Cherry Pie

Mrs. Adams

[Rayne]

The gentle purr of the Impala was the first thing I noticed when I woke up. Yawning, I sat up straighter in my seat. My body was still sore, but at least the headaches was slightly better. Blinking away the sleep, I looked outside my window. 

"Morning, sunshine," Dean said, looking away from the wheel to wink at me. "You're just in time."

"We're here already?" I asked just as I recognized the familiar stretch of highway we were on.

"Yeah, you slept the entire way," he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "That half a pill really knocked you out." 

Judging by position of the sun, it must have already been late morning of the next day. "Did you drive the entire way?"

"Sam took over for a bit while I got some shut eye."

Turning around, I found Sam sleeping in the back seat, his mouth hanging slightly open. He looked way too uncomfortable — his long legs stretched out in an awkward position — and I suddenly felt guilty for playing the carsickness card.

"So, do you think your mom will be working right now?" Dean asked me.

"Oh, yeah," I said after glancing at the clock on the dashboard. "She works at a bakery in the downtown area. She usually gets home at three on Tuesdays."

"Perfect, we'll have time to get some grub. I'm starving!"

Even though I was still feeling a bit queasy, I was ready for some food myself. We stopped by a random diner on the side of the highway twenty minutes later. I had a BLT sandwich, Sam had a chicken salad, and Dean ordered a double cheeseburger. The waitress gawked at Dean, Sam got frustrated with his brother's and my back and forth banter, and then Dean demanded pie and made somewhat of a scene when the flustered waitress tried to explain that they ran out. All in all, it was a lovely meal, and I had a feeling that it was setting the pattern for similar future pit stops with the Winchester brothers.

A few hours later we were pulling into the driveway behind my mom's car. Looking up at the house that I grew up in, I inhaled deeply and then held my breath. The last time I talked to her was a few months ago when we had yet another argument about my plans for my life.

My parents had always envisioned me growing up and going to some fancy Ivy League school, and for a while there, I was all on board. I had the grades and the determination; I was going to become a professor or a museum curator or a doctor. Well, I didn't really know what I wanted to become, but I was content with the endless possibilities. Then my dad died shortly before I graduated high school and the whole idea of going to university suddenly seemed silly and meaningless.

What was the point of getting a degree? My dad was dead.

Mom was understanding for about a year; I'd just lost my father...the last thing I wanted to think about was applying to universities. But after the initial period of grieving was over, and I still saw no point in going to school, she became less understanding. I didn't want a prestigious, well-paying career anymore; I was content with taking on the odd job here and there that would be enough to pay the rent. I moved out on my own shortly after the funeral — unable to live in a house which I knew would never again have my dad walk through its front door.

For the past few months I'd been working at a bar that always had plenty of interesting customers to talk to. Some were rude and chauvinistic, but others were entertaining and generous tippers. My boss was also kind enough and made sure some of the roudier customers kept their hands off me. The work may have been a little demeaning at times, but I'd always assumed that it was just a stepping-stone to whatever job I would have once I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. It was safe to say that I was more comfortable with a life of uncertainty than the average person. My mother did not like that for me.