A/N: So it's angst-o-rama time in Irisland. Don't know what this is or where it came from. Er. Spoilers up to the end of Season 2 I guess. Written in Yank! Whoo-hoo! Un-beta'd so any mistakes remain the property of the writer.

Disclaimer: Kripke and the CW own the pretty. I just drool.

AND TIME MOVES ON

I lost my mom when I was six months old.

She died in flames on the ceiling above my crib, stomach ripped open and blood dripping down.

Or so my dad said.

To be honest, for the longest time I thought he was crazy.

And I wasn't alone.

Family, friends, neighbors. The cops and the fire department. They all said it was an accident; faulty wiring. It was an old house, they said.

Stress, they said.

Everyone thought my dad was crazy; maybe I'd be better off living with someone else.

Which is when we moved away.

Left everyone behind: family, friends, neighbors. The cops and the fire department. Hearth and home.

Still no one believed my dad.

Not until he started to speak to fortune tellers and psychics; men who carried rosaries and holy water and showed him old books full of monsters.

I guess my dad went a little off the rails then. Salt across the doorways, salt along the windowsills.

Me? Me, I just wanted to be normal. Make friends, study hard, play sports.

It never struck me back then, but my dad never looked at me like I was normal. Not after Mom. Not after what happened.

Don't make friends, don't put down roots. Don't tell anyone anything.

We moved away a lot.

And then finally I moved away alone.

College. Freedom. Normal.

Give me normal.

Give me classes and schedules and books without monsters. Give me friends and fun and home.

I loved and I lost.

I loved and I lived.

Until the nightmares started.

I was twenty-two and dreaming of pretty girls on fire on the ceiling; of death and pain and Why?

For a while I went on with my normal life, buried my head in the sand and pretended I didn't hear them screaming.

In my dreams.

Thought about calling my dad, but he'd said if I left I shouldn't come back.

So I didn't call. Even when I wanted to. Even when I needed to.

I just waited, pretending. Waiting for someone to die. Pretending it wasn't my fault.

When it happened I lost control.

Something moved within me and then things moved around me.

I didn't touch; just thought.

I thought about calling the fortune tellers, the psychics; the men with rosaries and holy water and books full of monsters.

Was I a monster?

No, I was special.

Chosen.

That was what the yellow-eyed man told me in my dreams.

I ignored him too for a while, always in my dreams. Always pushing.

But there came a time when I just couldn't ignore him anymore.

The day he took me to Cold Oak, South Dakota.

It was a competition, he said. The best and the brightest, he said. Be all you can be.

And I was.

I was all I could be and more.

Killed them all, every last one of them.

But I couldn't look in the mirror after.

Couldn't look at my eyes.

For so long after.

He said I was his champion. Said he had plans for me. Said he needed one little favor then we'd be done. Just one little favor.

When I asked him what that was he just grinned.

"You'll know," he said. "When I come to collect."

And he let me go home.

Back to normal.

Back to my life.

No more nightmares, no more murders. No girls on the ceiling or monsters under the bed.

No red eyes in the mirror.

No yellow eyes in my dreams.

And time moved on.

Maybe it was over. Maybe it was really over. Maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe I was free.

Time moved on.

And one day I met the love of my life.

Somehow the past never came between us. I never brought it up and no questions were ever asked. If I wanted to talk, I'd talk.

But I didn't. Not ever.

We were married in a church with white flowers.

Our son came in the winter. There was ice around the windows instead of salt.

They said he had my eyes, my smile, and he was perfect. So perfect.

I couldn't be a monster. Not to have brought such a beautiful, perfect, innocent thing into the world.

I closed my eyes and prayed that it was over. It was really over.

He grew as babies do, time moving on. He was gentle and trusting. Eyes wide to the world. He asked about angels and about God; about the sun and the moon; about the sea and the stars.

But he never asked about monsters and I never told him.

The yellow-eyed man didn't come back for his favor, so my boy didn't need to know.

He didn't need to know about monsters.

Our second son was born in the spring. Sunshine around the windows instead of salt.

He was as beautiful as the first. Smart as a whip. Looked at you as if he knew every thought in your head.

He was perfect.

We were perfect. The four of us.

We were normal. We were safe.

Until one night in November when we were suddenly neither.

I asked him what he was doing there, the yellow-eyed man standing over my baby's crib.

Said he'd come for his favor.

Said I'd fulfilled my purpose, and here was the proof.

He smiled as his blood dripped into my baby's mouth.

I told him to get away, closed my eyes and tried to remember how it worked.

Tried so hard.

But all I did was rattle the closet door and make a couple of stuffed toys fall off the shelf.

Not enough.

Never enough.

"Don't be like that," he'd said, the yellow-eyed man standing over my baby. "I can spare you if you don't get in my way. Let you keep your little boy. Just give me this one. Like you were supposed to. You owe me this."

I tried again. Closed my eyes. Concentrated really hard.

When I opened them I was on the ceiling, my own blood dripping down onto my baby as yellow eyes looked up at me.

"Wrong place, wrong time," he said, snapping his fingers as orange flame blossomed around me.

"Why?" I whispered, the girl on the ceiling, her words mine. "Why Sam?"

"The best and the brightest," he said. "I have a job for him. One little favor. One job."

"No! Please! Not Sam! Why Sam?"

He just smiled up at me. "It's always been about Sam."

Time moved on.

I didn't see my boys again for many years.

I existed – somewhere. Found our old house.

But my boys were gone and the love of my life with them.

New families came. New children.

I did my best to protect them from the things out there in the dark.

My penance, I suppose. For what I did.

And the next time I saw my baby I told him I was sorry.

For what I'd done.

For what he would have to do.

Smart as a whip. He knew me straight off.

Tall like my dad.

Smile like my dad.

And he knew me.

"Sam, I'm sorry."

Then I saved him.

From the thing in our house, at least.

Saved him, saved Dean.

Dean. If it hadn't been for his eyes I might not have recognized him. So much sadder than I remembered.

Eyes like mine.

Eyes like my mom.

Dead on the ceiling both.

But I saved them for a little while.

Until Sam died.

When Sam died – the best and the brightest – killed by a boy trying to be all he could be.

When Sam died he didn't come into the light.

I waited for him.

Like I waited for the love of my life.

But neither came.

Not until Dean killed him.

The yellow-eyed man.

Killed him, killed himself. To save his brother.

Save him like I never could.

Two innocents lost.

Sam will never be the same.

There will always be that one little favor.

And though my love's here with me now, because of Dean, because of Sam, somehow I don't think Dean will be here with us when his time comes.

He asked about angels and about God.

But he never asked about Hell and the Devil.

Time moves on.

Years slip through our fingers like sand and like promises. Like favors and duty and destiny.

And history repeats, endlessly.

I couldn't save them.

Maybe they can save each other.

Only time and death will tell.

The End

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