Damaged Goods

Morals, Who Needs Them?

Nightmares are a cursed thing. Anyone who says otherwise is a psychopath.

Though my ability to hide from my psychic dreams had finally found it's weakest link. Clearly, it withstood little against the force of Chuck. The Author gave these visions the push they needed to break through-probably for some plot development in His Books. That doesn't mean I liked it, just that I knew my own Free Will was weak when compared to the Will of an Author.

So that dream of Jim Miller being choked to death in his garage fucked up my night.

Yeah, it could've been Azazel that powered up the dream. Pitting the Psychic Kids against each other was his whole shtick. However, his power was still nothing compared to the Author Chuck Shurley. It's not rocket science! (Though rocket science only looks hard, but once you have a grasp on physics it's a walk in the park) In my eyes, that man was practically a God.

Jim Miller was in my dreams, as I said. Choking in his car on CO2 from his car. On one hand, murder was wrong. On the other...this was exactly the kind of murder I would send Darcy to complete. An abusive father, clearly with no signs of changing. Along with an abusive uncle. No 'right' way to morally feel right now.

That's...not a correct way to view murder.

Huh.

Okay.

Just another thing to hide from the Winchesters.

Easy.

==DG==

Anyway- all this was coming up when I woke up from a nightmare.

Sam too. Less relevant to me personally, but it's important to me that you know that.

It was jarring to wake up from something you thought you were safe from. Like, finding out you were sleepwalking again. Or sleep-cooking. I once cooked a whole dish of spaghetti in my sleep. Weird week, don't like talking about it. Still, I hadn't expected to have a psychic dream again. Nor did I ever wish too.

Sam, beside me on our shared bed (this room had no pullout couch, like, what the fuck?), was much worse for wear. He hadn't experienced a psychic dream that didn't involve Jess or his mom. At least I had experienced them before in this 'out of direct Winchester sight' way.

"Dean. Dean!" Sam called out.

Our brother sat up in his bed-("I'm the eldest-I get a solo bed." "Fuck you." "Fuck you too.")- immediately concerned. Though on seeing no danger, he relaxed. Only slightly. "What are you doing man, it's the middle of the night."

"We have to go." Sam warned him. He went off to gather his things/

I rolled myself off the bed, shaking off the exhaustion. It had been a rough week. We just survived a murder car, can't we get a brake?

Get it.

Get it- car-brake?

I'm hilarious when I'm tired.

Getting to my feet, I gathered my own things up.

"What's happening?" Dean asked, still groggy from sleep.

"Questions later. Moving now." I tossed Dean's duffel bag onto his bed.

Dean wasn't any more ready by that answer. He went along with it anyway, though.

In the end, it didn't matter how fast we packed. Max Miller would be dead by the time we made it to that town.

==DG==

The next showing off of my completely fucked up morals came when we went to investigate the witnesses at the Miller house.

How did we do this? Oh we dressed up as priests and a nun.