.
Next day same cup, same scowl, new book.
"Most people don't stay around here," she says during his third refill of the day. "You end up getting stuck."
"Should I be worried then?" He replies, not even looking up.
She pretends to study him a minute.
"A nomad like you?" She continues sweetly, the not so subtle hint that she may know him more than a casual observer would, dropping from her lips. "No, I wouldn't worry."
Turning away to reload another patron's coffee fix she can feel his eyes on her.
The customer mistakes the smile on her lips as one of friendly service.
She knocks on his door that night, lightly, shyly.
When he opens it she gives him the big bright eyes and backs away bashfully, scraping her foot on the tattered old welcome mat.
"Um hi," she starts. "I just noticed you stayed here too and…"
She trails off, tries hard to make herself blush, and damn harder to look like she's fighting it, lifting the six-pack in her hand for him to see.
"I thought you might want some company."
For a second she thinks he's going to slam the door in her face and go back to whatever black magic he does by himself in the dark with all those books. He looks like he's thinking the same, she shuffles her feet again, and he wordlessly moves aside letting her in.
"Kristy," she says offering her hand. "I'm her, I mean…" she trails off again, and he actually chuckles softly, first crack of a smile or anything like it she's seen in him in nearly ten days.
Is this the kind of girl you like Sam?
Doe-eyed, bashful, and so in need of a man's attention?
It's enough to make her want to retch, doing this to herself, but she has to admit that the end result of him going from crabby and stoic to softly smiling at her, is the more desirable one.
"I know," he says. "Nametag," he continues off her look, tapping the spot on his chest where it would be.
"Right," she laughs, tapping her hand playfully against her forehead.
This could be so painful at times.
"Sam," is all he offers in return. No fake last name, no real one either.
He suddenly moves toward her, leaning in close enough to make her gasp, for a second not knowing if it's just the act, or the body, or the idea that he can see through it all. Taking the six-pack from her hand, he pulls one loose and offers it to her, taking one for himself as well.
She takes the beer but makes no move to open it; he's still in such close proximity, a forwardness she never thought him capable of.
Is he going to kiss her?
Her eyes drift closed, thinking he just might actually, but all that happens is the pop-hiss sound of him opening his beer.
She hates this body.
It does something to her because the act doesn't seem so much of one at the moment. She hasn't been in complete control from day one with this odd 2.0 version of herself. No, she's like some shy and desperate little girl, terribly disappointed that she boy she likes didn't kiss her.
The anger is swift, sudden, and the beer can explodes in her hand.
Sam looks at her sharply, he's already been suspicious, and this little incident is just tipping the scales away from her.
"Oops," she covers giggling. "Guess I don't know my own strength."
Wrong thing to say, because now he's looking at her, hard, like he knows.
He doesn't come to the café the next day, and she thinks he's finally taken off for greener pastures, wanting to escape the overly bubbly waitress who may or may not have been bi-polar.
The place is almost empty, and it would have been a good opportunity to try and get him to open up more, despite the fact that she does nothing but disgust herself with the way she goes about interacting with him.
What the hell is wrong with her?
Is it some kind of post-traumatic stress thing from Lilith sending her a one-way ticket back to the pit? Is she really so weak?
She can't be.
You don't climb your way out of hell more than once if you don't have a will of steel.
Catching a reflection of herself on the corner of the pie rack, she frowns.
Dark hair, dark eyes, a face ripe with innocence.
There's just something about this stupid little girl.
He ends up coming in, far later than his predictable time, and walks right by his usual booth, making a beeline to where she stands behind the counter refilling ketchup bottles. It's still mostly empty, one or two stray people in the far corner of her section, not wanting to be bothered, and she not willing to bother anyway.
"Hey," he says as if they're old friends.
"Hi," she replies, instantly playing another round of fight-to-blush, fight-harder-to-hide-blush, make-it-all-look-cute-at-the-same-time.
"What time are you off tonight?"
Tiny flutter in her stomach before her head swings back into the game.
"Ten," she answers with a sly smile. "You asking me out?"
He laughs in that self-depreciating way of his and the girl inside melts.
Is she what you want Sam?
Is she what you dream of?
Are you going to turn into Dean and leave a trail of broken hearts in your wake?
Are you going to make her your first victim?
It was stupid to think this was a better way, to think it would work.
He invited her to his room, was all smiles and politeness offering her a drink.
She knows better than to ever let someone, let alone a hunter, offer her a drink. Whether or not you're pretty damn sure they don't know what you are.
The scream immediately follows the red raw burning that slides down her throat, cutting through the smoke rising from her skin.
Sam watches with a cold grim glare, the hunch that she wasn't just some random pretty girl wanting to get to know him better, turning into the knowledge that she isn't right before his very eyes.
Her eyes flash black before she can fight it, and he has a bible in his hand so quick it's almost a card trick.
"Sam don't," she says, something in her voice stilling the first words of his incantation.
"Who are you?" he growls out.
She wants to laugh. To fold her arms and taunt him for not figuring it out sooner.
Instead she gives him the sad eyes, big and wide, blaming the body yet again.
"Sam please," she says again, her voice a whisper.
He won't know it's her, not like this, not from the way she's been acting.
She tries anyway.
"You know who I am."
He stands immobile, seconds ticking away, slow realization dawning in his eyes.
"No," he says shaking his head. "You're lying. She wouldn't be so nice. She would never act like…"
The bible in his hand, still itching to exorcise her.
"I saved you," she says, racking her brain for something to convince him. "From the seven whiny brats, from my old master, hell I've saved you more times than I can count."
He stares, still disbelieving.
"I was a witch, a pathetic little martyr for a cause I didn't even know I was serving. I never wanted you to know. I never wanted you to look at me that way you did in the land of those desperate housewives."
His eyes widen.
"You still have something of mine," she goes on. "Something you stole when you left me to rot, left me trapped and vulnerable for that little bitch to come along to take my body and send me away."
He looks away briefly.
"I was damn fond of that body Sam," she seethes.
Not like this inferior substitute, she doesn't say.
"You came back."
It comes out almost a question, doubt trying to cover the odd twinge of hope in his voice, awe and relief that he may no longer be alone. He takes a step closer, lets the bible drop soundlessly to the floor.
For me, he doesn't say, though she knows they're both thinking it.
"I love a tall man," she says, but it doesn't quite have the sarcastic bite she would have preferred.
"If you can…" he starts. "Does that mean, does that mean I can…?"
"We can," she answers, knowing he's talking about his brother, knowing his thoughts are skating along the lines of 'if she's free to come and go as she pleases, maybe there's a way for Dean to do the same.'
"You have no idea what you're capable of," she says. "If there's anyone who can pull your brother out of hell, it's you."
There's something in his eyes, something she doesn't recognize, a willingness to listen for once, to step into the dark, especially if it means getting what he wants most in this world.
"What do I have to do?"
She smiles then, slow and easy, and for a second it feels as if she's back in her old body. His sudden eagerness twisting him to her will, that cold hard confidence flooding her.
This is who you are now Sam.
This is who you're going to be.
You won't be lonely.
You won't be scared.
Life without your brother won't be the cold empty existence you thought it would be.
Because you'll be mine.
Her lips on his is such a surprise he gasps, a small sound escaping his throat, the girl inside satisfied that he doesn't push away, the demon shouting triumphant.
A different tact, she thinks, wrapping her arms around his neck. Sometimes these stupid notions work.