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It comes out of left field. An afternoon when Dean's in some laundromat with Emma after dropping Sammy off to do some research, and Emma's sitting on top of one of the dryers totally disregarding the taped-up signs that say not to, and Dean can't really say anything to her about it because God knows he's ignored the signs enough times himself. She's playing Tetris on the old cell phone of Dean's that is now hers, at least until they get to the P.O. box in Missouri for the new cards that should be waiting there, and all of a sudden the phone starts to shake and buzz in her hands.
She frowns at it, and Dean does, too, from where he's hefting a load of his and Sam's jeans into the dryer. It's not like she knows anyone except Sam, and why would he call Emma's phone when Dean's is right in his jacket pocket? "Hello?"
She listens for a minute, her frown digging deeper. Then, wordlessly, she hands the phone to Dean.
Dean only has to listen for a few seconds before he's yanking their clothes back out of the machine, snapping at Emma to go get in the car.
- o -
The girl lies in the hospital bed like some sort of Sleeping Beauty. White-blonde hair fanned across the pillow, white skin so translucent Emma can see the veins the IV lines feed into. Dean catches his breath when he sees her, shoving past the nurse into the room, and in that moment Emma hates.
There's a man in the room, slumped in the chair next to the bed. He looks like the clothes they pulled out of the laundromat dryers half-done, crumpled and creased, even down to being covered in bloodstains. The worst ones are on his back; they still look wet, and behind Emma, Sam gasps, rushes forward. "Cas!"
"What happened?" Dean's demanding, and Sam's saying, "Are you okay?" and there's a rough, gravelly voice that must belong to the man, but Emma ignores them, looks back at the girl on the bed. Her eyes are open now, and don't they just finish the pretty picture, crystal blue despite the big bloodied bruise over one of them, looking blearily at the fuss going on next to her.
"Claire," says the gravelly voice, and they all whirl, crowd around the bed, and Emma slips outside the door, goes out into the hall and pretends to be considering the snack selection in the vending machine near the nurses' station as her blood rushes, hard, in her ears.
- o -
They spend a few days haunting the hospital until Claire--Claire Novak, Emma mouths to herself mockingly--is discharged. Emma doesn't know what's happened and no one bothers to tell her, so she doesn't ask, just stays out of the way as Dean spends hours holed up with the angel she's heard so little about, who refuses to leave Claire's room, and meanwhile Sam spends hours on the phone or his laptop, trying to get papers and custodies sorted out with Garth and some of his lawyer contacts.
There's a cashier who works the 3 to 11 shift in the cafeteria and lets Emma refill her cup of Diet Coke as many times as she wants, and outside there's a courtyard with a bunch of little secluded benches for the patients who are well enough to go outside but not well enough to go home. Emma spends a lot of her time there, wishing she had a Kindle or an iPad, rereading magazines from the pediatrics waiting room until she can tell you exactly when it's abnormal for a baby not to be talking, or walking, or making towers with two blocks.
It's on the second day that some old lady in a wheelchair rolls up to her while she's sitting there scowling down at a rumpled Better Homes & Gardens magazine and says, "Get outta here, kid. This bench is for patients."
"What're you gonna do to me, grandma?" Emma retorts, because seriously?
Except the lady runs over Emma's toes with her wheelchair and fuck, that hurts, but hell if Emma's moving after that. The lady locks her brakes and pulls out her Camels, staring all beady-eyed at Emma as she lights one up, and Emma stays sitting there stubbornly, trying not to blink or cough against the smoke or even to let her eyes stream. After a few minutes of this she starts to fantasize about snapping the woman's wrinkled neck, just doing it and leaving, but then the lady's saying, "Eh, you're a tough cookie," and stumping out her cigarette. "I guess you can stay."
The lady's name is Emily, which makes her laugh in gross phlegmy wheezes of laughter when she finds out Emma's name is Emma. She tells Emma she's in the hospital to die--"got my DNR filed and everything"--and says if Emma plays her cards right, Emily'll make sure to put her in her will, make her the beneficiary of all her Sudoko books.
"People keep bringin' 'em in, like it'll give me somethin' to do," she says, taking another pull from a fresh cigarette. " Am I gonna spend the last days of my life writing numbers in a buncha little squares? Is that what you'd do if you were dyin', kid?"
"Depends what I was dying of, I guess," Emma says, and Emily guffaws, likes that answer so much she extends her cigarette to Emma with one gnarled old hand and Emma takes it, takes a pull, pursing her lips the way she's watched Emily do.
- o -
Emily dies the next day, and Emma's in the room when it happens, the two of them watching some weird soap opera that kind of reminds Emma uncomfortably of her own family, or whatever it is Dean and Sam and Lydia are.
Maybe Emily knows it's coming, 'cause one minute she's nodding at the pack of Camels on the table next to the bed and saying, "You can have those if you want, kid," and the next she's leaning her head back into the pillow, sighing like she's tired. Emma lets her sleep, watches the next soap in the line-up, and it's not till its closing credits music plays that it registers, that she realizes--the old lady's not breathing, hasn't been for a while now. Her hand is cold when Emma touches it.
Emma creeps out of the room, taking the Camels with her, 'cause she doesn't know if there's some sort of protocol for being the last person to talk to someone alive, if they'll want to take her account, get a copy of identification she doesn't have.
Her hands are shaking, sort of.
Sam finds her in the cafeteria, cheek against a sweating cup of soda. His eyebrows crease in relief. "There you are. C'mon, we're heading out, Claire just got discharged."
- o -
From the hospital, they drive straight to Rufus' cabin. Sam rents a car, some kind of SUV with a huge backseat where Dean makes a nest for Claire out of more pillows and blankets than Emma's ever seen in her life. He's just as careful when it comes to lifting Claire up out of her wheelchair, carrying her to the SUV like she's something precious, his hand lingering on her head the same way it lingers on the angel's arm, beside him.
They drive together in the SUV, Dean and the angel and Claire. Emma rides in the Impala with Sam.
It's the first time she's ever been in the front seat.
- o -
Sam doesn't stay long. A few days, maybe, long enough to help them get Claire's follow-up appointments arranged, get the electricity working for the food processor they'll need to make Claire's meals for the next eight weeks, until the wires keeping her jaw shut get removed. Then he's back off to Amelia, and then there are three. Plus Emma.
There's not really much to do. Dean spends most of his time fixing up an old truck under the ramshackle carport outside, and the angel goes wherever Dean goes, and hell if Emma's going to join that party. Little Miss Princess still sleeps most of the time, a whole array of orange prescription bottles sitting on the nightstand next to the bed in the spare room that went to her by default of her being, well, beaten half to shit, and that's not why Emma's mad, it's not, but it's hard to not feel, like, less than human, when everyone else in the place gets a bed and she gets to bunk on the musty couch in the living room. The angel had suggested she sleep in Claire's room, and it's not like Emma would've agreed, but she'd rather not have seen the swift look her dad had sent the angel's way, like abort, abort.
"Fuck you, Dean," she says to her hands as she sits on the porch one afternoon. Tastes the words in her mouth, rolls them around. Says them again like maybe she wants someone to hear them. "Fuck you. " And then, because he always flinches when it comes up: "Fuck you, Dad."
There's a clink in front of her. She looks up, sees the angel standing a few feet away, a smudge of oil on his eyebrow and two beer bottles hanging in his hand. He stares at her.
Emma stares back. She feels suddenly terrified, like someone's sliced the tissue connecting her lungs to her throat, and now they're just sort of hanging there, heavy and pointless and filling with blood. And she's wishing she'd swallowed her stupid pride and asked Sam if she could go with him the way she'd wanted to, because the Winchesters are human, but Emma's not.
And Castiel is an angel.
"I'll scream," she says. "Dean's in the garage, he'll hear me."
But she knows if the angel's going to kill her, he can do it before she screams, much less before Dean has a chance to come running out of the garage. And a little voice inside her wonders if Dean would even try to stop him, wonders if this isn't secretly what he's wanted all along. Because otherwise he would've told Castiel who she was, by now. And Emma wouldn't have had to stare hard at the wall behind Sam's shoulder and not let her mouth tremble when Sam pulled her aside before he left, when he took her shoulder and said, "Dean hasn't told him yet. But he's going to. You just have to give him some time, Emma. Okay?"
No. Not okay.
The angel takes a step toward her, tilting his head. Emma's breath catches--and that's when Dean comes out of the lean-to, wiping his hands on a cloth, calling, "Cas, where's that bee--"
He cuts off when he sees them. The expression that flits across his face can't be anything but panic.
Emma takes one of the beers from the angel. "Cheers," she says, and takes a swig as she walks away, swings it at her side as she walks off into the woods.
But Dean's waiting when she pads back that night, trying to be quieter than the crickets buzzing in the darkness. He's slouched in the rickety Adirondack on the tiny porch, feet kicked up on the banister, glaring at his boots. He doesn't stand up when she stops at the edge of the yellow light thrown out by the open door onto the grass, just lowers his gaze to her.
"Had a good hike?" he says flatly.
"Invigorating," she retorts. The beer is still sour in her stomach, in her mouth. Here at the edge of the light, she feels like something kept out, like a wolf prowling a yard as the hunter sits on the porch with his rifle, waiting to shoot. His face is in shadow; all she can see is the gleam of light off his eyes.
"C'mere," he says, and she does, unwillingly. He stands up, comes down one step of the porch. Then he goes still, abruptly. "Is that smoke?"
Emma's hand curls, doesn't go to the pack of Camels in her jeans pocket. It doesn't matter; Dean's dark eyes are going there anyway, used to spotting concealed weapons from a mile off, much less a package she hadn't bothered to hide because she hadn't thought he'd be awake.
He comes a step closer. His voice is low, contained anger. "You've been smoking?"
Emma doesn't step back. "So?"
"So?" he echoes. "Jesus, Emma, you think we don't have enough to worry about right now with Claire? I don't need you pulling the emo teenager crap!"
A shadow falls across the light between them. For a minute, Emma's heart stops; she thinks it's Castiel. But it's too small, shuffling to the top of the porch steps; it's Claire.
Dean's stance immediately loosens. "Shit," he says. "Claire, sorry, we didn't mean to wake you--"
Claire looks at him. She can't talk still, the bottom of her face still purple and yellow from the surgery, but she raises a finger. Her middle one.
Dean laughs. It's an unknotting sound, relief. And affection.
Emma hates them both.
Claire goes back inside, point made. Dean glances back at Emma. She goes inside, to her sleeping bag on the couch, and puts her back to him.
She hears him sigh and, after a minute, pad quietly to the room he shares with the angel.
- o -
She waits until the cabin has been still and quiet for two hours. Then she slips out of the sleeping bag. Silently, she picks up her handed-down duffel from the corner where it's never been unpacked, and creeps out of the door to the porch.
There's a silhouette, sitting there on the front step.
Emma recognizes the smell, even as yellow seeps into her eyes to let her see in the darkness. Blood and metal. Claire's carving things into the creases of her elbows with one of Dean's knives, anti-angel sigils like the ones daubed across the cabin's window panes.
She looks up. Meets Emma's eyes. They stare at each other. Just try and fuck with me. I dare you. Emma's not sure whose eyes are saying it, hers or Claire's, just that it's a threat hanging between them, cold and narrow.
Emma doesn't look away first. Claire does. But she does it with a shrug like it doesn't matter, like Emma's not worth the effort. It pisses Emma off.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" she growls lowly as she shoves past her, making sure to jar Claire's bloody arm with her heavy bag, but then she's shrieking, holy shit, because there's a bloody knife suddenly sticking out of her boot, holy shit, holy fuck, you almost cut my toes off what were you thinking you stupid bitch--
And then the lights are flickering on and there's footsteps pounding to the porch and Dean's flying through the door, Castiel behind him, and his eyes take in Emma, take in the blood all over Claire's arms.
"What did you do?" he's shouting, already moving to grab Claire, to shield her behind him. "What did you do, Emma?"
"I didn't do anything," she shouts back, and he's shouting back at her that he's not stupid, Emma, look at Claire, what, am I supposed to think she did this to herself? and Emma's shouting yes, except she's not shouting so much as crying, tears blurring her vision, and Dean's still yelling, yelling, until a gravelly voice says, "Dean."
Dean stops. And that makes Emma cry harder, because she can talk till her throat is bloody and Dean still won't listen, but all the angel needs is one word.
Now he's saying something else to Dean in his rasping voice, but Emma doesn't stay to listen. She starts into the forest, striding at first, then running, bag bouncing stupidly against her back. There's a shout from behind her, and footsteps, but Emma doesn't stay to listen to those either. Just runs until the only sound is her own ragged breathing, and the dead leaves crunching under her feet.
Even then she doesn't stop.
- o -
Benny doesn't ask questions when Emma shows up on his porch. He just kicks open the screen door for her and says, "You hungry?"
She is. It's not like they serve snacks on the Greyhound, and the hike from town to Benny's wasn't exactly a picnic. The spread Benny brings out for them is, though: a bunch of Cajun things whose names she can't pronounce but that make him laugh when she tries, and by the time they're finished eating, it's dusk and the mosquito lanterns are buzzing outside the window screens. Emma's sweating under her t-shirt, a thin film just enough to cool her off, and Benny sits back in his chair, clasps his hands over his belly and studies her with his blue eyes.
"You gonna tell me what's goin' on now?"
Emma studies her plate, the grains of red rice in their congealing sauce, the bent tine on her fork. "I don't belong up there," she says. "I'm not--" She stops, takes a breath. "Can I just stay here for a few days, Benny? Please."
She doesn't look up. Doesn't think about begging Dean like this, about how her life keeps spinning around to this same point, like she's old food circling down a drain.
There's a creak as Benny pushes himself to his feet. "You know I always got room for you here," he says, and Emma blinks, bites her lip.
"Thanks, Benny," she mutters around the lump in her throat. "I owe you one."
"Nah, sweetheart." His hand rests on her hair, big and warm. "You don't owe me nothin'."
- o -
It's kind of like being in molasses, living with Benny. He's got a spare room for her, a bed with blankets that smell like frangipani, but most nights she falls asleep out on the screened-in porch instead, in the hammock he's got strung up. Benny doesn't make a fuss about her sleeping outside alone at night; he knows about the fangs behind her teeth and the yellow behind her eyes, and doesn't try to pretend she's something she's not by insisting she stay inside where it's safe.
She makes a token effort at looking for jobs that first morning, pulling out the listings in the newspaper as Benny makes breakfast, some mixture of eggs and bacon and green stuff that makes her stomach growl. But Benny slides the paper out from under her plate and hands her a faded old apron. It says Café Carencro on it, and it matches the much bigger apron Benny's pulling on, an hour later, when he goes behind the counter and into the kitchen at said café, leaving Emma to the shrewd eyes of some dark-haired lady whose nametag says Elizabeth.
Elizabeth sizes her up, fists on hips. "All I've got is part-time." She's got the same drawl as Benny. "Y'all okay with that?"
"Sounds good to me," Benny says through the cook's window, and just like that Emma's got a job.
The best part of working for Elizabeth, aside from watching all the men who strike out when they ask for her number with their check, is that Elizabeth lets her use the computer in the back office when she's not on-shift. "Maybe you can teach Benny how to use his," she says, and behind them Benny snorts. "Who needs a computer when you got fishin'?"
"You got a computer, Benny?" Emma says in interest, leaning against the counter as she waits for an order to be up. It's been a few days by now, and it's like the molasses has seeped into her voice, too, made her words slow and lazy, sprawling out and lounging on her tongue.
"Sure do, cher."
"What you use it for?"
"Match dot com," says Elizabeth as she passes, handing a plate to Emma.
Benny's all charm. "Now, what would I need that for when I got two lovely ladies right here?"
"For a lovely man," Emma says, grinning.
Benny winks. "Cher," he says, "what you think I'm friends with your daddy for?"
Emma laughs. She also doesn't talk much for the rest of the day, 'cause she'd been doing so good, pretending her daddy didn't exist.
Benny picks up on it, though, and when they close up that night, he puts his big hand to the back of her neck, shakes her gently by the scruff. "Let's go fishin', huh?"
- o -
"He wants to talk to you, you know."
Emma's doing the dishes. She'd told Benny that since she was staying with him for now, she at least was gonna do some of the chores, help earn her place.
"I ain't sayin' you gotta," Benny says. He's drying dishes as she washes. "I'm just tellin' you he wants to. He misses you."
"Can't miss something you don't like," Emma says, scraping congealed gumbo from a spoon.
"You ain't a thing, Emma."
Emma just grunts.
- o -
Benny really doesn't use his laptop for anything; Emma knows 'cause when she boots it up the first time, the room fills up with the smell of burnt dust that doesn't go away for the rest of the day. She starts taking it to work with her, to surf Elizabeth's wireless when she finishes her shifts. There was a TV show she used to catch on Friday nights sometimes, if they happened to be in a motel with decent reception, about a girl who was a genetic experiment created by the government. She's seen maybe five or six episodes total, and never had the opportunity to see it all from the beginning, but she tracks down the episodes now. The only place she can find them for free is some weird fan site she has to sign into and get a screen name for, which she's kind of leery about. But one thing leads to another, and another, until one muggy night when Elizabeth passes her, skimming a hand affectionately across Emma's hair as she goes, saying, "Careful there, girl, you gonna blow that computer up you don't give it a rest," and Emma blinks and sits back, realizing that it's dark and she's been arguing with the person in the fan site chatroom for nearly three hours.
"I don't get it," Benny says as they're walking home. "Y'all're arguin' over some TV show that ain't even real?"
"Benny, you're a vampire," Emma says. "What space you got to be talkin' about what's real?"
"Whoo, girl." He chuckles. "Elizabeth gone and spiced some sass right into you."
Emma hugs the laptop to her side. It's still almost uncomfortably warm, the fan not quite able to keep up with the Louisiana heat. "When're you gonna tell her, Benny?"
Benny slides his hands into his pockets, leans his head back. Considers the sky as he walks. "Don't think I ever am, baby doll."
"She'd wanna know," Emma says. "I'd wanna know."
Benny just hums.
- o -
fallenstar420, the user Emma spent three hours arguing with over why the Director was killed off, is pretty much always online. dont you have a life? Emma types one day, only to receive a swift retort: Well, aren't you a pot.
Emma frowns, not sure what that means, if it's a reference to something. It catches up with her sometimes, all the pop culture references she would understand if she was human and had grown up normally but doesn't because she isn't and she'd grown up in a compound learning how to speak Greek and kill people. Dean's especially good at reminding her of it, all his references to Hannah Montana or some man named Robert Downey. i dont get it.
You're online whenever I am.
what does that have to do with pot?
Pot calling the kettle black?
Emma makes a face. if you have to explain it, its not funny. She hesitates, then adds, lol
The answer is immediate. It wasn't supposed to be funny. It was supposed to draw attention to you being a hypocrite.
Emma blinks.
im on summer break, she types slowly, sort of wanting to leave the conversation now. i dont have anything better to do
Hypocritical *and* lazy, fallenstar420 replies. Impressive.
It kind of hurts. Emma's not sure if it's meant to, but she closes the laptop regardless. If there's anything that working at the cafe has taught her, it's that she doesn't have to take things she doesn't want to. People can dish shit, but she doesn't have to take it. Elizabeth had made that quite clear the first time a customer decided they could chew Emma out for their food not being what they'd wanted.
"Maybe if you'd a stopped talking on your phone long enough to place your order properly, you wouldn't a got whipped cream on your damn pie," she'd snapped at the businessman, hands on her hips as she stood in front of Emma, bristling. The whole room had gone silent when the man had begun to berate her for bringing his slice of pie with whipped cream on top, rather than plain the way he'd specified--except that he totally hadn't, just jabbed at the item on the menu when Emma came to ask what he'd like. "Get up to the cash register and pay your bill, I don't wanna see you in here harassing my people again, y'hear me?"
She'd beady-eyed him up to the counter, where Aaron was manning the register with a half-hidden grin, and once the door had shut behind him with a tinkle of the bells hanging from the handle, she'd grabbed Emma by the hand and dragged her into the noisy kitchen.
"Look here, baby doll," she'd said, cupping her hands around Emma's elbows. "It ain't spit or swallow around here, you got it? Somebody starts waving their dick around tryin' to choke somebody with it, you turn around and you ignore 'em till they go limp, you don't open up and take it, you hear me?"
It wasn't fair, Emma'd thought, that her eyes were burning because she'd really have liked to be able to laugh at the analogy Elizabeth was making. Instead, she'd just nodded, swallowing.
Elizabeth'd gripped the waist of her apron and shook her, gentle, then smacked a kiss on her forehead before smacking her butt and pushing back toward the door. "Now get back out there, sassafras."
And the thing is, Elizabeth'd maybe had a point. Because when Emma gets back later that night and opens the computer, there's a message waiting. It's dated from twenty minutes after Emma logged off, and fallenstar420's icon is green, indicating he or she's still online.
I'm sorry, the message reads. I was inexcusably bitchy to you.
Emma chews on her cheek for a minute. pple r usually bitchy 4 a reason--r u ok?
It takes a long time for fallenstar to respond. Emma's not that great at reading people, she knows, but she wonders if the other user is hesitating.
You have a point, comes the response finally. I'm unhappy with my current situation. It's made me unpleasant company.
Emma chews on her lip this time. being plsnt is hard
Another brief hesitation, then:
yeah
No capitalization this time, or punctuation, and it feels like the sudden disappearance of a wall. Emma quickly goes to Google and scrolls for a gif appropriate to the situation.
She pastes it into the window in lieu of a typed response and, a moment later, the speed feeling tentative, fallenstar sends one in reply.
They spend the rest of the night sending increasingly ridiculous gifs back and forth, until after a particularly good one of Alec in a kimono, fallenstar types, gotta go, talk to you later.
Emma may or may not go to bed grinning.
- o -
Their nightly exchanges become the norm, Emma sprawled on the hammock with the laptop in her lap, cackling as they type back and forth. It's not till Benny sticks his head out one night and says, "If you and your little friend're done chattin', I got dinner ready," that Emma realizes that's what fallenstar is. A friend.
Holy shit.
Benny raises an eyebrow when she flops down on the couch next to him after dinner. He's got The Bachelorette on, and Emma wrinkles her nose because she doesn't want to watch reality TV but she also doesn't dare go to where the laptop's sitting on the kitchen counter. "Don't you go gettin' commitment issues, now."
Emma huffs, deciding that doesn't dignify an actual response. She slithers off the couch and under the coffee table on her back, groaning when the next scene takes place in a hot tub. "Oh my god, are you serious?" she says. "How can you watch this stuff? I'm judging you so hard right now, Benny."
"Judge a little quieter," he says, toeing her in the ribs and turning up the volume with the remote. Emma groans again and rolls away from his foot, glaring at the coffee table leg. She hears Benny chuckle, and when the commercial break comes, hears him mutter, "Just like your daddy," loud enough that he clearly means her to hear it.
Emma glowers, shoves her feet against the table legs, listening to the wood creak. Then she rolls out from under the table and stomps across the room to grab the laptop, doing some muttering herself.
Benny doesn't laugh, but she feels his amusement on her back all the way to the porch.
- o -
fallenstar really likes Logan. He or she hasn't said so outright, but Emma's sort of gotten that vibe, based on their conversations and fallenstar's posts in the forums, which she's maybe read a few of. Just because she happened to find them, you know, not 'cause she went looking for them.
Emma doesn't see how anyone could like Logan better than Alec, and she says so, one night, after fallenstar writes a rather vociferous defense of Logan's work as Eyes Only. i know, she types, you probly like him bc ur both internet nerds who like girls way 2 young 4 u
Ha ha, comes the sarcastic response. Congrats on your unsubtle attempt to fish out my age and gender.
Emma grins. it was a little bit subtle
Keep telling yourself that.
dont worry ill like u even if ur an annoying 12 yr old
I suggest you take a look at your typing skills before accusing anyone else of being an annoying 12 y/o.
Emma's laughing. Sorry. I will type like this now. IS THAT OKAY
Have we reached the all caps phase of our relationship already? I THINK YOU MAY BE MOVING TOO FAST.
SORRY I PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE TAKEN YOU OUT TO DINNER FIRST
fallenstar420: [image of spaghetti and meatballs]
slicegirl13: [image of Cajun chicken pasta]
fallenstar420: [image of eggplant parmesan]
Then Emma sends a whole parade of pictures of, like, every mouthwatering food Benny makes at the cafe.
ugh i miss food so much
Emma pauses in her search for a picture of pecan pie that could possibly compare to the majesty of Elizabeth's. what do u mean?
There's a pause. Which always puts Emma on her guard, since it means fallenstar is filtering their answer. I've been kind of sick, comes the response finally. Haven't been able to eat a lot of things.
Emma squints at the computer. Suddenly fallenstar's identification with Logan is starting to make more sense, maybe. r u feeling better?
almost, fallenstar says. And sends a gif of an alligator flipping pancakes, so that is the end of that.
- o -
Elizabeth's got a son. He's five years old, and seems like a great kid, always drawing pictures of robots and talking about the solar system, but Emma keeps her distance, partly 'cause of herself and partly out of respect for Benny, 'cause she knows he's careful not to get too close, too, even with all his words about not being a thing. When it comes down to it they're still predators, they still hear heartbeats and rushing blood and think weak, think prey think about what place would be the best spot to tear into to draw the most blood, to draw the least.
Emma likes fallenstar because over the computer Emma doesn't get any of that. The only smell is wet wood from the evening thunderstorm and sautéed onions from dinner, the only sound the complaining whir of the computer when she's got too many tabs open at once. Like tonight, when she's just finished reading a fic fallenstar sent her that was set in Louisiana and had no geographical accuracy whatsoever. we dont have crocodiles here omg
Here? says fallenstar. You live in Louisiana?
Emma falters for a second, then barges on. It's not like fallenstar's gonna track her down to find her in person, their interaction is pretty much based on their mutual preference of internet interaction to the real life kind. yup, around Lafayette. why, u gonna look me up?
I should. You still owe me dinner.
Emma grins. dont u mean I STILL OWE YOU DINNER?
DESSERT TOO
BABY I'M DESERT
shit, dessert*
I'm glad you caught that. I would have had to abandon you as a friend, otherwise.
UGH YOU'RE SO MEAN
I'd probably abandon you in the desert.
There was another bing.
With no dessert.
Then another.
and a crocodile.
I HAT U SO HARD
HATE*
- o -
That conversation comes back to bite her in the ass, a few weeks later. Emma's just logged on when a chat window immediately pops up at the corner of her screen, flashing with fallenstar's icon.
Do you really live near Lafayette?
Emma bites her lip. why?
im in the area do you think we could meet up?
Emma's stomach is sort of twisting. This isn't what she'd wanted, this is never what she'd wanted, even if she kind of had. This is going to screw everything up.
are u still there? im stealing wifi rn
im kind of busy today, Emma types, and immediately feels bad, then even worse when, after a pause, fallenstar replies:
ok. um i know this is weird but do u know anything about carencro?
Emma's fingers hesitate over the keyboard. Then she's biting her lip harder and typing, where r u?
- o -
fallenstar is a girl. That's all Emma can tell from across the street, skulking behind a Ford parked on the curb to look at the person standing at the corner next to the blue mail box Emma had specified. She's probably a little shorter than Emma, wearing jeans and a hoodie despite the muggy heat, with the hood up, which is dumb, 'cause in a small place like Carenco it attracts more attention than it doesn't. She's wearing a backpack, looks stuffed pretty full, and Emma feels half uneasy, half protective, again. What is she doing? And what is fallenstar running from? Because she's pretty sure that's what this is. An escape attempt.
The torn feeling lasts until Emma's coming up beside fallenstar, clearing her throat to let the other know she's there. That's when fallenstar looks up, letting Emma see her face, and the blue eyes Emma sees make her see red.
"Fuck," she spits. "You bitch! Did they put you up to this?"
Claire's eyes are ablaze. "Shut up," she hisses.
"No!" Emma shouts. "I can't believe this!" She's so angry, so fucking angry, can't believe she was stupid enough to fall for this. To think that--fuck. Fuck.
"You idiot," Claire's hissing. "Do you want us to get noticed?"
Emma spins away from her. Then spins back as Claire's words hit her, as realization hits her. "Are you running away?" Her voice is half disbelief and all ugly. She laughs, dark.
"There you go being a pot again," Claire says coolly, all lofty and untouchable, and Emma's so mad she punches her in the boob.
"Ow!" Claire's eyes go wide, starting to water, and Emma feels fierce, vindicated. Then Claire kicks her in the knee, sending Emma stumbling, and she lunges at Claire, and Claire digs her fingernails into Emma's face and they're fighting, colliding with the mail box and the store window and stumbling over the curb, against the Buick Riviera parallel parked there. It's terrible, it's glorious, it's--
"Hey! Break it up!"
- o -
"This isn't how this was supposed to go," Claire says.
Emma glances over at her, gingerly prodding the stinging marks Claire's fingernails left on her jaw. The lady cop at the front had asked if she'd wanted an ice pack, but the deputy who'd brought them in had said Emma could suck it up until their parents got there to hear about the public disturbance they'd decided to put on.
Because that's what he's doing on the phone at his desk across the bullpen, right now. Calling their "parents." Whose numbers are conveniently located in the cell phone he confiscated from Claire under the Contact ID: In Case of Emergency.
"Stupid," Emma mutters under her breath. "Who brings their cell phone when they're running away? Using phone GPS to track you is like Dean's superpower."
Claire glowers at her. "Yeah, 'cause you're so good at running away," she says. Her voice is lower than the Disney Princess soprano Emma imagined in her head all those times at the hospital and then the cabin, and somehow that just makes Emma dislike her more. "Dean knew where you were two days after you got here. Way to fly under the radar."
Emma glares poison back because fuck you, Claire, she could've lived without knowing that Dean had known where she was and not tried to come find her, or make her come back. It's not like that's what she'd wanted, but...
"Fuck you," she mutters.
"Fuck you," Claire says back. Then: "Time to get out of here."
Emma glances over. Claire's got her eye on the deputy, who is now frowning as he talks into the phone, getting flustered...and totally forgetting to keep an eye on them.
Emma stands slowly. Claire follows suit, and together, they inch toward the hallway a foot away, since they're more likely to escape into it than get all the way across the bullpen to the front entrance.
It seems like a good choice at first. The hallway's fairly short, four doors on either side, with a water fountain at the end of the hallway, beside which is another door with an EXIT sign glowing over it. Emma makes for it, glancing behind them to make sure they haven't been noticed. They haven't, but suddenly one of the doors to their left is swinging open, a man's voice coming from inside of it, and Emma freezes, and so does Claire, because shit.
"--ally appreciate the help, Sheriff," Dean says as he steps out into the hallway in his fake FBI suit. "We'll let you--"
He stops short. His eyes go wide, then narrow, as he stares at Emma and Claire.
Castiel steps out of the room from behind him. He regards them for a moment, tilting his head, then turns back to the sheriff who's coming out of his office with Castiel. He'd been at the front desk when the deputy brought Emma and Claire in; he eyes them, now, with some amusement.
"Sheriff," says Castiel. "What are these girls doing here?"
"Well, now," says the gray-haired man, rocking back on his heels. "I believe we're waiting on their parents."
"As it so happens--" Dean doesn't take his eyes off of Emma as he takes his badge back out, "that would be us."
- o -
Emma wants to mutter at Claire that this is all her fault, but Dean and Castiel are right there in the front seat, and they'd hear her for sure. So she sighs, loudly, and stares out the window of the Impala, feeling kind of sick with how quickly she's ended up here again, in this backseat with the lingering scent of leather polish and grave dirt, Dean in the front seat with his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his glower like a weight in her gut.
It ain't spit or swallow around here, you got it?
She clears her throat. "You can drop me off at the next light."
Dean glances at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes are flinty. "I'm not dropping you off, Emma."
She makes a show of checking her watch. "I have a shift in like half an hour, Dean."
"That's too bad 'cause I'm not dropping you off."
Emma flares. "Why the hell not?"
"Because you're my fucking kid, Emma!" he flares back.
A finger wriggles under Emma's knee, jabs her hard under the tendon. Emma growls, whirls to look at Claire, who's looking out the window at the approaching red light. Just as the Impala pulls to a stop, Claire shoves her door open and takes off.
For a minute, all Claire can do is gape. Then, as Dean curses and wrenches the Impala into park and jumps out after her, she fumbles her own door open and takes off in the opposite direction, half laughing.
Because Claire is kind of pretty awesome.
- o -
All that work for nothing, though, because even though there's no Impala in sight when she gets back to Benny's, carefully easing the door open, there's immediately a hand on the scruff of her neck.
"Not so fast, princess," Benny says kindly, and swings her into the living room, where Dean's standing at the window with his arms crossed and Castiel's inspecting something on the mantle. Claire's sitting on the couch, and she gives Emma what might be a sorry, I tried look and shrug. Emma acknowledges it with a chin jerk that's only a little begrudging and slinks behind Benny, who gives her an amused look that says he knows exactly what she's doing. He goes along with it, though, says, "You gonna get our guests some drinks, Emma?" and Emma scowls at him 'cause she's not a housewife, but she heads to the kitchen because she wants Dean to see this, wants him to see that she belongs here, that she can belong somewhere, that she doesn't need him.
"It's good to see you again, Benny," she hears Castiel say in his gravelly voice as she pulls the pitched of iced tea out of the fridge. She's thinking so hard about how and when the angel and Benny could have met that she doesn't notice Dean's come into the kitchen until she turns around with the stack of glasses and the pitcher to take back to the living room.
She glares. He glares back, then opens his mouth like he's about to say something. Then he closes it and does that annoying thing where he swipes his tongue across it like he's soothing the bite he pressed into his lip to keep himself from talking. She knows 'cause somewhere along the line she picked up the same stupid tic, and even now after two months away she hasn't been able to get rid of it.
She pushes past him into the living room. Claire says, "Thanks," as she sets the glasses down on the table, though she doesn't take one, and Benny echoes her, but the angel just looks at her, head tilting the same way it did at the sheriff's office.
"You wanna stop staring?" she snaps. He just tilts his head further, and Benny laughs.
From behind her, Dean says, "He can't help it. Staring's kind of his thing."
"Not quite," says Benny with another chuckle. "Only seen him do it to you, before."
Emma ignores both of them and bares her fangs at Castiel. "This what you're looking for?" she says fiercely, and there's a shame that goes with it, hot and flooding up her neck, under her cheeks, baring her monstrosity in front of everyone, like when the matriarch had made her stand in front of the others and bare the spot on her scalp where a fontanelle had never closed, where her skull and brain were vulnerable, "spots like these, these are where you must always aim your attacks, my Amazons. Look for your opponent's defects and target them."
I am not defective, Emma had thought then, blinking back tears behind her curtain of hair as the Matriarch had the others come up, one by one, and press against the weak point in her skull. I am not weak. But it was how she'd felt, then, and how she feels now, as Castiel frowns at her.
"No," is all he says. Then: "Your facial structure is very similar to that of Dean's paternal grandmother."
Emma blinks. Catches herself glancing at Claire with a raised eyebrow, and stubbornly whips back around to concentrate on pouring herself a glass of iced tea. Silence settles over them.
Benny doesn't let it sit for long. "Anybody gonna start talkin'? Or we gonna have to call Mr. Fizzles up here to get things sorted out?"
Dean and Emma both make choking noises. "We do not need Mr. Fizzles."
"Seems to me we might," Benny says. He looks at Dean, who's gone back to leaning against the windowsill, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "You got two chickadees tryin' to flee the coop now, brother. You know I hold you in some real high regard, but seems to me that means it might be time to re-evaluate them parentin' skills a yours."
"Yeah, 'cause they exist," Emma mutters sarcastically.
"Seems to me the least you could do is give your daddy a chance, seein' as how he's called me to check up on you every day since you've gotten here," Benny says mildly.
Emma blinks again, then recovers. "Wasn't enough to bring him here, though," she tells her iced tea.
"I know when I'm not wanted," Dean tells the floor.
"So do I!" Emma snaps. "And you know what, I dealt with it! I dealt with it, Dean! But now you come here and for what? So you can yell at me? I didn't do anything wrong!"
"You left!"
"You wanted me to!"
"When did I ever fucking say that?"
"You didn't have to."
"You're right, I didn't. Because I didn't want you to!"
He's pushed away from the window and is ducking his head to make her meet his eyes, and she's biting her lip really hard, can't look at him, can't keep meeting his eyes, lets her gaze skitter away, sees Claire slipping into the kitchen with her backpack.
"Wh--" she begins, and looks at the angel. Castiel is still just standing by the fireplace, watching the doorway through which Claire has just disappeared.
"You!" Emma points at him. "What're you just standing there for?"
"She wishes to leave," the angel says. His face is expressionless, but there's something more in his eyes that are so much like Claire's. "I will not interfere with her desires."
"Ugh!" Emma shouts in frustration, and runs outside after Claire. The other girl hasn't bothered to run the way Emma did; she's just walking, calm as you please, down the edge of the road as Emma catches up to her.
Emma takes a second to catch her breath, falling into step with Claire. "Why're you leaving?"
Claire raises an eyebrow without turning her head to look at Emma. "Why did you?"
Touché, Emma thinks, and hesitates. After a minute, she works up the courage. "What did they tell you about me?"
Claire does glance at her, this time. "That you're stubborn like Dean. And dislike chili," she adds after a moment.
"I'm not human," Emma says bluntly.
Claire smiles. It's not a humored expression. "I was an angel's vessel."
Emma blinks. Because, um, not what she'd been expecting?
"Vessel? Like--?" She makes a motion with her hands that's probably kind of obscene.
Claire glares at her. "I was Castiel's."
Emma rubs the fingernails marks on her face. "That's fucked up."
"Yeah," is all Claire says. She's staring ahead again.
Emma elbows her. "You get your phone back?"
Claire casts her a perplexed look but pulls it out of her pocket. Emma huffs, mutters something like, "You didn't listen to me at all, did you," and slides out the Qwerty keyboard to send a text to herself with it. Then she takes out her own phone and texts something back to Claire's number.
Claire stops walking to read it aloud. "This is Pot."
Emma grins proudly. Claire rolls her eyes and types something. A minute later, Emma's hone buzzes in her hands.
Kettle speaking.
- o -
[epilogue]
Dean doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to stand all the texting pings coming from the backseat. Don't get him wrong, he's fucking thrilled that Emma and Claire came back to Benny's and announced they would be coming with Dean and Cas for now ("it's a trial run," Emma insisted), but seriously. He's going to go crazy.
"Oh my God," Claire says. "Can you please turn off your stupid texting alert. That is not a request."
"Why don't you just stop texting me," Emma snarks back. There's another ping. "Yeah, sending me a text telling me to turn it off is really friggin' mature, Claire."
"As your big sister, I'll try always to set a good example for you," and Dean almost snorts in laughter at that one, manages to catch himself at the last moment. In the passenger seat, Castiel is smiling into his coat collar.
In the backseat, there's a thunk as one of them kicks the other. Then another one as the kick is reciprocated. And a ping. "Stop!" Emma wails. "I can't figure out how to turn it off!"
"You're such a Neanderthal."
"Are you serious? You didn't even know what LMAO meant until I told you!"
"Dean," Cas says lowly. "What does LMAO mean?"
Dean shrugs. "Beats me, man."
"It's laughing my ass off," Emma says loudly. "Which is what Sam'll be doing when I tell him how you totally outed yourself to that sheriff when you told him we were your kids."
Claire lets out a laugh, and they all sort of blink at the sound, Dean even twisting to look before Emma screeches at him to keep his eyes on the road. "That was pretty priceless."
"Why?" The tips of Dean's ears are pink. "You guys got a problem with it? 'Cause--"
"The only problem I have is with your face," Emma says, and kicks the back of his seat.
And all is good.
- o -
slicegirl13: dude. i think this could b the start of a pretty good brotp.
fallenstar420: I believe the term used when it's female friends is HOTP.
slicegirl13: im not gonna b part of a hotp omg
slicegirl13: also don't capitalize it, it looks rlly dumb when u capitalize it
fallenstar420: HOTP
fallenstar420: HOTP
fallenstar420: HOTP
slicegirl13:
Links to the pictures used above: here, here, and here.
My dear friend loversforlycanthropes has written a piece of Claire/Emma goodness inspired by this fic called This Aching Soul, Forever Wild. Go check it out!