What happened

who sam and felicia.
what sam bumps into pretty girl, she invited him up to her apartment after he spins a story about dean wanting to move. fun times.
where uhhh. some street.
when today.

SAM·· Leaning back on the car he and his brother shared, Sam had a take-out cup of coffee in his hand and hazel eyes on the building in front of him. He hadn't had a dream for days, but somehow the building in front of him seemed familiar. It didn't look out of the ordinary compared to the rest of the apartments around, but for some reason... He had a vibe about the place. He couldn't say if it was a good vibe or a bad one, though, so he didn't move to go inside. Whatever it was, he couldn't see anything wrong right at that time, so he didn't really move.

He and Dean had come down to this particular neighbourhood so that Dean could visit his favourite coffee shop. He'd said that a friend had showed him the place and that they had amazing coffee, so Sam had just followed without a care. That was, until they passed that building. Since their run-in with Progo, the boys hadn't really seen much supernatural action, but Sam couldn't help but notice that this building was different from the rest.

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Sam pushed away from the dark green of the Chevy Impala. Dean had headed home to check if there was anything up with that particular building on the internet while Sam headed back to check out the physical thing. Whatever it was, it wasn't all that important yet, he guessed, and so moved towards the front of the car. And bumped into someone on his way, good job, Sam. "Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized, lifting his eyes to whoever he'd bumped into.

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Proginoskes never had any doubts about how odd he looked in terms of life on Earth: there was no species that quite resembled a giant ball of wings with more eyes than any creature ever needed. Birds came close, but no birds ever breathed fire. He'd taken to wandering around invisibly, just to save himself the trouble of dealing with people staring at him. It was a very uncomfortable and off-putting thing to put up with, even if he did have a habit of staring, himself.

There was a certain element of chaos in the City that hadn't been there before. He didn't quite understand it - surely, without all of the metallic distractions humans had made for themselves, they could actually try and think about what they were, and what they should be doing.

Progo was a bit ruffled. It was the only explanation for why he suddenly materialized inside what appeared to be a bar. It was certainly crowded. Alcohol seemed to be popular when things went badly. One moment, he was hovering around next to the bartender, staring at the variety of bottles lining the wall and taking in all of the colors.

Then someone was pointing at him, and then he realized he wasn't invisible.

The pointing and staring was followed by a moment of shocked silence, and then, probably, the realization that he was actually a real creature. Then the screaming started, and the panic. The bartender tried to smack Proginoskes with a baseball bat, but a wild, instinct-driven burst of flame took care of that. People ran out into the street. A few dropped to their knees and started praying, drunkenly. Most simply fled, babbling things about angels and demons and dragons.

Inside the bar, Proginoskes drifted over the barstools, feeling rather smugly proud of himself, despite the trouble he caused.

Silly humans.

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WHO; dean, sam & sara.
WHAT; Investigation of, several things.
WHEN; Uhm. Yesterday...
WHERE; Somewhere in The City :O

Investigating homocide cases wasn't really something you might expect a beautiful girl such as Sara might be doing for a living, but hey. There's always some sort of surprising quality about a beautiful girl. Sara had always been a good cop, and was especially fascinated by the inner workings of the police system. With her father's name in front of her, she'd been granted her wish of investigating the truly wicked and creepy.

Today was just another day on the job, though this case was a particularly messy-looking one. When she went in to see what had gone down, Sara had been surprised to feel a slight bit nauseous. The sole owner of the apartment had been ripped to shreds, to put it as settlingly as possible, like an animal had gone loose in the apartment and just gone ballistic on the guy. Thank God Sara wasn't religious, or else she might have had to say a prayer or two while checking the scene. Rest in peace, man.

Stepping outside the apartment building in her fine, but as usual sexy business suit, Sara glanced up at the crowd that had formed around the caution tape that kept them away from the crime scene. It was always like that, though, and she didn't seem phased by those who were curious and concerned about the recent murder. She stopped at her patrol car, tossed hair from her features, and started to pull at her rubber gloves. They'd been thorough in their search. No need to keep those on with the amount of evidence they'd picked up; or lack thereof.

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Sam had finally convinced Dean that they should sleep for the night, before they went running around trying to figure out where the hell they were. He didn't sleep very well, at all, maybe a few hours all together, between him waking up and tossing and turning. It was nine, now, and he was staring at the ceiling. There were no cracks to count. No strange stains to wonder about. Those things were comfortable to him, which would probably sound weird to someone else, but when you've been living out of motels for the last nine years of your life, your comforts seem to change.

Sam was still sleep, which was a good thing, so he wouldn't spoil that just yet. Instead, he got up and found his way to the kitchen. Standing in the door way for a second or two, he yawned and ran a hand over his head before walking in. He looked back and forth over the cabinets before he reached for one. Where's the coffe? Dean dug around, cabinet after cabinet, getting more and more frustrated the longer it took his to find his addiction. He was quite sure now that he had died and gone to Hell.

But he doesn't give up that quickly. He moved to what looked like a pantry and continued his hunt there, swearing to himself when he hit his head on a shelf. For all he knew, Sam could have gotten up earlier and hid the coffee on purpose! "That little Bastard," he said quietly to himself, hitting his head again, and giving it a bit of a rub before calling. "Sammy!"

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who dean & sam.
what their arrival :D!
where some random highway, and then the city.
when whenever your heart wishes it to happen.

Trying to keep his eyes open, since, you know, he was driving, Dean kept his eyes on the rising sun in front of him. He'd been driving for hours after getting a tip from their dad, and hoping he would be somewhere in the area, too. Reaching to turn up the radio, in hopes that the loud would keep him awake, since he didn't have any coffee.

Sam had been passed out beside Dean for hours, forehead smooshed against the windshield and his mouth hanging wide open as he slept. The gentle lull of the radio that had been playing so quietly before had been boring, but when paired with one of Dean's drone-worthy stories? Recipe for sleep. It was one of the rare times that Sam had really gotten much sleep, let alone sleeping without dreaming of Jessica, and so the sudden jerk of loud noises from the radio disturbed the poor guy's slumber.

Twitching violently as he awoke, Sam blinked, sat up straight and rubbed at his eyes. "Where are we?"

"Sure ain't Kansas," he said, turning to his brother with a grin. When he saw that he didn't buy his super lame attempt at humor, Dean turned back to the road. "You sleep alright?"

Sam passed on laughing at Dean's attempt of a joke, instead clearing his throat and blinking some as he rearranged his sitting position. "Yeah," he nodded some, glancing out the window. "How long was I asleep?"

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Backtracking down what Sam thought were the same streets he'd just traveled wasn't helping. Especially since the streets kept shifting, as if mocking him, taunting him with the fact that he'd managed to lose his brother so easily. It had taken only a moment to look over and realize Dean wasn't there any more. Gun at the small of his back, and God [and Dean] only knew how many more in the backpack he carried, he still didn't feel a bit safe walking down the streets, trying to avoid any passageway that sounded as though the gunfire was getting louder.

There were a lot of bodies. It didn't bother Sam that much. He'd seen victims of supernatural attacks come off looking a lot worse that a gunshot wound to the face could do. The only one that got to him was the blonde woman lying crumpled at the entrance to an alley. She probably didn't look at all like Jessica, but Sam saw her face imprinted on the dead woman's anyway. He hurried off in the other direction, completely unsure of where he was going, only knowing he had to find his brother.

He pused at a movement nearby. Person? Animal? Instinctively his hand went for the small of his back and he waited to see who or what it was.

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She had taken to wandering the corridors of Wayne Manor in her night gown, waiting for whoever had been using her father's bookmarks to come home.

Instead, she had found herself face to face with an Alfred that was nearly two decades younger than she remembered him. She'd also seen a side of Alfred she never remembered seeing-he'd demanded to know who she was, and had all but physically thrown her out of the house when she'd told him.

And so, the cab that had been paid for pulled to a stop in the center of the unfamiliar city, in front of what looked to be a motel. She climbed out, shouldering the black duffel bag she had insisted on taking with her-the few remaining vestiges of her life, which included her suit and a small collection of weapons.

She stopped at an ATM machine outside the motel, trying her card. At the very least, her bank account seemed to be in tact, as her pin number worked and the machine spit out a small pile of bills. Enough to ensure that she was taken care of for the next two weeks, just in case, well, just in case her bank account disappeared too, as everything else that was familiar seemed to have.

She quickly stowed the bills inside her left boot, leaving just enough in her pocket for the motel room and some food. She went inside and checked in, making her way to the motel room and sitting for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts.

Last night, she'd been in her bed at dad's house, which she'd inherited two months ago. She certainly hadn't wanted the house. It held too many memories.

But she hadn't been able to bring herself to move, either.

She'd spent the last two months guarding the city with a growing intensity, bordering on obsession. As though taking up Dad's old mantle would somehow make up for the fact that he'd given his life because of her. Because of her lack of honesty.

Or perhaps taking on the role her father had been so unhappy to find her in was her way of lashing out at him, post-mortem. Her last rebellion against a man who had spent his entire life holding her at arm's length, moreso when she had needed him the most.

She sighed, changing from the nightgown she had been wearing into her costume, placing a mask on her face.

She found herself thinking back to the Mansion, to the man who, no doubt, accompanied the butler. Alfred wouldn't have expelled her unless he was protecting yet another occupant.

The original occupant, no doubt. Or, rather, the man she would always think of as the 'original' occupant, as she hadn't had the chance to get to know her grandparents or great-grandparents, etc.

Dad?

No, not exactly. And yet, she wondered if she would somehow find some resolution in seeing him, speaking with him.

Apologizing for the secrets she'd kept, for the fact that she hadn't been quick enough, or strong enough, or good enough to help him in the end.

Perhaps if he were able to forgive her, then she could move on. Maybe even, if... somehow, he was a version of her father from the past, she could prevent it from happening.

She shook her head, attempting to clear the thoughts. Now was not the time. What mattered now was finding out as much as she could about this city. She quickly stowed her collapsible crossbow in her boot, along with a few other weapons on her belt, and then climbed out the window, using a grapple hook to exit the balcony onto a nearby fire escape, climbing it to the top of a building and stopping, surveying the city. Nothing but twinkling lights and buildings that were a blend of the familiar and unfamiliar. She watched, blinking as, suddenly, a few of the buildings changed. Just like that, they were gone, new ones in their place.

She shook her head, as though to clear the hallucination, and then looked again. Nope. There it was again-another part of the city was moving.

She retrieved a small pair of night vision binoculars from her belt, looking through them, attempting to see beyond the buildings. The city itself stretched for miles, but beyond the mass of concrete skyscrapers, there was a dense wood-like nothing she'd ever seen, really. Certainly not like the woods she'd went to on a camping trip for school once when she was younger.

At this point, she was all for chalking this all up to one incredibly realistic dream. Or nightmare, for that matter.

And so, for the time being, she'd go along with it, and sooner or later, she'd hopefully find herself back at home, in her bed.

But the question was-did she really want that to happen before she got the chance to talk to this world's version of her Dad?

Attempting to again push that thought of her mind, she leapt from building to building, occasionally stopping to survey the city, still completely baffled by the mysterious changing of the buildings, and hoping that the motel she'd just shelled out for would still be there when she returned.

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Dean glanced over at Sam as the Impala sailed passed a sign reading Seattle - 15 miles. His little brother was finally sleeping after hours of tossing and turning in the passenger seat, sometimes only getting rest one hour at a time, woken by nightmares far too frequently. Sighing heavily, Dean rolled his head, trying to loosen the kinks that eight straight hours of driving had put in his neck and shoulders. Not long now. They should be hitting Seattle not long after sunset, the last place Dean had even heard a whisper of their father's presence.

Not that he'd be able to tell when the sun set. It had been grey and overcast all day, the clouds getting steadily heavier and more oppressive the further north he drove. And now a thick fog was rolling in across the highway in a way that made Dean swear as he flicked on the high beams. He hoped he didn't miss their exit.

A half our later Dean was swearing again.

The fog had rolled out, replaced by a miserable light rain and Dean had no idea where the hell they were. He checked the map he'd pulled from the glove compartment, then looked out at the city before him. This was not Seattle.

"Son of a bitch." He tossed the map into the backseat, then crept the Impala down an unfamiliar city street. A few more minutes of aimless driving and he finally saw something that resembled a motel. Right now he needed to get his bearings and Sam--he looked voer at him once more--Sam needed a real bed.

He nudged his little brother to wake him. "Rise and shine, Sammy."

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Who: Dean and Sam Winchester
When: Immediately after this
Where: On the phone/at Stanford
Summary: Sam needs his big brother.


Sam held his phone for far too long before he even opened it. He hadn't spoken to Dean in so long, and then when he showed up just the other day, Sam didn't have the courtesy to help him go look for their missing father. He didn't have the right to all and ask for his help now, but there was nothing else he could do. He needed his brother and call he could hope for was that Dean was more willing to come for his younger brother than Sam was to go cross country looking for his estranged father. Sam stared at the phone and finally hit five, and held it. He'd still never taken Dean off his speed dial. Biting his lip, he waited as the phone rang.


Speeding down Route 101, doing a comfortable 80 mph and listening to some Metallica to keep him awake, it took a moment for Dean to hear the chirp of his cellphone over James Hetfield's hard vocals and tearing guitar riffs. Eyes on the road, he felt for it on the passenger seat and flipped it open, bringing it to his ear without checking the caller ID. "Dean Winchester. Talk to me."

Sam swallowed hard over the rush of relief at the sound of Dean's voice. He was half-worried his brother wouldn't answer. His voice stuck at first so there was a definite pause before he said, slightly choked, "Dean, it's me."


The Impala didn't swerve. Simply because Dean was too stunned to move. His knuckles went white for a moment around the wheel before he forced them to relax. "I think I can honestly say you're the last person I expected to hear from. And that's including Dad." He couldn't resist the the dig, voice laced with a bitter amusement.

Sam winced, just a little, at the tone. He wouldn't have had Dean actually been standing there. "Look, I know. And I'm sorry. This is out of the blue and I know you were just here, and I said I wouldn't go..." Sam griped the phone tighter. He was not doing well keeping his voice even. "Dean, something happened. It's Jessica." Sam exhaled slowly, feeling the tears threaten. He set his jaw to put them off. "She's dead, Dean."


This time the car did swerve and Dean pulled over to the side of the road before he killed himself. He wasn't there long, however. He spun the wheel and made a U-turn in the middle of the highway, Impala bumping its way over the grassy median before straightening out on the blacktop heading in the other direction. He was already on his way back to Stanford before he said with deceptive calm, "I'm sorry to hear that. What happend?"

Sam heard the screech of tires and forcibly loosed his grip on the phone before he snapped it in half. He didn't even bother to hide the complex emotional sound of his voice when he said, quietly, "She died like Mom, Dean. I woke up and she was dead."


"Shit." Dean's eyes closed briefly. Sam had been spared any memory of their mother's death and Dean had considered it a blessing. But to have his brother go through this, knowing the pain and the horror of seeing someone you love die..."I'm sorry, Sammy," And this time he sounded like he meant it. But he wasn't going to tell him he was on his way, wasn't going to until Sam actually asked him to come.

"Dean," Sam's voice was quiet again. This wasn't easy to ask, but there was nothing else Sam could do. He needed his brother. Simple as that. "Could you come back? Here, I mean." His words were carefully devoid of the amount of sincere need he felt.


"I'm two hundred miles away, Sammy." He sounded put out, but he followed it immediately with, "Be packed and ready to go by four." There was nothing he could deny his brother when he was like this, sounding like he was barely holding it together.

Sam certainly was only barely holding it together, especially now that Dean was on his way, even after Sam had refused something he knew even the second he closed the door that he shouldn't have. "Thanks, Dean. Really." That was about all he could say. His brother was coming. That's all that mattered.


"It's what I'm here for, buddy boy. I'll see you soon." He hung up before Sam could say anything more or thank him again. Foot heavy on the pedal, Dean sped down the highway, pushing over a hundred the entire way.

Sam closed his phone and shoved it back in his pocket. He was still outside - hadn't gone back in yet. He exhaled and pushed open the door. Dean was coming. Sam needed to pack. He wasn't going to stay here any longer.


Dean was doing twice the city limit when he finally pulled up in front of Sam's place, Impala screeching to a halt in front of the small apartment building. He cut the engine, taking a breath before climbing out of the car and looking at his brother over the top. Sam, quite honestly, looked like crap. "You look like shit." Dean wasn't really one for warm reunions.

"How'd you expect me to look?" Sam retorted shortly, stepping away from the building, dragging his bags with him. At least his hands hand finally stopped shaking. His expression was anything but pleasant, his voice strained and tired, but the relief was eveident in his eyes the moment they landed on Dean. He opened the back door, not even bothering to go for the trunk and shoved his things inside. "I've got everything I need here."


A shrug was Dean's only reply. There really was no way he could answer that without either sounding like a complete dick or losing it just a little; during the drive down, worry had been steadily chewing his nerves up inside and now...Now, it almost hurt to look at Sam. His little brother was putting on a strong front, but it had never fooled Dean when they'd been younger and it certainly didn't now. "Come on. We're a few hours behind now, but we still might be able to hit Seattle by dinnertime."

The feeling when Sam slid into the car was almost indescribable. It was joyriding at night when Dean wasn't supposed to be using the car. It was old worn leather, creased under and behind him, slightly cold from his absence. It was memories of Dean, from happier times, when things weren't complex. Before Sam left everything behind to try to be normal. "Floor it. I've got absolutely no need to linger."

Sliding back into the driver's seat, Dean gave Sam a long searching look before gunning the engine and stomping down on the gas, leaving Stanford behind with a squeal of tires and the smell of burned rubber.

Who: Sam Winchester and the anthropomorphic personifcation of Death. ^__^
When: Err... yesterday-ish?
Where: Sam's apartment near Stanford U.
Summary: Things have to come to an end before there can be a new beginning.


For the briefest of moments, Sam thought it was a dream. Why wouldn't he? He'd been having them for several nights now. But this time, when he didn't jerk out of his horrible nightmare to curl around Jessica's sleeping form, when he moved to hold her and the bed was empty and cold, and the body still pinned to the ceiling above his bed, he knew. This was no simple nightmare. Jessica was dead.

The ceiling was rapidly catching fire now, spreading across and down the walls, and Sam was frozen in horror, trying desperately to find a way to save her still, even as her now lifelss form ceased mouthing the words they'd been trying to say. He had to get out. It had happened again, but this time neither Dean nor their dad was there to save him.

She was standing in the corner of the room, waiting quietly. The boy didn't see her, but the living rarely did unless they wanted to. The girl was speaking to him, saying words that he couldn't hear. Death stepped forward as Jessica's struggles ceased, and gently pulled the soul away from the now useless body.

Death held her shoulders while Jessica coughed, rubbing the girl's back until her body realized it wasn't in pain anymore. Jessica held on to her until her breathing evened, then ceased. "Will you tell him?" she asked Death. "Tell him what I said?"

Death shrugged lightly. "That's for him to figure out, dear. But he'll be okay. He's a smart one."

Jessica sighed lightly. "I always wondered what comes next."

Death smiled warmly. "Now's when you get to find out."

It took the sudden penetrating sound of the fire alarm to jerk Sam out of his stupor. He managed to roll aside to avoid a piece of ember falling from the ceiling just to Jessica's left falling mere inches from his cheek. As he lunged for the fire extinguisher, he thought - just for a moment - something was there. It was at the corner of his eye, maybe... He whirled to try to catch it, but there was nothing there. No one.

Jessica looked at Sam reaching for the extinguisher, and blew him a kiss. "Will I ever see him again?" she asked the dark-haired woman standing beside her.

Death just smiled again. "You'd have to ask my brothers about that. It's time to go, Jessica."

Jessica nodded. "Alright." Death stepped close to her, wrapped her arms around one another, and there was the soft sound beating wings. Then her arms were empty, and Death, alone, looked back at the smoke-filling room, moving towards the exit.

Sam turned at the odd sound. It sounded... like the beating of soft feathery wings, like a bird. Or an angel. Tears were clouding his eyes, both from the smoke and emotion, so he wasn't sure if he could trust what he saw - the shape of a body, moving through the smoke, towards the exit. "Wait," he yelled and immediately started coughing, choking on the smoke. He dropped to a crouch and was sure he caught sight of heeled boots - the kind that made feminine clicking noises on hardwood flors. His floors were hard wood. These shoes weren't making that noise.... Maybe that was just his imagination. He tried again, inhaling the fresher air towards the floor. "Stop! Wait!"

It wasn't in her nature to follow orders, but she did like people enough to listen to requests. And Sam seemed like he needed someone to talk to right now. So she stepped back a little further, moving out of the range of the smoke for his benefit, and halted.

Sam practically flung himself out of the room, still gasping from lack of air. He didn't notice the tears streaming down his cheeks, just the woman standing there. In his apartment. Someone he'd never seen before. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" His voice was a little high, hysterical. No one could really blame him for that, nor for his suspicion of the stranger. How did she get in and why the hell was she even there?

"I was supposed to be here." She put a hand to his shoulder, not quite touching him, but to guide him towards the outer doors. "You need fresh air. Come on."

"You what?" But he followed, not arguing. He needed to just... get away. Now. And if she was offering, he was accepting. Once outside the room, he eyed her with far more suspicion than inside the apartment. "What do you mean you were supposed to be here?"

Questions, questions. What was the human preoccupation with wanting to know before wanting to breathe? "Sam, you're not going to get far with all that crap still in your lungs. Come on, work on breathing first." She patted his back. "No point in passing out from carbon monoxide poisoning."

"I'm breathing fine. If you didn't notice? My girlfriend just caught fire and now you're here saying you were supposed to be here..." Sam coughed again, and would have had a sheepish look - she was completely right about that whole breathing thing, obviously - had something not occurred to him. "You didn't answer my question. What do you mean you're 'supposed to be here'?" His eyes narrowed. "And how did you know my name?"

"You're not breathing fine, and if you're too stubborn to admit it, then at least pretend I'm being a terrible person and refusing to answer your questions until you get outside and have more oxygen than carbon in your bloodstream." She started leading him out again. "Get your thoughts together, prioritize your questions, and you can ask them after the air problem is cleared up."

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again, this time waiting until they were outside the apartment building, not just outside his room. "There. Outside. Now will you answer my questions?"

She waited a moment, making sure the wheezing was gone from his airways, and shrugged. "As much as I can. Got them all in order in your head?"


Sam eyed her suspiciously again. "Yes. Who are you? Why were you supposed to be here? How did you know my name?" That was a start at least.

She tilted her head just a little, a touch of a smile on her lips. "Sam. Come on. You know who I am." The answer to that one question, would give the answer for them all.

Whoa. That niggling little suspicion came back as full on certainty. Sam forcibly stopped himself from taking a step back. She was supposed to be there. Because... because Jessica had died. "You... you're. Oh. You're." Oh, profound. Then again what did one expect when he just watched his girlfirend die and then came face to face with Death it- er... herself... apparently.

She nodded. "That's right." Death quirked a brow. "Feeling better? You're not straining to breathe anymore."

Breathing well? Check. Feeling better? Hell no. Sam suddenly found himself wishing Dean were there. He shoud have gone with him... "No, I cant say I'm feeling better. Jess... You..." He swallowed and tried again. "What happened to Jess? What... what did that do her? Was it you?"

"No," she said. "I only helped her afterwards." She laced her fingers together, waiting to see if he had any more questions or accusations. It wouldn't do for her to console. Once you started that habit... it had taken two hundred years to break, last time. It just didn't do anyone any good.

"But you do know what did it." It wasn't a question. "And my mom too."

She had to nod her head. "Yes. I do."

"And I'm going to guess you can't - or won't - tell me." Sam felt oddly detached from the conversation.

She shrugged lightly. "Sorry. Wish I could help." She looked up brightly. "Maybe your brother can help. I think he's looking for you. You might want to try and find him."

"I know he is." Sam shifted and pulled out his cell phone. Time to call big brother. "Listen... I don't expect people really thank you very much for what you do. But if you made it easier... then I do thank you. For both of them." He had to leave now. For some strange reason, he really didn't want to cry in front of Death.

She smiled, and it was a real smile, grateful and just a touch sad. "You're welcome," she said. "Take care of yourself, Sam. I'll see you again." She turned and started to walk away. After a few steps, she was gone, as though she'd never been there at all.