And I Rise [1] (Supernatural)

Iғ Tʜᴇsᴇ Wᴀʟʟs Cᴏᴜʟᴅ Tᴀʟᴋ || Eɪɢʜᴛ

I sat cross-legged in one of the chairs in our room, spinning a pocket knife between my fingers in absolute, complete boredom.

Things had gotten better over the last few days. A weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Talking about what happened to my family to the only two people in the world who understood did so much more good than keeping that burden to myself. Though that side of everything had gotten better, the nightmares had gotten worse. It was all to be expected, I supposed. Boiling it all down, dredging everything up was bound to have consequences in the fallout. On the plus side, though, Sam had told me the Rescue Remedy I'd given to him worked, so at least one of us was getting some sleep.

"No, Dad was in California last we heard from him," Sam spoke into his cellphone. "We just thought if he comes to you for munitions, maybe you've seen him in the last few weeks. Just call us if you hear anything." And he hung up.

"Caleb hasn't heard from him?" Dean asked, looking up from flipping through the Holy Grail of the supernatural that they called their father's journal.

"Nope," Sam replied. "Neither has Jefferson or Pastor Jim." He nodded to the book. "What about the journal? Any leads in there?"

"No. Same last time I looked. Nothing I can make out." Dean scoffed. "I love the guy, but I swear he writes like freakin' Yoda."

We'd been on the trail for John Winchester for a little over three weeks—the brothers for months longer—and turned up nothing. We had no leads at all. Even that stupid journal that was supposed to have all the answers to his whereabouts was practically useless. The trail was as cold as a stiff in the morgue.

"I don't know about you two," I began, folding the pocket knife and tossing it on the table. "But perhaps we might have to do this the old fashion way." The boys looked at me expectantly. "Call the feds. File a missing person's report. Do what normal people do when someone up's and leaves."

"I agree," Sam added.

"Sam, we talked about this," Dean said. "Dad would be pissed if we put the feds on his tail."

"I don't care anymore," his little brother huffed. A cellphone rang as he continued, "after all that happened back in Kansas, I mean he should have been there, Dean, you said so yourself. You tried to call him and nothing."

"I know," Dean said, shifting through his clothes and bag in search of his ringing cellphone.

"You know, he could be dead for all we know."

"Don't say that," Dean raised his voice. "He's not dead. He's-He's—

"He's what? He's hiding? He's busy?"

I kicked my legs over to brace them on the floor, massaging the bridge of my nose. The bickering never ended. It happened day and night and kept me up almost as much as those godforsaken nightmares did. I thought my siblings and I had bickered, but, no. These two made it an art form. They made it an Olympic sport.