Magda

spearywritesstuff:

SPN Coda 12×4, American Nightmare

She stayed as still as she could. The cold tile floor was nothing compared to the cold stone of her mother’s basement. There was blood on her chest. The red bloom of it was making her shirt sticky. Why? She kept her eyes closed and barely breathed at all.

Time slipped by like time itself was cold. She cracked open one eye and stared at the closed door to the public restroom. Someone had tried to get in, but she kept the lock in place. She was glad that she had had the good sense to slide it closed after the man shot her. Why? She kept asking the same question. She didn’t know the man, had never seen him anywhere. Was it just something random?

And yet she knew that it wasn’t. She heard his thoughts. They were not peaceful. He was a violent man. He projected images soaked in blood. His words curled around her mind. She thought that he might be the devil. She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She was feeling the cold as it burrowed into her bones. She thought that she might never shed that. Perhaps it was what she deserved.

When he shot her, it was as if the world slowed down. In that instant of realization, as the man pulled the trigger, she focused on the bullet. She brought it to her chest and stopped it just as it penetrated skin. It hurt and made her bleed, but it was less painful than the quirt. It was less painful than all that she had seen and felt in the last twenty-four hours. This was just another nail in the coffin that was her death-marked life.

She rolled to her side and started to get up. She stopped on her knees. The blood on her shirt would draw attention. She decided to pull her coat tight. She held the zipper with shaking fingers and pulled it until the coat was concealing everything.

Her pocket was heavy with a cell phone that Sam had given to her. He said to call if she ever needed him. He exuded warmth and compassion. She felt his mind and the thoughts that were honest and golden with hope. She wanted that peace. He was so desperate for her to have it. She closed her eyes as she settled a hand on the door. She sent out her thoughts to the world outside. The man that shot her was gone. 

She worried. Would the man go to California? Would he check her aunt’s place? If she showed up there while he was looking around, it could cause trouble. She looked down at her feet. What to do. She took a deep lungful of air and turned the handle. No one haunted the night. The bus had left without her. The rest stop was quiet and dark save only for the distant rumble of a lone 18 wheeler truck parked near the exit.

The phone was in her hand without her hardly even thinking about it. She pulled it up close to her face and brought up Sam’s contact information. She clicked it and put the phone to her ear. The ringing was loud, a roar of noise that reminded her that she should be dead. She’d had heard a strange roaring noise when she tried to communicate with Olivia. She’d heard it other times too. 

“Magda?” The voice was his, and it was as warm and kind as she had needed it to be.

“Sam?” She barely whispered his name.

His tone became one of concern. “Magda, you okay?” She didn’t respond right away. She felt the shaking beginning in her feet and running heavily up to her thighs. She wondered if she’d have to sit. “Magda, where are you?” Sam sounded rougher, more forceful. 

“A man shot me. I’m in Missouri and he shot me.” She grabbed a corner of the wall that was near her. She never stopped scanning the area around her, looking for anyone that might become a problem.

“Tell me more about where you are. Dean and I are on our way.” She could hear the sound of a car pouring through the line. “Magda, do you need to go to the hospital? Are you hurt?” Sam sounded worse by the second. 

“No, I stopped the bullet. I pretended to be dead.” She looked around the building. Empty. “He’s gone.”

“I’m gonna trace your phone. We’ll come to you. Try to stay hidden. We’ll be there soon.”

He was scared. She could feel it. She wanted him to know that she was okay. She wanted him to sound less worried. He’d be here. She took comfort in that. “Sam.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.” She slid down the wall and waited. 

“Stay on the phone with me. I’ll talk to you ‘til we get there. You shouldn’t be alone.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. No one cared that much, yet here was Sam acting like she mattered, like she was more than some crazy killer. She felt his words as he spoke. They ran over her ear like a rare warm bath. She rocked a little as she sat. Sam was coming. “Thank you, Sam,” she said it again. It bore repeating. He should know that what he was doing mattered, would always matter. 

And as they drove to her, Sam talked about anything in the world, about a dog, about a taco he shouldn’t have eaten, about his brother that was nothing but trouble. He told her that the world was a complicated place, but also that it got easier. She hoped he was right on that last one. It was hard to believe, especially when strangers were shooting at you.

When the night was heavier upon her than it had been before, Sam showed up. The long black car that had belonged to them pulled up in front of her. Sam was out of the car and at her side in an economy of steps. He scooped her up into his arms and pulled her back to the car. He ushered her into the back seat and moved into the space at her side. He put an arm around her, and she nuzzled down into the crook of his arm. “I’m here. I’m right here. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

She closed her eyes, tired of the world, and let herself believe him as the car pulled out of the spot. Dean turned the vehicle toward the highway. The roar of the engine echoed out into the night, and Sam held her. In this moment she almost believed him. I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe. If she thought it often as they drove it might be true enough. Sam gave her arm a little squeeze.The night wore on, but maybe now she was in fact safe.