Women of Supernatural Gen Flashfic Challenge #17: And some have silver linings
Dad nearly has a fit when Sarah leaves that morning.
“Go out? Go out? You’re a witness in a murder investigation - you found a body yesterday - and now you just want to go out for a bit?”
“Oh, God, Dad, like some knife-wielding psycho is gonna try and attack me in broad daylight! I’ll be in public, for God’s sake. I’ll stay in crowds and everything. I’ve just - I’ve just gotta get out for bit. Evelyn was a friend, and I - I’ve gotta -“
He sighs helplessly, and lets her go.
She walks to the motel, hands in her pockets, shivering a little even though it isn’t really cold. Evelyn was a friend, and the memory of last night, of the way her head tilted back so slowly, the gash in her throat so deep and wide so that it looked like some grotesque second mouth opening, the red red blood staining her clothes, will haunt her forever, she’s sure. The stench… why don’t they ever tell you about the smell of corpses? You read books and watch TV that’s stuffed with dead bodies, and only rarely do they mention that even fresh corpses smell. Of what, she doesn’t like to think.
Sarah Blake might not ever be able to watch a crime flick about serial killers with knives again, but it’s the memory of the painting that will give her nightmares, she’s sure of it. It’s tucked away in the back of her mind, pushed into a corner, ruthlessly suppressed the way she used to do to her childhood fantasies of monsters and goblins and that thing under the bed, the ghostly white creature with the red eyes that used to reach out pale thin hands to catch at her ankles when she got into bed. It’s completely hidden from herself, because in the real world paintings do not move.
She stops outside their door. He told her what room they were staying in on their date, the story of the atrocious décor slipping out after the second beer. Sarah thought then that from anyone else, it might have sounded like a heavy-handed hint, a come-on. From Sam, it was hysterically funny.
His brother was a bit of a jerk, but Sarah more than half suspects, after the way Sam talked about him, that that was a bit of an act.
Damn good one.
It’s late morning already. Inside, she can see shadows moving, dark shapes drifting across the curtains and then back, like someone pacing through the room. She can hear voices, too, low and urgent, the seamless murmur of a conversation between two people who know each other inside out.
Sarah’s standing in the parking lot, directly opposite the door. She kicks at the curb, then scuffs the toe of the same boot along it, down and up, like she’s trying to rub the leather off. Hands still in her pockets, she flexes them a little against her thighs, against the tight denim.
To trust or not to trust. That is the question.
They knew Evelyn was dead. They acted like they didn’t - no. No, they acted like they hoped she wasn’t.
Bullshit! They put on a show for her benefit, to con her into trusting them.
Sam was so charming at dinner. So nice. Not a flatterer, not someone who thought she’d be offended if he didn’t agree with every word she spoke. Just… nice. To her; for her. She’d wanted him to kiss her, but he hadn’t even taken that liberty.
He wasn’t an art dealer. Neither of them were. Dean had a lockpick on him last night, and probably a gun as well. They’d lied about everything, right from the start.
They could be dangerous. They could be the killers themselves! Even if they weren’t, she shouldn’t be standing out here. She shouldn’t be near them. She shouldn’t even be contemplating trusting them.
Sarah glares at the door as if this entire mess were its fault rather than her own. What had she been thinking, dating some random guy who’d gatecrashed Dad’s party just because he had the cutest smile she’d seen in… well, forever?
One or two people have passed her already, given her curious looks, but she’d ignored them. Now a bony finger taps her shoulder, and she jumps almost a foot in the air, spins around.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, honey,” the old lady says, smiling a little. She’s got messy dark-grey hair and very dark eyes. Sarah thinks she looks vaguely familiar, someone she’s seen around town a few times. “But you look like you’re about to take root in this parking spot, and if you do that, my son will probably charge you rent.”
“I - I’m so sorry,” she apologises, stepping away from the empty parking space, out of sight of the offending door. She can glare at the big black Chevy just as easily. “I was just -“
“Man trouble?” the old lady asks sympathetically, and Sarah barks a laugh.
“Yes. Well, no. Not really. Not - that sort.”
“When you get right down to it, that’s the only sort there is,” her companion says. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, honey. Looks to me like you’ve already made up your mind to me.”
Sarah blinks. “You think so?”
She gets a nod and a smile, kindly and wise. “Yes, child. Now. I’ve gotta get back inside before my grandson wrecks the living room. As long as you’re sure you’re all right?”
Finally, a genuine smile. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”
“All right then.”
Sarah watches her cross the parking lot again, feeling calmer now. She has already made up her mind. She made it up yesterday, in the police station, when she didn’t tell the nice detectives with the trench coats and the Starbucks coffee cups that two really hot brothers with lockpicks and a classic Chevy came to Evelyn’s house with her.
She takes her hands out of her pockets and crosses over to the door in a few long quick strides, and bangs on it. Sam opens it.