Chapter Text
Sophie was only sixteen.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had been alone for so long.
John usually came at the start of every month to check on her, spending a night fixing burnt-out light bulbs, paying the landlord, inspecting all the locks on the door, and leaving a card each time with a different name.
Sophie had gotten used to that routine from the very beginning. That was her life, and she had learned to accept it because she knew she wouldn’t have anything better than that.
But now… it was already the fifteenth, and John hadn’t knocked twice, waited, and knocked again like he always did.
Money wasn’t a problem. Sophie had learned to manage two years ago, when John’s cards were canceled and she was considered too old to receive so much help.
The real problem was the loneliness—the feeling of being left completely alone, forgotten by the only person who even remotely cared about her.
Sophie had no friends, no siblings, no uncles or aunts—at least, none who knew about her.
There was no one to knock on her door.
All she had was John, once a month, looking her over and saying:
— Take care, kid. I’ll be back next month.
That was all she had. The only real, fixed routine she had ever known. And now… it was gone.
Sophie slammed her notebooks shut and ran a hand over her face, exhausted. She got up and walked determinedly to the dresser where the small TV sat. The room was silent, lit only by the dim glow of the lamp, which cast long shadows across the walls.
She picked up the old phone John had given her.
“Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency, Sophie. Only use it if you’re in danger, did you understand me?”
Her father’s words echoed in her head, cold and authoritative, just like he always was.
Sophie had always obeyed. No matter how alone she felt, no matter how scared, she had never called. She had never disobeyed.
But now… something was wrong. And she was afraid something might have happened to her father, that maybe he was out on a hunt and…
Sophie shook her head nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She didn’t want to think about that.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. No one answered.
— Hi, this is John. Leave your message.
Sophie bit her nail hard and flopped onto the couch, already dialing another number.
— Hi, this is John. Call again only if it’s an emergency.
— Hi, this is John. I can’t talk right now, call me later.
— Hi, this is John. Leave your name and what you need.
— Hi, this is John. If it’s an emergency, call again.
Each message hit her like a punch. She bit the corner of her finger until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. Her heart raced.
She dug deep into her memory. John had made her memorize all of those numbers. Every single one.
There was only one left.
Sophie took a deep breath, dialed, and waited.
…
…
…
— This is John Winchester. If it’s an emergency, call my son, Dean, at the number…
Sophie froze. Her reflection in the turned-off TV stared back at her—a girl with wide eyes and a panicked expression.
Dean. Dean Winchester. John’s other son, her older brother.
Could she call? Would he answer? Could he help? Would he even believe her?
Sophie spiraled for long minutes, the phone heavy in her hands. Her chest ached, her stomach twisted. Finally, with a nervous sigh, she pushed aside all the anxiety and dialed the number. She put the phone to her ear and closed her eyes, biting her thumb.
…
…
…
— Hello? — Dean’s deep voice came through, impatient, harsh, tired.
Sophie held her breath.
— Hello? Who is this? — he repeated, even firmer.
She forced her trembling voice out:
— H-hi… this is Sophie. Sophie Williams. I… I’m trying to reach John Winchester. Your voicemail said to call you if it was an emergency.
There was a pause on the other end. But Sophie could hear his heavy breathing.
— Who is this again? — he asked, suspicion thick in his voice. She could hear footsteps, the floor creaking under his shoes, and a distant voice calling something she didn’t understand.
— Sophie Williams — she said, trying to steady her voice, though every word shook.
— I tried all of John’s numbers. None of them answered, and I… he was supposed to come by this month… is he… is he okay? — her voice dropped, almost disappearing, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
— He… — Dean stopped, his heavy breathing cutting off the sentence. — John is dead. Don’t call again.
The line went dead. Silence pressed down on her like a weight. Sophie froze, her fingers clutching the phone, which now felt absurdly small and fragile. Her heart raced, her throat burned, and the world seemed to have stopped.
Her body felt heavy, the couch swallowing every inch of her. The yellow lamp cast long shadows across the walls, reflecting her image in the TV glass—a girl, alone, lost, with no one to turn to.
The air felt dense, each breath a struggle. She held the phone against her chest, closing her eyes, trying to process what she had just heard. The news hit harder than she could have imagined. And the loneliness… the loneliness now was total.