Fragments of Tomorrow (Supernatural Fanfiction Book 5)

Veil of Secrets

Sam's First Person Point of View

The safe house was quieter than usual, despite Dean being awake. There was a stillness in the air, a calm before the storm that made me restless. Everyone was relieved that Dean was finally stable, talking with Bobby one-on-one back in the infirmary, but for me, it felt like there was still a boulder in my chest. I needed air, space to think.

I had told Dean I'd be back soon and left him with Bobby. My boots crunched against the gravel road leading away from the safe house, the sound barely cutting through the heavy silence of the afternoon. I walked without a destination, just letting my mind drift. As much as I wanted to focus on the fact that Dean was okay—or as close to okay as he could be—I couldn't shake the unease gnawing at me.

Dean's been through hell. Literally. But this time, it felt different. Crowley's control over him had taken a toll that I wasn't sure he could shake. I'd seen the cracks forming before, but this...this was deeper. The worst part? I didn't know how to help him. That had always been my thing—fixing, solving, saving. But now, I felt like I was floundering in the dark.

I hadn't realized how far I'd walked until the landscape changed. The forest thinned, giving way to a park at the edge of town. A few benches were scattered around, mostly empty except for one. A figure sat alone, hunched over. From a distance, I could tell it was a woman. Something about her drew me in—like I'd been walking just to end up here.

As I got closer, I noticed her shoulders shaking. She was crying, trying to stifle it but failing. Her jet-black hair was cut short, styled in a mix between a pixie cut and a mohawk. The edges of her face were sharp, framed by strands of hair that barely reached her jawline. She wore a long-sleeve purple gothic dress that contrasted with her pale skin. Her legs were pulled up to her chest, and her thin frame made her look almost fragile.

I hesitated, unsure if I should approach. She looked like she wanted to be alone, but something pulled me toward her. Maybe it was the way her quiet sobs sounded too familiar—like the kind of pain I'd been drowning in myself. Maybe I just needed someone to talk to who wasn't family, wasn't part of our war-torn world.

I cleared my throat softly, so I wouldn't startle her. "Hey, uh, are you okay?"

She looked up at me, her hazel eyes red and puffy from crying, and for a moment, she didn't say anything. Her gaze flickered over me, probably sizing me up or deciding whether I was a threat. I stayed where I was, keeping my distance to let her feel safe.

"I'm fine," she muttered, wiping her eyes hastily with the sleeve of her dress. Her voice cracked, and it was clear she was far from fine.

"You sure? 'Cause, no offense, you don't look like it."

She sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion, then shrugged. "What's it to you?"

Her tone wasn't defensive, just...lost. I could hear it because I'd been there, too. Too many times. "I know what it's like. Feeling like everything's too much."

She studied me for a moment, then let out a soft, bitter laugh. "What are you, some kind of therapist?"

"Not even close," I said, managing a small smile. "Just someone who's been through a lot of crap too."

She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly, but not in suspicion—more like she was considering my words. After a pause, she spoke again. "I'm Raven."

"Sam," I replied, stepping a little closer. "Mind if I sit?"

She didn't answer right away but eventually nodded, sliding over to make room on the bench. I sat down beside her, the wood creaking beneath me. For a few minutes, we didn't say anything. The silence wasn't awkward, though. It was like we both needed it.