Whisperings of Angels

By: Tidia

Disclaimer: Ridley is all about The Brotherhood and Kripke is all about Supernatural. I do not profit from either.

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Chapter 5/5

She never mentions the word addiction
in certain company.
Yes, she'll tell you she's an orphan
After you meet her family.

She paints her eyes as black as night now.
She pulls those shades down tight.
Yeah, she gives me a smile when the pain comes.
The pain gonna make everything alright.

Says she talks to angels.
They call her out by her name.
Oh yeah, she talks to angels.
Says they call her out by her name.

She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket.
She wears a cross around her neck.
The hair is from a little boy,
And the cross from someone she has not met, well, not yet

She don't know no lover,
None that I ever seen.
Yeah, to her that ain't nothing
But to me it means, means everything.

She paints her eyes as black as night now.
Pulls those shades down tight.
There's a smile when the pain comes.
Pain's gonna make everything alright.

"She Talks to Angels",The Black Crowes

Dean looked for Brenda at school on Monday in order to avoid her. He ate in the courtyard at lunch and she was absent. In English class her desk remained empty. The class passed in their essay and had a discussion about ‘A Rose for Emily.’ Knowing how much she enjoyed the story, Dean began to believe Brenda may have been arrested or worse. The high school was small enough so by the end of the week, Dean knew he would learn about Brenda’s fate.

On Tuesday, Dean sat in homeroom. His was talking to Alissa Clark. She laughed at Dean’s off color comment, then pointed to the front of the room. Mr. Duncan arrived, dropping a pile of books on his desk. He pulled out the roster. He didn’t look up as he said the names out loud.

He then went to the next sheet of paper, which contained announcements. Intermingled between Thursday’s anonymous return of overdue library books and an upcoming art show, the teacher declared in his monotone voice, “Brenda Flemings died yesterday. Grief counseling is available through the guidance office.”

There was a slight murmur. Dean could hear people asking their neighbor about ‘the dead girl.’ No one seemed to know Brenda Fleming existed.

After homeroom, Dean shuffled to his next class. Austin, his teammate, caught up with him. "Winchester didn’t you know her?"

"Who?" He rebuffed Austin, and wished they would reach their next classroom soon so the conversation would cease.

"The girl that died?" His teammate pressed forward. He waved to Craig, another baseball player, who also joined them in the walk to history class.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Not me, man."

"She was whacked," Austin commented. Craig looked perplexed so he explained, “that girl who died, Brenda.” Craig was still puzzled. “You know the Goth one?”

Craig nodded. "Like a witch with all that black - freaked me out."

Austin laughed, and Dean knew he had to laugh too. He had to go along with the crowd because if not then they would be suspicious. So he laughed, and revealed himself to be a Judas. Thankfully, they arrived at class, and after fifty minutes his teammates would forget about Brenda. He wouldn’t. He would remember her. He would place it under a life lesson entitled, ‘Natural Versus Supernatural.’

History class droned on with a discussion of the Cold War. His thoughts went to Brenda. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know she was a heroin addict. The clues had been there—the nervousness, the twitchy behavior, the covering of her arms.

No one knew she had borne a son when she was fourteen, then gave up that child for her relatives to raise. She needed help with her life, and Dean didn’t have those tools available. Life was something he was trying to get through too-in one piece and with his family. Brenda would be his reference point to broken and alone.

He made it through the school day and baseball practice. By the end of the day it was revealed she had died from a drug overdose. Her mother, there was no father in the picture, had found her dead. Dean didn’t know what happened to her in Evansville, if Andy’s parents, her aunt and uncle, had pressed charges. By tomorrow Brenda would be forgotten, and if she was lucky there would be three lines in memoriam in the yearbook.

Once he got home he made macaroni and cheese for his brother and father. He toyed with the orange substance on his plate, pushed it around before making his announcement.

“She’s dead.” He put the fork down to explain further, “that girl, Brenda . . .heroin overdose.”

Dean stared at his father, expecting him to make some sort of comment along the lines of, ‘good riddance’ or ‘thank God that’s over.’ Fortunately, his father remained silent.

Sam glanced at his brother, but the young teen held his questions, showing prudence by waiting for John to retire to his bedroom after dinner.

“How did she know about us and that fire?” Sam kept his voice low in the kitchen, not wanting their father to overhear the conversation.

“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean replied softly. He tossed the paper products in the garbage, and left the pot to soak in the sink.

“I guess it’s possible for her to notice patterns, but she was seventeen.” Sam followed his brother around as Dean did his tasks. “What teenager notices stuff like that?”

Sam knew the Winchester brothers noticed patterns, but the youngest Winchester also reminded his older brother on a constant occasion they were different.

“I don’t know.” Dean answered, and exited the kitchen, shutting the light off. His brother remained attached to him.

“And then. . .” Sam continued.

Dean interjected in frustration. “Sam, when I figure it out you’ll be the first to know. Just let it go.” He picked up his backpack to do some homework. “You know sometimes don’t you ever think that some things are supposed to be a mystery?” Dean wondered at what age Sam started asking him questions he couldn’t answer. Had it been gradual or all it once? Either way Sam had to learn there was a reason why things were called ‘unexplainable.’ Perhaps this is what made him a good soldier, and why Sam was a dissenter. “We can’t know everything.”

“Says who?” The younger teen grinned wickedly at his brother. He patted himself on the chest. “I plan to know everything.”

Dean snorted. “You do that.” And with that the older teen tried to concentrate on his homework.

The older teen avidly read the obituary page the next morning to find out about the service. A ceremony was scheduled for the next day. Dean skipped school, expertly forging a note from his father. He couldn’t remember his father actually writing any notes, seemed as though Dean had been doing it forever.

From the car he watched as the hearse arrived and unloaded the coffin. Dean watched as approximately twenty mourners entered the Episcopalian church. There were no fellow students. Dean assumed her friends would be there, but they had not been her friends, just people she was passed the time with. He stayed in the Impala as an impassive observer. The funeral finished in less than thirty-five minutes- short life, short homily.

He followed at a lengthy distance behind the cars bearing a funeral flag. He exited the Impala and watched as the coffin was lowered into the earth. Then small crows disbanded, going by Brenda’s mother and a young man who was latched on to her arm. They offered condolences. Brenda’s mother and the young man were the only two remaining. Dean marshaled his courage.

He cleared his throat, kept his back to the fake green grass covering a mound of dirt and the plot with the coffin inside. “Sorry about your loss.” He kept his hands in his pockets, because touching Brenda’s mother was too personal for a stranger. “I just think you should know she wasn’t a bad person or anything.” He didn’t wait to hear the response. He hurriedly sought the Impala’s refuge.

It was still early, and he should have returned to school, but instead he went to work at Palmer’s. Extra money was always to his benefit. The rest of the week followed the same pattern except it would be punctuated by a baseball game on Friday.

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To blend in with the rest of the suburban crowd Caleb bought a baseball cap from the last gas station. He had no idea what he was advertising or what team he was supporting. He found the field in Darlington easily enough, with the dirt parking lot filled with SUVs and reserved sedans.

Caleb made his way up the bleachers, choosing a quiet corner. Reaves was wearing a black long sleeve shirt, and the warm sun filtered through to his skin. Caleb looked out at the baseball diamond. It didn’t take him much time to figure Dean’s team colors were red and white. The older Winchester brother was alert as short stop.

The psychic looked at the score board- two out and bottom of the second inning. Dean was staring intently at the hitter. One strike, then another, a ball and then a hit, which Dean reacted to as it came his way. He dove to the left. He stretched, catching the ball before it hit the ground. The third out was called, and with a smile Dean jogged to the bench with the rest of his teammates.

Caleb watched, tapping his foot as he became bored. The other parents, especially the fathers, were avidly involved. They cheered on their children and supported them. Dean had been doing well at bat, and getting a respectable amount of clapping. His sixth time at the plate, Dean stepped into the batter box. He pulled the bat behind his head, and got into his stance. The first pitch came wide and was declared a ball. The pitcher tried again and Dean made contact, hitting the ball over the fence for a homeroom.

Caleb stood up. “Way to go, Deuce!”

As Dean rounded to second, he looked up, having heard Caleb. He shook his head with a grin, which only made Caleb yell louder until he realized he had drawn attention to himself. He waved sheepishly at the people sitting nearby and then sat down.

He politely clapped throughout the rest of the game. The game ended and the teams shook hands. Although it seemed congenial, Caleb could read the pissed off thoughts of the losing team. Reaves waited for Dean to say his good byes to his teammates, and then he joined the other hunter in the stands. He received warm pats on the back as he came up the bleachers. He bowed his head in embarrassment, not comfortable with losing his anonymity.

Caleb noticed the confidence Dean exuded in his uniform. The teen placed his equipment on the vacant seat in front of the psychic. He may have been trained a hunter, but he had a talent in another arena. "You're good at this."

"Good? I'm great." He sat down next to Caleb.

They watched as the crowd dwindled away until they were the only two left, staring out into the field.

“Thanks for coming. Sammy comes sometimes, but he gets bored and Dad’s busy…” Dean let the excuses drift off, and returned the focus to Caleb. “Did you ever do any sports in school?”

“Not really.” Reaves smiled, thinking of his time in high school.

“Clumsy? Cause I remember you were kind of gawky.” Dean laughed, and elbowed his fellow hunter.

Caleb frowned at the insult. “Yeah, right, more like that whole psyche out mentality so popular in sports.” Reaves grinned, pondering a memory. He then explained, “No fun when you can read your opponent's mind and freak them out with some trash talk.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, sounds like fun.” He looked out at the field.

Caleb sighed. He had stopped at the Winchester homestead to get directions to the field. Sam had filled him in on their latest adventure. The young teen condensed the situation in two sentences. Caleb’s psychic abilities filled in the rest. It led to Dean carrying guilt, fears and other burdensome talismans. "You wanna talk about it?” Reaves asked, breaking the companionable silence. “I dropped by the house and Sam told me about the girl.” The psychic hoped to avoid the heavy conversation.

"No," Dean stated so quickly that even without his abilities Caleb knew it was a lie. The older teen liked to make it a challenge to share his feelings, and most of the times Reaves respected Dean's privacy. They were men after all and worked out their issues with some beer and a game of pool. But, as pseudo uncle, friend and confidant, Caleb felt he needed to be someone for Dean to talk to when needed, thankfully not too often. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.

"Do you believe in angels?" The teen fidgeted with his cleats, picking out the grass in between the metal grooves.

"Why are you asking me?" Caleb retorted. He was uncomfortable with this conversation. His belief system was too personal. He shared it with no one, not even his adopted father.

Dean sighed. "Because Brenda, the girl, said angels talked to her and told her about me, Sam, Mom, Dad and it all hit too close."

Caleb stared at the teen for a moment, studying him. Reaves blinked, deciding to risk and share a little piece of his soul. He believed in angels. "Yes."

"Yes? That's it?" Dean frowned.

"Yep." Reaves stretched out his legs. He felt the teen's frustration at the unsatisfactory answer. "Look, you tell this to anyone and I will hunt you down and make your life miserable." Caleb's stomach clenched. He did not enjoy exposing his feelings.

"Like you don't already do that," Dean quipped. He nudged Caleb's leg with his foot.

Caleb moved his legs away in annoyance. "You want to hear this or what?"

"Yeah," Dean eagerly nodded. And set his lips in a grim line to remain silent.

Reaves pulled off his cap and fixed his hair, setting the hat back in place before beginning. "I think there's something watching over us," he paused, tapping his foot before continuing. "Doing what we do, the shit we've been in, hell, it's more than luck and being good at what we do. . ."

"And do you think angels can talk to people?" Dean interrupted.

Caleb shrugged his shoulders, not committing to a reply. "Maybe my visions are divine intervention."

"Yeah, you try to believe that, Demon Spawn," Dean snickered.

Reaves slapped the back of the other hunter's head. "Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe she had some psychic abilities or hell little fairies came to visit her." Caleb tipped down his hat to shield his eyes. "Guess you'll never know, but I guess you were there for her when she needed someone. . ."

"I think it was a total fck up." Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Deuce," the psychic sighed. He wanted to reach out and touch Dean, but the two always had a no contact rule unless they were wrestling or fighting. "You're only seventeen. Part of growing up is about making mistakes.” Caleb was proud of his comment. It was insightful, and something Mac would say if he had been there.

“Hell, Caleb, then your still in puberty.” Dean interjected, but still remained leaning on his elbows.

“Cute,” Reaves also folded his body, so he was in the same position as the teen.

Dean turned his head, looking at his friend. “You know we can’t afford mistakes.”

“You're allowed one.” The psychic grinned.

“Only one?” Dean returned the smile.

Caleb stood up, feeling their conversation was coming to a close. There wasn’t much more he could share or do, being brought up in the hunter life style was not an easy road. Caleb had confidence Dean would be fine in time. “Hell, it's actually three, but Jim doesn’t publicize that in the manual."

"Am I ever going to get a manual?" Dean stood up, pulling his cap lower as the sun caused him to squint. He picked up his equipment, heaving it to his shoulder.

"Not any time soon," Caleb replied as he stepped down the bleacher seats. He waited for Dean at the bottom. "Are we done 'cause I sound like a very special episode of Blossom."

The teen nodded. He shifted his duffle bag to the other shoulder. "You buying dinner for the Winchester family?"

Caleb shook his head. “Your brother already told me I had to buy pizza.”

“He’s bossing you around. Glad I’m rubbing off on him.” Dean fished the car keys from his bag, and headed for the Impala.

Caleb walked to his Jeep. “Just for that I’m getting anchovies,” he yelled out.

“You’re cruel, man," Dean replied from his parking spot a few cars away. He opened the trunk, placed his duffle bag inside and slammed it shut.

“You’re welcome." Caleb answered. He started up the Jeep, pulling out, causing the dirt to dust up in his wake. He loved anchovies.

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