Fragments of Tomorrow (Supernatural Fanfiction Book 5)

Flickers of Hope

Jody's Point of View

I sit in the safe house's living room, staring at the muted TV screen. The room feels more like a waiting room than a home, and the weight of the silence is almost unbearable. My thoughts keep drifting back to Dean, lying in the infirmary. I wish I could do more, but right now, all I can do is wait and hope.

Every so often, I catch myself glancing at the hallway, half-expecting to see Dean come strolling in, like he's just taken a break from hunting and decided to come home. But the hallway remains empty, and the quiet only deepens the ache in my chest.

Ellen's been running on empty too, I can tell. She's been a rock for everyone, but even rocks crack under pressure. I've seen her worry lines deepen, her shoulders slump a little more each day. We've all been pulled into this whirlpool of despair, trying to hold onto hope even as it feels like we're losing our grip.

I get up and wander over to the kitchen, where Ellen is trying to make something edible out of what's left in the pantry. She's always been good at that—finding something decent to eat when the options are slim. But today, her efforts seem almost mechanical, a way to keep busy and stave off the gnawing anxiety.

"Need any help?" I ask, leaning against the doorway.

Ellen looks up, her face a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion. "Just trying to keep my mind occupied. It helps a little, you know?"

"I hear you," I say softly. "It's hard to stay still when everything's so messed up."

She nods, her eyes reflecting the same concern I feel. "We all want to do something. Anything. But right now, all we can do is wait and hope for the best."

I sigh and lean against the counter, feeling the weight of the situation settle on my shoulders. Ellen's right. We're all powerless in the face of this. It's not a good feeling, knowing that Dean's future rests in the hands of time and the efforts of those around him.

Ellen's Point of View

I'm stirring a pot of something that might barely pass as soup if we're lucky. The ingredients are sparse, and the flavor's not much better, but it's something to focus on. The mundane task is a small comfort, a way to keep my mind off the gnawing worry that Dean might never wake up.

It's a grim scene in the safe house these days. Each room holds its own echo of the tension that fills the air. Jody's been a steady presence, but I can see the strain in her eyes, the way her shoulders sag with the weight of our collective worry.

I can't shake the image of Dean lying in the infirmary, his face a ghostly pallor that's both haunting and heartbreaking. He's been like this for weeks, and each day feels like an eternity. It's hard to stay positive when you're faced with the reality of his condition, and it's even harder knowing that there's not much we can do besides wait.

Jody's been trying to help where she can, but she's also worn thin. We all are. The nights are the hardest, when the house is quiet and the only sounds are the occasional murmur of someone passing by the infirmary or the distant creak of the house settling.

I glance at the clock and see that it's well past dinner time. I should probably call everyone in, but the thought of seeing their faces—each marked by the same worry that's etched into mine—makes me hesitate. We've all been running on empty, trying to keep up appearances for Dean's sake, but it's getting harder and harder to put on a brave face.

As I ladle the soup into bowls, I feel a pang of guilt. It's not much, but it's all I've got to offer right now. I just hope it's enough to help keep us going through the dark times.