Turn the Page -Sequel to More Than a Feeling

Chapter 11

"Dean, really, I'm fine."

He eyed Ruthie, stretched out on the sofa where he and Sam had insisted she rest, declining his third offer of an extra blanket. He couldn't be sure whether she really was comfortable, or if she was still mad at him for making her lie down when she wanted to fuss over his torn-up knuckles.

He inspected her face again, trying to determine whether she was hiding any lingering effects from the spell that had nearly killed her. Other than her hair being curled at the ends, and the wrong color, he couldn't find anything. She looked up at him with an exasperated half-smile and clear brown eyes.

He put his hands up in surrender. "Okay. You weren't fine an hour ago, that's all I'm saying."

Her gaze dropped to the cheap motel comforter he'd tucked around her. Her voice dropped, too. "I know." She picked at a loose thread. "I'm trying not to think about how things would have gone if you hadn't—"

"So don't." He didn't mean to sound so gruff. But he was talking to himself more than to her. He needed those thoughts to stop. He went to the mini fridge, pulled out two beers, and held one up in Ruthie's direction.

She shook her head. "Just some water, please?"

He replaced one beer and grabbed a little glass from beside the kitchenette sink. While he filled it, he wondered if Sam was getting anywhere at the police station—not because he was actually curious, but because it was something to think about besides the memory of finding Ruthie lifeless on the floor.

After they'd gotten her back to the motel, Sam had volunteered to go the police station and see if Chief Kenwood knew of anyone fitting the witch's description in town. Ruthie had been able to give a surprisingly detailed description, considering how dazed she'd seemed the whole time.

Dean did not offer to go along with Sam. Ruthie needed to rest, and he wasn't letting her out of his sight.

He returned to the couch and handed her the glass of water.

"Thank you," she said.

Damn, it was good to hear her real voice again.

He grabbed a chair from beside the little table and sat down backwards on it, facing her. "So, did she say anything that might help us find her? I mean, if you're okay to talk about it."

Ruthie finished a long drink, lowered the glass to her stomach, and nodded. "I'm okay." She narrowed her eyes, focused on a bare spot on the wall. "I can't remember her saying anything about who she is or where she lives. Just that she's not happy with how witches have been portrayed in stories and movies."

"So, your theory was spot on. You were right all along."

Her cheeks colored. "Guess so."

"One thing I don't get: she left your phone in the sack right there in the room. Why didn't you call us?"

Ruthie's eyebrows squished together, and she wrapped her hands tight around the glass. "I never even thought about it. The spell, I guess. I mean, I still knew who I was, and I even knew what was happening. It just never occurred to me that I could do anything about it. Everything was so foggy." Her face fell. "I should have fought harder."

Dean shook his head. "No. Don't do that to yourself."

She traced the rim of the glass with her fingertip. "Before you found me, while I was sitting there alone, I was thinking about my dad. How much I've missed him. And how I would get to see him soon." She swallowed. "I felt peaceful. Happy." She looked up at Dean. "Do you think that was because of the spell?"