LILITH | DEAN WINCHESTER [ ✓ ]

26. who's that girl?

◖𓈈﹗ ﹙ chapter twenty-six﹚
❛ ▬▬ who's that girl? . . . ❜

"This is the first photo Mom took with the Polaroid camera, right when we arrived in London,"

Lilith said. She and her mother had returned from their European vacation a couple of days ago.

"How many Harry Potter places did you visit on the first day?" Sam asked, showing her a photograph of herself dressed as a Harry Potter fan, posing with a smile on Platform 9¾.

"All of them," Lilith admitted, laughing. Dean sipped his coffee and spread some butter on toast, showing interest in a set of separate photographs secured with a hair tie. "No, no, you can't see those."

The conditions Mom had set for the trip felt like the mandates of a dictator. Lilith didn't dare mention witchcraft or monsters. She even resisted her innate desires to immerse herself in the European stories that tempted her to discover ancient magic. When they returned, they went straight home. After resting and regaining enough energy, they started cleaning and dusting off the absence of life. It had been a dilemma for both of them, and the climax of a traumatic event marked the closure of the past.

She had felt that pressure in her heart before, appearing in her darkest moments. She had thought that when she stood in front of her house again, the urge to vomit would barely surface. But it hadn't been the case while she was studying at the coven. She had created a conflict with her own home, and whenever she wanted to run down the street, her mom would suffer a shock that almost shattered her recovery from the vacation. Lilith took the initiative by reversing the roles they were used to: she still felt like a child holding her mother's hand whenever she was around her. She needed to awaken. She couldn't rely on her mom for everything, or rather, emotionally. Things started to improve from there. She was the first to step inside the house.

"Why can't I see them?" Dean, resembling the old lady Maud in some ways, loved the juiciest parts of stories, and the set of photographs she had taken were the traces of her journey through Amsterdam. "Oh god..."