WHO: Sam and Heather. WHAT: Hopefully a talk. WHEN: Evening. WHERE: Winchester home. RATING: TBD.
The never-ending string of issues in his life seemed to be spreading more and more lately. They all had a lot to deal with, every last one of them, which was why Sam was doing his absolute best to avoid complaining about things himself. He certainly wasn't standing at the worst end of it all; but he was not, most definitely, in the happiest place in the world either. If anything good had come out of all of this, it would be the sheer fact that he and Ruby were, once again, on speaking terms. Not the sort where they yelled and screamed at one another either. He was glad for it, too, because Sam was so sick and tired of arguing with people.
Ruby didn't seem to be, on the other hand. He wanted to get angry enough to threaten her life again the second he found out about what had been said to Heather, but Sam managed to bite back his frustration and anger enough to belt out a response about how he wasn't very appreciative of the way that she treated Heather in what he had hoped was a civil manner. Ruby didn't seem too furious with him about it, so Sam figured that it was at least.
It was odd. The second he made amends with Ruby, he found her grating at him again in a way that he couldn't fight. He didn't want to be angry with her, but there she was. Making Heather upset all over again. Sam didn't know what her problem was, not really, especially when the argument sparked, but Sam had done well enough to ignore whatever it was that Heather had been dishing under the assumption that she was just stressed over everything that was going on. No one needed more drama. Unfortunately, that was exactly what they got anyway.
Jacket strung over his shoulder, Sam rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, slowly climbing the stairs. Feet hitting the second floor, he yanked the jacket down and pushed his way into his and Heather's room. "Heather?" Sam peered around the room and shook his head, dropping the jacket onto the back of his computer chair. She was probably in the bathroom. Or downstairs. Kicking his shoes off, Sam flopped back down on the bed, threw his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. Upon doing so, he winced and suddenly sat bolt upright. The familiar scene of fire engulfing a woman in white flickered through his mind. His eyes quickly darted up toward the ceiling, panic striking it's way through him as quick as a snake snapping onto it's prey.
Nothing. She wasn't there. Sam ran a shaking hand over his face and released an uneven breath. It's fine. She's fine.