She screamed, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, raw and unrelenting. The pain didn't register; she felt nothing but the overwhelming numbness that had claimed her body. Her mind, however, screamed in frantic desperation, urging her to cry out as loud as she could. "I said shut up!" the voice of her nightmares roared, its tone dripping with malice, the yellow eyes burning with an intensity that made her heart race. But she couldn't bear to look up. Her gaze was fixed, unwillingly drawn to the black abyss in front of her, its emptiness yawning wide, calling to her like a hungry mouth waiting to consume everything.

"Please, leave me alone," she begged, her voice trembling with fear, but the demon before her showed no sign of mercy. It wasn't interested in her pleas, not in the slightest. Instead, a flicker of irritation passed across its twisted face. It hated her weakness. It was beneath it.   

He had his orders, though they gnawed at him like a sickness from within. She was off-limits, forbidden to be touched, not in this realm, not by his hand. The command had come from below, a decree from forces far darker than any mortal mind could fathom.

Azazel loathed it. He despised the chains that bound him, the rules that imprisoned his every instinct, his every desire. He could feel the bitter weight of his restraint, the pulse of fury that coursed through his veins at the thought of this pathetic, fragile human—one who was not meant to suffer such weakness, yet one who now consumed his every thought.

He had never felt a thirst like this before, a hunger more twisted and consuming than anything he had known.  But the rules were clear. She was not to be touched. Not in this world. Not by him.

And yet, Azazel found himself torn, standing at the edge of the abyss, knowing full well the pull of the darkness was stronger than any command, any oath.

So, he made a choice—one that seethed with a darker satisfaction. If he could not touch her in the waking world, then he would carve his presence into her dreams instead.

Azazel had power there, in the realm where the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred. There, he could invade her mind, twist her thoughts, and watch as fear and longing took root in her fragile heart. He could not kill her, but he could torment her in ways no mortal could understand—pulling her into endless spirals of dread, where shadows whispered his name, where every breath she took felt heavy with his presence.

He reveled in the control, in the way her sleep would turn restless, haunted by visions of him. In her dreams, he could do anything—he could make her beg, make her fear him, make her feel the sting of something darker than death. All the while, she would never know where it came from, who was behind it, or why.

The human mind was fragile, and Azazel, a creature born of the darkest depths, knew how to break it, piece by piece. He smiled to himself, feeling the weight of his power, as her nights slowly became his domain.

"HEY. YOU WANT BREAKFAST?" 

"No, thanks," Sam muttered, his attention still absorbed by the dusty, outdated cassette collection that Dean stubbornly refused to update. But his curiosity piqued when he noticed the pile of snacks his brother had tossed into the Impala's backseat, fresh from the gas station. "So how'd you pay for all that? You and Dad still running credit card scams?"

Dean shot him a glance, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he finished securing the gas pump. "Yeah, well, hunting's not exactly a golden ticket to the big leagues," he said, his tone light but tinged with the familiar edge that Sam had come to recognize all too well. With a casual flick of his wrist, he closed the trunk of the Impala, looking back at Sam with a slightly aloof gaze. The familiar banter, the playful jabs—it was a reminder of something he hadn't realized he'd missed so much until now. The past few years had been a brutal reminder of just how lonely he truly was, no matter how many random flings or whiskey bottles he tried to drown it in. And now, with Dad gone off the radar, the hollow ache in his chest had only grown.

"Besides," he continued, letting out a soft chuckle as he leaned against the car, his hands slipping into his jacket pockets, "we just apply. Not our fault they keep sending us the cards."

"Yeah, what names did you use this time?" Sam's question hung in the air, light but laced with a weight he couldn't shake. The lies, the deceit—it was second nature in their world, but it still gnawed at him. The crimes they committed, the lives they altered just to stay alive, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had learned, with Rosemarie's help, to tell himself that the mistakes of his youth had been out of necessity, but it never fully eased the guilt that followed him like a shadow.

As Dean moved back toward the car, Sam quickly twisted his body and shut the door, turning back to face his brother with a smile that was more for show than anything. Yes, he disapproved of the shortcuts they took, but it was hard not to enjoy the banter, the familiarity of it all. They were brothers, after all, and despite everything, there was still something comforting in the routine of their lives.

"Uh... Bert Aframian and his son, Hector," Dean said, a hint of pride in his voice as he waved a handful of snacks in his left hand, settling into the driver's seat with his usual cocky ease. "Scored two cards out of the deal."

"Why?" Dean shot back, defensiveness laced in his tone.

"Well, for one—" Sam threw his hands up, clearly incredulous, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "They're cassette tapes." He wasn't the biggest music fan, but even he could see how far the industry had come. CDs were everywhere, and digital downloads had completely transformed the game. It just didn't make sense. "And two—Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica? It's like the greatest hits of mullet rock."

Dean yanked the Metallica cassette from Sam's grasp, offended by the insinuation. The nerve. "I thought I raised you better than that," he muttered under his breath. He scoffed, his grin returning. "House rules, Sammy—Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole." With a satisfied smirk, he cranked the engine and tossed the cassette back into the box on top of Sam's lap, where it belonged.

Sam was already fuming, the nickname gnawing at him like it always did. "Sammy is a chubby 12-year-old," he muttered, frustrated. He hated how Dean still treated him like the little kid of the family. It was annoying, and honestly, it made him feel like he was still stuck in that shadow. "It's Sam. Okay?"

"You let your girlfriend call you that?" Dean raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with amusement, as he shot a sideways glance at Sam.

Sam rolled his eyes, trying to brush it off. "Well, the nickname's a term of endearment between me and her. She calls me Sammy, and I call her Rosie." He continued, despite knowing Dean would mock him for it. "We've got our own thing, alright?" His voice trailed off, something cheesy bubbling up, and Dean, ever the older brother, wasn't about to let that slide.

Without a second thought, Dean cranked up the stereo, drowning out whatever else Sam was about to say. He wasn't in the mood to listen to his younger brother's heart-to-heart about his "harmless childhood nickname." With a swift turn of the dial, A Gift to the World by Loveless blasted through the speakers, cutting through the tension.

"Sorry, I can't hear you. The music's too loud," Dean said with a grin, leaning back in his seat. He wasn't going to argue with Sammy today. Letting the music take over, he focused on the road ahead.

And with that, they left the gas station behind, the fading hum of the engine the only sound between them. The road stretched out in front of them—empty and endless. They were back on their mission, heading toward the unknown to track down their missing father. Whatever chaos was waiting out there, they'd face it together. Just the two of them, as always.

ROSEMARIE KNEW HER ROUTINE WAS GOING TO SHIFT THE MOMENT SAM LEFT, but she hadn't fully grasped just how deeply it would change. She had held on to a fragile hope that they'd manage to bridge the distance, keeping a steady flow of communication between them, reducing the space between their hearts with simple words. But reality had a different plan. It turned out that after being practically glued together for four years, their ability to maintain a long-distance relationship was nonexistent. The texts, the calls—they all fizzled out, replaced by silence, leaving Rosemarie with an aching emptiness she hadn't expected.

During hard days, neither of them felt in a particular good mood, Sam and Rosemarie would always find their way back to each other, somehow, even if it was just for a few stolen hours. They'd end up in the same comforting embrace, Sam's head resting against her chest, his breathing slow and steady. She would wrap one arm around his neck, pulling him in tightly, while his hand tenderly brushed her hair, his fingers gently tugging at the curls that curled at the ends of his own. Every so often, she'd press a kiss to his head, soft and loving, as if trying to make up for the years of hardship he'd faced, the torment that had shaped him into the man he was now.

It always struck her as funny, in the sweetest way—how, despite his towering height and strength, Sam would always end up the little spoon. He would curl into her, seeking solace, finding comfort in the warmth of her arms, and Rosemarie would hold him, grounding him in a way nothing else could. It was a dynamic that felt so natural, so right, even when everything else seemed to be falling apart around them.

It would only take four days before Rosemarie's routine slipped back into its familiar rhythm, but until then, she convinced herself that she was fine—alone, at least that's what the outside world saw. On the surface, she kept herself busy, trying to fill the gaps with fleeting distractions. But deep down, a different story was unfolding. The absence of Sam was stirring something inside her—something that had been subdued over the years, but now it clawed its way to the surface again. Her separation anxiety, once manageable, now reared its ugly head. The fear of abandonment whispered in her ear, threatening to overwhelm her as she waited for the days to pass.

Still, Rosemarie pushed forward. Her days began with yoga, a ritual that calmed her mind and steadied her breath, but even the deep stretches couldn't quiet the unease that lingered beneath. She would lace up her sneakers and go for a morning run, the rhythm of her feet pounding against the pavement like a steady pulse, a temporary escape from her spiraling thoughts.

By the time she made it to the local coffee shop, she had perfected the art of the smile, the friendly barista greeting customers with a warmth she didn't always feel inside. Her shift was a whirlwind—serving lattes, brewing pots of coffee, the chatter of the café wrapping around her like a blanket. But no matter how much she immersed herself in the buzz of the day, there was always that empty space, that silence in the back of her mind where Sam used to be.

After work, she'd head to the local shelter, where the quiet moments spent with the animals would offer her some peace. She poured her energy into helping, hoping it would silence the growing ache in her chest. Every task, every moment of service, was a distraction—anything to keep her from acknowledging that, for now, she was alone. And yet, no matter how much she tried to pretend she was okay, the loneliness lingered like a shadow, always just behind her, waiting for the day Sam would return and pull her back from the edge.

"Hey, Sam, it's me, Rosie. Just wanted to let you know I picked up your suit from the laundromat for your interview on Monday. Hope everything's going okay with the search for your dad. I know you're busy, but I just wanted to check in." Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she moved around her living room, tidying up the bookcase and dusting the coffee table. The rhythmic motion of cleaning was a welcome distraction, but her mind wandered back to Sam, wondering how he was doing.

"My brother was asking if you preferred ham or turkey for Thanksgiving... You know, even though he's vegan, he's all about cooking what you'd like. He said he wanted to make it special, just for you. Also, he asked if Dean wanted to come over for Thanksgiving too. I guess he wants to get to know your family." She smiled to herself at the thought of her brother's quirky insistence on trying to make a traditional meal despite his lifestyle.

As she finished dusting the table, her heart tightened. "I miss you, love you, Sammy." She blew a kiss into the phone, her voice tender, and then she ended the voicemail, the silence in the room pressing in on her once again. With a sigh, she turned back to her fall cleanup, pretending that the empty spaces in her life weren't growing bigger by the minute.

As Rosemarie neared the window with her wet rag, she noticed something strange—trails of salt scattered across the floor. Confused, she bent down and picked up a pinch between her fingers. "I swear to God, why is all this salt here?" she muttered under her breath, her brow furrowed in irritation. She wiped the area of the window, but as she moved along, more salt trails appeared, further frustrating her. She couldn't understand why there was so much salt to clean, and it only added to her growing unease. Little did she know, the salt was there to keep her safe, though the purpose of it was beyond her comprehension.

After finishing the cleaning, Rosemarie grabbed her phone, the frustration still lingering in her chest. Her ponytail swayed slightly as she shook off some of the salt that had fallen from the high window above the door. With a sigh, she pulled up Jessica's contact info and balanced the phone against her shoulder, waiting as it rang. On the second ring, the call was picked up.

"Hey, Jessica," Rosemarie said, her voice softening. "I was wondering if you wanted to come over and stay the night. Sam's out of town until tomorrow night."

"I would love to! As long as we can watch Gilmore Girls," Jessica responded with excitement, her voice a little too eager for Rosemarie's taste. Rosemarie rolled her eyes at the mention of the show.

"I'm telling you, Sam looks exactly like that Dean guy," Jessica added, not picking up on Rosemarie's less-than-thrilled expression.

Rosemarie couldn't help but smile wryly, the sarcasm bubbling up as she replied, "Oh, what a coincidence that my boyfriend has a brother named Dean and looks like a character called Dean." She let out a playful sigh, shaking her head. 

"But fine, we'll watch Gilmore Girls—just because you said so," Rosemarie said with exaggerated, false defeat, rolling her eyes as if giving in to some great injustice.

"Yay!" Jessica replied, her voice high-pitched with excitement, as if she had just won the ultimate prize. Rosemarie could practically hear her jumping up and down on the other end of the line, and she couldn't help but chuckle softly at her friend's enthusiasm. It was funny how the simplest things could make Jessica so happy, even if it meant indulging in a TV show Rosemarie didn't exactly love.

[ SHORTER CHAPTER BUT I WANTED TO GET STARTED ON THE PLOT NEXT CHAPTER IT IS WHERE IT STARTS TO PICK UP THE PACE

I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS, SO DON'T BE SHY AND COMMENT!

ALSO IF YOU LIKE THIS STORY CHECK OUT MY OTHER SPN FANFICTION CALLED ETHERAL]