Across the Veil

His lips were chewed to hell. His hair was in a tousled mess. Rings under his eyes. A dirty, wrinkled flannel hung from his tired shoulders, and his aching fingers tapped a pencil incessantly against the pages of the book in front of him. Across from him sat his brother, who worked away just the same, but looked far less close to death.

But her eyes were stuck on him. On Dean. Watching him with worry tugging at her heart, her stomach sinking as she took in his exhaustion and his grief and his stubborn need to pretend that he was fine. She’d spent months like this. Just watching him. Sometimes reaching out to help; small things - a cold touch on his shoulder that he couldn’t quite place, a whisper in the next room that vaguely reminded him of her. But she made sure he never knew it was really her. Especially after she’d been there to witness what happened with Bobby. She didn’t want Dean to have to lose her twice.

So she stayed there with him without ever letting him know. Every attempt he made in the hopes that she was still around, she held back. Of course, every effervescent fiber of her being wanted to shout to him, to get his attention, to be held in his arms just one more time. But she knew she couldn’t do it - so she didn’t touch the talking board. Didn’t go near it. She didn’t appear to him, though she’d gained the strength to weeks ago. She just couldn’t bear the thought of breaking Dean’s heart again. He would be okay without her. He’d be okay.

“This isn’t going anywhere tonight,” Dean sighed, rubbing his palms over his face and tossing the open book forward onto the table. “I’ve got nothin’.”

“I’ve got about the same,” Sam murmured, pursing his lips and focusing narrowly on the screen in front of him. Dean stood from the motel room chair, stretching slowly and crossing the carpet with little urgency. As the bathroom door closed behind him, she sat herself across from Sam. She knew he couldn’t see her, but she hoped he at least felt some type of connection to his old friend.

Sam closed his laptop, sliding it forward on the table. He looked around the empty room. The two beds were a disaster, and empty fast food bags and wrappers littered every open corner of the room. The walls were a drab, worn burgundy, and the carpet was musty and stained - had probably been that way for years. He didn’t get up to go clean up their mess, though - no. He wasn’t looking at the things he could see. He was hoping to see something else.

Someone else.

“He misses you, you know,” he said softly, quietly enough that his brother wouldn’t hear him from the bathroom. “If you’re here… Let him know.”

A frown painted her features immediately. She bit back the urge to change her mind on everything. She stared at one of the best friends she’d ever had and sat her chin onto her palm, her elbow holding her head up on the table. “I can’t, Sam. You should know that.” He obviously didn’t hear her, but somehow she felt like he still knew she was there.

“It’s killin’ him,” he mumbled, chuckling sadly and running a hand through his hair.

The bathroom door clicked open and she sat back, moving from the seat. Dean huffed and shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing over at his brother.

“Let’s get some grub. We’ll hit the books again when we get back.” His voice still pulled at her every time he spoke, and she turned to him, watching him slip his socked feet into his shoes. Sam nodded, silently acknowledging the words and getting his jacket on. He pulled open the door and stepped out, waiting for his brother just outside the half-closed door. Dean grabbed the keys and made his way for the door, and she was frozen. Stuck. Watching him, missing him, hurting for him. She was so stuck watching him that she forgot to move, and he passed straight through her. She gasped, jumping away. Shit.

He turned on his heel, the cold wave still washing over him, his eyes suddenly awake and suspicious and hopeful all at once. He stared out at the room. The silent, empty room. He couldn’t help but want to beg, out loud, to ask for her to speak up.

“Scar?” he whispered, his brows furrowed, his fists clenched. “Scar, if it’s you, please. I- Just. Please.”

She stood in front of him, in front of the man she loved, and she said nothing. Did nothing. Tears ran slowly down her chilled, pale face, but she refused to reach out and touch him.

He hung his head, chuckling darkly at himself. “No. No, she’d’ve said something if she was here.” He stopped himself and went to the door, looking back one last time. “Wouldn’t you, Scar?” Dean’s lips were in a sad smile as he shook his head, and closed the door behind himself.

She stood alone in that room, and she wanted nothing more than to disappear forever.

“Tragic, really,” a voice shocked her out of her grief, and she flipped around, her eyes landing on none other than Crowley “King of Hell” himself. She turned back to where the boys were outside, slipping into the Impala, and growled with frustration - they’d left her behind again and there was no way to warn them. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m not here for them.”

“Then what are you here for?” she said, skeptical and distrusting.

“Well, obviously, love, I’m here for you,” he answered. “I’m here to bring you back.”