Love Lost

My breath hitches painfully in my throat as I watch Dean sit back down in his cushioned seat. My eyes follow the slightest of his movements, the growing urge to call his name gnawing at my throat. his long, calloused fingers grip the coffee cup as he brings it to his full lips, slowly taking a lengthy sip. I can feel my heart racing in my chest, my nerves twisting and contracting in ways they should not.

This cannot be real, it has to be another nightmare. The peaceful atmosphere of the coffee shop is going to be ripped to shreds right in front of me and my ears will be filled with Dean's heart-wrenching cries once again. To confirm my beliefs, I pinch my arm rather hard and momentarily shut my eyes. A few seconds later, I open them.

He's still here.

"Ma'am?"

I snap out of my trance to find the handsome man staring straight into my eyes, a strange expression masking his face. I gasp, involuntarily, and manage an apology before bringing my attention to my laptop. As I pretend to search the web, I can still feel his striking green eyes boring holes into my skull. Silently panicking, I contemplate the pros and cons of spilling everything to the stranger. The pros would be being able to get the tormenting situation out of my system but the cons, however, would be him quite possibly calling the police on me and getting me locked up in the crazy house. I think I'll just go with not telling him anything. At all.

I attempt to return to my essay but find that my thoughts do not agree with such a decision. Instead, all I can think about is Dean and what all of this means. For 4 months, I dream of what seems to be terrifying scenes straight out of the horror movies, all of which that revolve around a specific man by the name of Dean. No middle or last name, just... Dean. I do not learn anything besides his first name, as well those of his relatives and friends and small fragments of his life that are beyond difficult to decipher and piece together. I also see a powerful demon whose name, if he has one, I know not of. He viciously tortures the poor man both physically and mentally to the point of death, only to somehow resurrect him just to start the process all over again. Don't get me started on when Dean gives into the demon's proposition of ending the torture only if Dean does it himself to other poor souls.

But what does this all mean? Is Dean supposed to become a significant entity in my life? Am I to aid him in some shape or form in upcoming situations? I rack my brain to the point of a splitting headache and wearily rest my forehead in my palms. I then realize I have not touched my food yet. Immediately and graciously, I take the club sandwich in my hands and have a generous bite, more so out of stress than hunger.

For a while, I forget about Dean and my predicament, my focus zeroed in on my food. Once I finish, I push the empty plate to the side and replace its previous spot with my laptop. I shove my earphones in my ears and put my classical playlist on shuffle at medium volume, the sounds of pure serenity calming my senses. I slouch in my seat, the tenseness in my body slowly dissipating.

My fingers type away as a continuous string of ideas enter the realm of my mind. In writing, once I get a thought started, it is as if I cannot stop. I have to keep going and going until I can no longer put forth anymore. I wish I can say the same for everything else in my life, like sports and the performing arts, but I cannot find the same peace in those sorts of things as I do in literature. When writing, I, in a mental sense, feel absolute bliss. I feel free. I feel as if there is nothing else in existence around me and I am whole.

But eventually I must stop at some point, and suddenly reality comes crashing down on me like tidal waves. I can't say that I'm pleased with that particular thought, but life is life and I must not complain. My friends and family constantly question my decision of attending college to become an English teacher when I could aspire to become an author, my lifelong dream. However, that is a dream. It is tough out there, and with the disastrous state of the economy, I cannot find the strength to risk everything. So I went with the second best option and decided to become a teacher. It's always been an interest of mine so I am not terribly opposed to the idea, even if it's not my dream career.

As I wrap up the concluding sentence to my second body paragraph, I hear footsteps approach my table, followed by the abrupt shadow placed above me, indicating that the person was standing before me. I look down and see a pair of shiny black dress shoes, then proceed to lift my eyes further and further up until I meet those familiar mesmerizing green eyes.

Well, there goes my brain, splattered against my skull.

"Is this yours?" he asks, the roughness of his deep-toned voice causing a shiver to run down my spine. I glance at his hand and see him holding up my pen. I must have accidentally knocked it off the table when I moved my things around.

"O-oh, yeah, thanks," I stammer, feeling like an idiot for doing so. I take the pen and shove it in my bag as a blush creeps to my cheeks. Thankfully, I hear him return to his table and let out a sigh of relief. That was so difficult.

-

"I'm tellin' you, Sam, there's somethin' freaky about that girl," Dean whispers to his little brother as he watches her from the corner of his eye.

"What do you mean by freaky?" inquires Sam with a quirk of his eyebrow. " Like... our kind of freaky or she's flat out weird?"

Dean rubs the side of his face. "I have no clue, but I'm gonna find out."

Who exactly is this girl? She looks pretty young, early twenties, perhaps, and quite cute, but definitely not what Dean is used to. However it's not necessarily her appearance that is catching his eye. It's the fact that ever since she saw him, she has had this look of complete surprise and maybe even fright. Does she know who he is? She must have some knowledge of him, her expressions give it all away. Then again, it could just be a coincidence. Dean sighs heavily.

When is anything in his life ever a coincidence? As he secretly examines the young girl from afar, he tries to think of all possible answers to who she is and why she is acting in such a way, but nothing comes up. He had been in Hell for 4 months two weeks prior to this day so it must have been something that occurred before then. He wants to approach her again and use his charm to get a name out of her, but that would startle the girl even more and he didn't want that.

Something is itching at his brain though. The exact look she gave him when she first saw him...he knows it so well. It's the look he himself had when he saw his father after all those months of being away, and when he watched Sam breathe in life after Dean sold his soul to a demon in exchange for his resurrection. Shock peppered with fright of what could interfere and shred everything just placed before him to bits, as if to say Just kidding, you're still living in a nightmare that is very, very real. But why did she give him that look? He doesn't even know her name.

Right then he hears the screech of a wooden chair being pushed into a table and sees the girl hooking her bag over her shoulder and starting for the door. His pulse picking up speed in apprehension, he glances at Sam and sees him raising an eyebrow at him. He nods his head at the door, the one in which the girl has just exited out of and says, "Go. You may not have another chance."

Dean nods knowingly and jolts up as he grabs his belongings and jogs out of the coffee shop. He does a complete 180 degree scan of his surroundings and finds her small figure about thirty feet ahead of him to his right. With a roll of his eyes and slight turn of his head, he runs after her at a slow place, trying to refrain from scaring her off. However little too late she has caught wind of his hurried frame and begins to scurry across the street and around a corner.

"Dammit," Dean mutters dryly as he quickens his speed.

-

"O great holy shit, bless me with the disappearance of this man," I whisper to myself as I turn a corner.

I can hear his heavy footsteps growing louder and louder behind me and feel the urge to scream. Not in pure fright necessarily, it is just one of those bundles of emotions that become so great you want to do something crazy. Regretfully, I turn my head and see him hot on my heels, a look of cold determination on his face. I squeal in surprise and turn another unexpected corner. My short legs in comparison to his long, athletic legs were doing me no justice whatsoever. I think of giving up and creating some bullshit excuse but I'm in too deep. I've made a scene, he'll know I'm lying.

"Ma'am, will you please just stop already!? I'm not going to hurt you!" he yells from behind me.

Out of the blue, I suddenly get hit with an intense mass of emotion and feel myself choke back a sob. Tears begin to freely fall down my face and my chest squeezes painfully. What is happening? I try to hold back the oncoming hurricane of raw emotions but it is too strong. I feel weak. I cannot run any longer. My pace is slowing down considerably, and before I know it, I feel his large hand grip my contrasting thin wrist.

"P-please, just...leave me alone," I gasp, pitifully pushing myself away from his hold. I hesitantly meet his gaze and find him staring at me in both surprise and curiosity.

"What did I do to you?" Is all he can get out before closing in on me. I back up and of course, there's a brick wall behind me.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I cannot, for the life of me, spark the ability to speak. My head is spinning and my stomach churns in discomfort. I need to scream, to run, to throw up, to cry. What do I do? Should I just say, Hey, yeah, I had nightmares of you getting tortured by a demon for 4 months straight? Or should I go with the obvious, though risky alternative? Aw, fuck it.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper so quietly that he barely is able to catch what I say before shooting my knee into his stomach. He doubles over in pain but recovers easily and tries to grab me. I don't know if it was luck or talent, but I manage to dodge his grasp and sprint at the fastest speed I could muster.

When I cannot run any longer, I look back and see that Dean is nowhere to be found. I stumble into a random antique store and immediately fall to the floor, gripping my burning sides. My breathing is dangerously uneven and hoarse, but I don't care. As long as I'm out of Dean's sight, I'm satisfied.