Turn the Page -Sequel to More Than a Feeling

Chapter 6

Ruthie woke the next morning feeling fantastic. Probably because she hadn't had to sleep on that damned lumpy sofa bed with crooked springs jabbing into her back and shoulders and hips and anywhere else they could reach. She dressed quietly in the bathroom, careful not to wake the boys. Back in the dim main room, she passed Sam's bed, where he lay on his back, sleeping peacefully. Walking past the sofa bed, she had to stifle a giggle with her hand. Dean was scrunched into a ball on the foot of the bed, half the sheets and blankets twisted around him, the other half spilling onto the floor.

Poor guy. She knew how he felt. She'd make him an extra special meal when they got back home. For now, she picked up his green jacket and gently covered his exposed back and arm.

She slipped out the door, closing it slowly and quietly. She'd enjoy the morning air while she walked to the bakery to get them all some breakfast.

But she didn't even make it into the parking lot.

The morning paper leered up at her, its front page shouting in all caps: "ANIMAL ATTACK."

She stared at it for a long moment before snatching it up from the concrete, and quickly skimmed the story. An RV park north of town, a man found in the woods, torn open, heart missing.

This was it. She'd spent months trying to avoid it, and now it had practically knocked on her door. She scanned the parking lot, the nearby road, the buildings, the trees. She didn't see anything, but she didn't feel safe anymore. The bakery could wait.

She eased the door open, went back inside, and sat on her bed, holding the folded paper in jittery hands. She ought to wake the boys right away. But she didn't. She needed to process this. What were the chances of a werewolf hitting this little town, while the Winchesters happened to be here? She desperately wanted it to be random, but she didn't believe in coincidence. No, this had to be their wolf.

Which meant it was ready now. It knew they were here. And it had announced its presence. It was trying to draw them out. Ruthie shuddered.

She knew it was stupid of her to worry about them. They'd been doing this for a long time before she'd come along. But she couldn't help it. Their job was so dangerous. She'd already had to treat their injuries a few times since she'd first sewed Dean up. She dreaded the day one or both of them would come home with wounds she couldn't heal. If they came home at all.

And this time was different. Usually, they were the hunters.

But the real reason she was sitting there in the dark, listening to their breathing, holding a trembling newspaper and not waking them, was that if they won, it would be over. They'd take her back to Idaho. Except the little cabin in the forest wasn't her home anymore. Nor was the bunker in Kansas, really. Home was wherever the Winchester brothers were. The solitude she'd once craved now loomed over her like a gaping-mouthed monster. How could she go back to a normal life now, knowing the things she knew? Having seen the things she'd seen?

How could she go back to a life without them?

Ruthie looked over at Sam. No one in her whole life, except her father, had ever shown her more kindness. Her chest swelled. God, how she loved him. His occasional outbursts of sass, and his devotion to Dean, and his wide smile, and his puppy dog eyes that couldn't seem to decide which color to be.

And Dean—

A physical pang darted through her. Her chest contracted; her throat tightened. She tore her gaze from the huddled lump at the end of the sofa bed. She swallowed painfully, and folded the paper again, into a tight roll.

She couldn't leave them. She couldn't even bear to think about it.

And yet, she couldn't allow people to keep being eaten by a vengeful werewolf, either.

A sudden, half-formed idea sprang into her mind. The werewolf wanted Sam and Dean. It was expecting Sam and Dean. If someone were to catch it by surprise, and kill it, and the boys never found out about it—

"Well, that sucked."

Dean's low, scratchy, morning voice jolted Ruthie out of her own head. In an instant, she slid off the bed and jammed the newspaper into her duffel bag. They'd probably hear about it before long, but hopefully a head start was all she'd need. She'd come up with a plan on the way.

She turned to see Dean staring at her from across the room. He sat on the edge of the sofa bed, bleary-eyed, rubbing his neck, yet alert. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered too quickly, too high-pitched. Sam stirred and opened his eyes.

Ruthie crossed the room, went to the little table, and clinked the empty beer bottles together as she picked them up and put them in the green recycling bin. The noise covered the sound of the car keys sliding off the table and into her jacket pocket. "I'll go get us some breakfast."

Dean stood up. "Alone? No."

From his bed, Sam loudly cleared his throat.

Dean glared at him, a muscle in his chest twitching. "There's a psycho, girl-murdering, performance witch in this town, anybody remember?"

Ruthie opened the door. Sunlight poured into the room, and both men shielded their eyes. "It's right down the street. I'll get jelly doughnuts." She didn't wait for Dean to speak again; she stepped through the door and shut it behind her.

She hurried around the car to the trunk and opened it, praying Sam and Dean were arguing about her and they wouldn't hear, wouldn't open the curtains. She couldn't take the Impala; Dean would be out the door in half a second if she turned the engine, and she couldn't run him over. She'd just have to walk. It was a small town. With a head start and a little luck...

She fished through the stash of weapons, searching for an extra handgun and the box of silver bullets. Pistols weren't her strong suit; after hours of training in the bunker's range, she was still much more comfortable with the long guns she'd grown up with. But she couldn't exactly carry a rifle through town. Hurry up, Ruthie.

Something soft billowed against her from behind, like a breeze, but more tangible. Like a bubble that couldn't be popped. It undulated around her—through her. Her body went slack, her mind blank.

"Close the trunk," commanded a steely voice that might have come from behind her, or from the sky, or inside her own head.

She didn't intend to obey, nor disobey. She watched as her hand closed the trunk.

"Drop the keys," the voice said.

Her fingers uncurled; the keys fell to the ground.

"Turn around."

She turned around. A woman stood facing her, several feet away. At first glance, she might have been in her forties. But her long, curly bob was gray with streaks of white, and deep crows' feet dug into the outer corners of her hard, gray eyes. There was something ancient about her. Was she sixty? Seventy, even? She wore a long, straw-colored broom skirt, a pink peasant blouse, and a long, slouchy, blue vest with a deep pocket at the bottom on each side. Long, beaded necklaces hung in layers around her tall neck.

The woman looked Ruthie up and down with eyes like granite. "The hair is too dark, but we'll remedy that. You'll do nicely." She turned and started walking away, toward the street. "Come along."

Ruthie's feet obeyed, taking one step after another, following several paces behind the gray-eyed woman, out of the parking lot and down the road. Just as she'd been hoping moments earlier, her boys did not open the door.