OPHELIA!¹, spn sister + dean x fem!oc

1.1 || what do they talk about?

chapter two.
phea is pronounced as fee-uh.
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1.1 || what do they talk about?
Alternatively known as: Pilot.

⛤

❛ The way Troy disappeared. . .something's not right. ❜
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BACK IN BLACK BLASTED THROUGH THE SPEAKERS. 

As much as Ophelia had let AC/DC grow on her, she couldn't exactly bear listening to the same song seven times in a row. A loud and prominent sigh passed her lips when she saw that they'd passed a signboard saying 'Jericho'. 

Sam was talking on his cell, pretending to be a Fed, Dean was doing what he loves to do— driving. Ophelia was. . . well she procrastinated in completing the math problems Sam forced her to do. The problems that were too easy for her were driving her crazy. 

A small— very small — part of Ophelia missed it when it was just Dean and her. Solely because he never made her do math problems. 

But he also made her keep a silver blade with her. 

"Alright, thanks." Sam nodded, flipping the screen of his phone down. "So, no one matches Dad's description at the hospital or morgue. That's something. . . I guess." 

Dean didn't reply. However, as the car revved over the tar of the road, the turn leading onto a bridge caught his eye, "Check it out." 

Both the younger siblings leaned forward in their seats — Sam just slightly, Ophelia leaning her forearms against the backrest of the front seat. 

Policemen and Feds littered the scene. Cars were parked carelessly. Shouts traveled through the air, and men in wetsuits ran around. 

As chaos ensued on the road in front of them, Dean pulled out a box from the glove compartment. He grinned as he revealed the components of the tin box — fake IDs of every agency with federal jurisdiction in the country: FBI, Centre of Disease Control, US Marshals — anything and everything they could name. 

Two IDs were picked out and soon the brothers were turning in their seats to give their sister a firm look — she was already looking at them with big eyes and a pout. 

"You are going to stay in the car." Dean enunciated every word as if she was a 2-year-old who hadn't heard the sentence a million times already. 

"B-But . . . I'm not a dog!"

"We know you're not," Sam sighed. "We just find it difficult to explain a ten-year-old tagging in on Fed cases." 

"Bring your kid to work day?" she suggested with a bright smile. 

"No!" the spoke in tandem, before the older one pinched the bridge of his nose, "Please, just stay in the car. We'll be back before you know it." 

She didn't get a chance to reply since they hurried outta the car and locked its doors. 

"Stay."

The pout made its comeback. She frowned and leaned her back against the door, her knees pulled in so that she could pull out her little sketchbook and place it on her thighs. 

Ophelia wasn't an artist who could whip up the perfect resemblance of what she thought she wanted to draw. Hell, she could barely draw a family picture with three kids without making it look like a family of dead cats. 

Scribbling images of the creatures she saw made her feel better, in a sense of speaking. She didn't know why, or how, but it made her feel like a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders.