Supernatural Fanfic: I Just Got Lost (1/1)
Title: I Just Got Lost
Author: poestheblackcat
Rating: PG-13
Character: Meg’s little sister, mentioned in “Are You There God? It’s Me Dean Winchester” (Gen)
Warning/Spoilers: Drugs and suicide
Summary: They say that not knowing what happened to your loved ones is the worst thing imaginable. They were wrong.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters not mine, yadda-yadda.
AN: What Meg said in episode 4.02 “Are you there God? It’s me, Dean Winchester” intrigued me. I haven’t read any stories about Meg’s younger sister so I decided to write one. Anyway, told from the sister’s point of view.
I Just Got Lost
They say that not knowing is the worst thing imaginable. That’s not true. Knowing what happened can be worse. I know.
She’d been missing for a year when we got the call. There’d been notices before, from police stations, hospitals, and, god, morgues all across the country whenever a young woman matching her description (blonde, brown eyes, early twenties, 5’4’’) was found, but it had never been her.
The drive there with my parents was always nerve-wracking, the silence in the car deafening, as none of us had any idea what to say. Or rather, we had too much to say and no way of getting it out. At least that was how it was for me.
Those trips were always full of nervous anticipation for me. I’d think of what I’d say to her, my big sister, who I worshipped, yes, worshipped, although I never told her in so many words. Just looks, actions. And I knew she loved me right back.
Where were you? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call me? I missed you, Meg. I missed you…Why did you leave me?
Why would she leave me? That’s just it. She wouldn’t. She never did, really, even when she went off to college. She’d call me at least once every day-we couldn’t go a whole day without talking to each other-and she would come home on the weekends. She was never too busy to talk to me, even with her loads of schoolwork. My smart, beautiful, funny, coolawesomewonderful big sister.
So when she didn’t call me and didn’t answer her phone for a whole day, I knew something was wrong. Instinctually, I knew something terrible had happened that kept her from calling me. I told our mom but her only reply was that Meg was probably out with her friends or something and had just forgotten to tell me. I insisted that she would never forget. Meg had never forgotten me in her life, so why would she start now?
Dad’s response was that along the lines of “Well, hun, did you two have a fight or something?”, “Maybe she’s having a bad day”, and “She’s probably really busy with school. She is in college, you know.”
My answers to those? No; if she was, she’d call me; and Meg’s never too busy for me. I stormed away from the dining table and into my room, which I used to share with my sister until she left for school, and slammed the door.
Needless to say, my parents did nothing on that first day. By the second, I was frantic, close to tears, and Mom and Dad were starting to get antsy as well. On the third day, I threatened to call in the missing persons report to the police myself if they didn’t get up off of their damn asses to do it. Yep, I cussed at my parents. Meg would kill me. And I’d let her, once we found her. When we found her.
And so there we were, a year later, driving in our dusty Honda Accord to some little town halfway across the country in South Dakota. South Dakota. What the hell was she doing there? If it was even her. I didn’t know whether to hope that it was her or not, and I felt a twinge of guilt for the thought. What kind of person hopes that the person lying in some morgue is their sister? But at least I’d know what had happened to her, where she was. Maybe it was the drugs talking.
That was another thing Meg would kill me about. After she went missing, I got all depressed, into booze, drugs. At first it was weed, then some of the stronger stuff. I went from a squeaky-clean straight-A honors student to a foul-mouthed druggie in a month. My parents stuck me in therapy. The assessment? “Mr. and Mrs. Masters, all I can find out is that your daughter really misses her sister. She seems to have had a very strong attachment to her.” No shit. I could have told you that. Oh right, I did. Incompetent idiot. You know what you could do to help me get better? Find my sister!
But to get back to what I was saying earlier, I didn’t want Meg to be dead, far from it. I just wanted to find her. In the days leading up to that morgue in South Dakota, I’d fantasize what could have happened to her. Maybe she got a sudden case of amnesia and forgot who she was, her life, me, and just made a new life for herself somewhere. Maybe she had a nice boyfriend, a job she liked, a good place to live…you know, was just happy. I’d be okay with anything if she was happy. But the thing was, I didn’t know, and that was what stung.
I didn’t know if she was kidnapped, or hurt, alone and in pain, or-I didn’t want to think it-dead. I didn’t know, and that’s that drove me crazy. The psychiatrist-prescribed pills didn’t work, but really, what could, besides being with my big sister again. Nothing and nobody could possibly snap me out of my funk but her.
But I’m wandering again. South Dakota. They said over the phone that some guy had gotten home and found that someone had broken in, killed his dog, and beaten the crap out of some girl he’d never seen before in the middle of his living room. Finding that she was just barely alive, he’d called for an ambulance, but she’d died before the paramedics could arrive. There was no ID on the body, so they’d filed her at the morgue under the name “Jane Doe.”
When we got there, they ushered us into a cold room with metal autopsy tables and giant metal drawers built into the wall. I shivered and my parents looked uncomfortable, too. I guess we should have been used to this by now, having had to travel cross-country several times over the last year to “identify” bodies, patients, and amnesiacs.
The creepily cheerful doctor introduced himself (I was too numb to remember his name, too numb or doped up to remember much of anything over the past year, actually), and walked us over to the giant refrigerator. After peering at the names and numbers, he pulled out one of the drawers.
On the metal slab was a covered body, female from the contours that showed under the sheet. As Dr. I-Don’t-Care-What-His-Name-Is reached for the edge to pull it back, I grabbed his arm, effectively stopping him from uncovering the corpse. I didn’t want to see the face underneath, well I did, but I didn’t. Yeah, I was messed up, lost between the desire to know if my sister was dead or if this was just another poor girl-not-my-sister-who would remain a Jane Doe.
My father apologized profusely to the startled doctor, explaining that “she does this every time, sorry, keep going,” while holding me back by the shoulders. Giving me a brief look of pity (don’t look at me like that), the doctor continued.
From underneath the sheet, blonde hair appeared. Straight and short; not Meg’s flyaway mop of shoulder-length curls. I relaxed slightly. Then lower. Brows dark against pale waxy skin, dull brown eyes darkly bruised underneath, a slightly rounded nose (Meg had always hated her nose), a mouth lax in death, a determined chin. Oh god. No, no, no, no, no…
My mother gave a gasp-sob and my father clenched his fingers into my shoulders. “It’s her,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s our Meg.”
I wrenched out of his grasp and hit his chest. Repeatedly. “No! It’s not her! Meg’s alive. My sister is alive! You can’t just give up on her like this, you son of a bitch! You can’t…” I trailed off as sobs wracked my thin frame. I bent over in pain, physical or mental pain, I didn’t know, but it hurt. I thought not knowing was bad, but god, knowing is definitely worse.
I looked at the body-Meg-again and wished that if I stared long enough she’d just sit up and say in that slightly husky voice of hers, “Hey, little sister.” She’d look me over with that look she has-had. “You’re not looking too good. I guess I’ve got some work to do. I’ll take care of you.” Then she’d swing her legs over, stand up, and we’d all go home and things would be the way they were.
But no such luck. I straightened, pulling out of my parents’ tearful embrace, and reached out my hand to touch Meg’s cheek. It was cold, which seemed so wrong. Meg was one of the warmest people I knew, always laughing and smiling. “Hey, Nutmeg,” I whispered. The nickname slipped out before I could stop it. It was something she’d let only me call her, like I had a nickname that only she could call me. And I’d never hear it again.
I pulled back the white sheet even more, like I was an artist unveiling some kind of new grotesque statue. I think someone tried to stop me; I don’t know. I didn’t care.
I kept going. The pale skin continued, with cuts on her neck and arms, and when I got to her abdomen, I stifled a gasp. It was collapsed, twisted, and bruised, as if someone had hit her repeatedly in her ribcage area. And the bullet wound.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I quickly pulled the cloth back up, not to hide her nakedness but to hide the damage done to my beloved sister who had never hurt anyone in her life. The doctor said something about broken ribs puncturing her lung, the bullet wound, her injuries being consistent with being thrown out of a building of at least six or seven stories, but I didn’t hear it. It all sounded as if it was coming through a wall of water. I turned my head and was sick on the polished grey tiles.
I found myself in my bed in the motel room with no idea of how I’d gotten there and a sour taste in my mouth. I didn’t care. My sister was gone, had died alone (some stranger didn’t count), and I might as well die too. I just curled over and slept. A dead, dreamless sleep. Sometime during all this, I heard my parents in the next bed whispering, my mother crying, my father murmuring words of comfort, but it didn’t really register.
After stopping by the police station again (“We will find who is responsible for your daughter’s death.”), we went home to Andover, taking Meg back with us.
The next few days were a blur. The wake, the funeral, the gathering of friends and family afterwards; it was like I was watching it all happen to another person, or maybe watching a movie. I hadn’t said a word since we’d walked out of the morgue. Just didn’t feel like talking.
Didn’t feel like eating, drinking, listening to music, anything. I just sat during the day, eyes blank and staring at nothing, and lay down in my bed at night, not hearing and missing the gentle breathing that should have been coming from the bed next to mine.
Knowing what happened is worse than not knowing sometimes.
That’s why tonight, after Mom and Dad are asleep, I’m going to take the kitchen knife and slit my wrists. I’m going to finish the job this time. I’m coming, Meg. We can be together again. We’ll be happy again.