It was late and I was tired. Tired enough that I could fall asleep in seconds if I would just close my eyes. But I couldn't. I had to tell him myself. It was stupid. Seriously stupid. But I needed this. It was perfectly reasonable. Or was it?
My stuff was already in the trunk of an old ford I'm borrowing from some elderly people down the street. I really should feel bad, but they're about to kick it and neither can legally drive anyway. So by that logic, it would be morally irresponsible for me not to take it. Right?
I've been questioning myself a lot lately. It's an uncomfortable feeling.
I shifted nervously in the seat where my father awaited my arrival a little over a week ago. My heartbeat was in my throat as I stared at the door. My eyes focused on the cool, unforgiving shine of the golden, metal knob. I stared. Waiting.
I was practically handing myself a death sentence. I don't know why I felt the need to tell him myself. Perhaps I just wanted to see the look on his face when I told him I was leaving, that I was skipping out of this piece of crap town and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop me.
I shook my head. He'd kill me if I said any of that to him. Literally. What the hell was I thinking? I stood up quickly, my legs shaking anxiously beneath me. I had to get out before he got home.
I grabbed my backpack from the counter, shoving my phone inside. Then I heard the all too familiar sound of the front door creaking open. I spun around, my hair whipping across my face. My father's shadow stood in its frame. I wasn't fast enough. Not even close.
He looked at me, then back to the ford parked in the road. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together. "Where do you think you're going?" He growled, more fury written on his face than I had ever seen.
I made a horrible mistake; such an understatement. I've never seen so much anger in his eyes; his skin was boiling red. This was it. Goddammit this was the end. I struggled to put my words together.
"I was... just uhhh... just going for a late night drive, is all. Need to clear my head." Stupid.
His lip twitched as he moved closer to me. "You're a bad liar, (y/n). You plan on leaving. Running away from your old man, isn't that right?"
As he took another step closer to me, I saw the absolute disgust in his eyes; the complete look of betrayal and blame that he had been shoving on me for years. He didn't even try to hide it. He didn't care that he used his own daughter as a punching bag. He didn't care; not about me.
"I'll ask you again, bitch. You leaving this house?!" As his voice escalated, sending chills down my spine, I noticed his right hand curl into a fist. For some reason, I wasn't phased.
I straightened my back and taking a deep breath, I looked my accuser right in the eye. "Yes, I am. And I'm not ever coming back. So move out of my way. " I don't know how those words managed to pass through my lips. I couldn't recognize my own voice; so fearless, so confident. I don't know where it came from, but God was I enjoying the power it gave me.
His firm expression wavered, confusion filling his face.
"What did you say, girl?" He grabbed my shirt, yanking me towards him. My backpack fell from my grasp. "You are not leaving this house! Not ever!"
For some reason I wasn't afraid. Not when he broke my nose, or when he slammed me into the glass coffee table, causing it to shatter beneath me. I wasn't afraid when he pushed my arms into the thick shards of broken glass, or when I felt my blood cascading from my skin. I wasn't afraid as he threw punch after punch at me, trying to knock me unconscious. I forced myself to stay awake. I knew if he won this round, I'd never make it out again.
I couldn't hear him screaming anymore; only white noise. I watched him above me as nothing but pure anger radiated across his features. He didn't plan on stopping. He was going to kill me. In the smallest brink of a second, I realized that I didn't want him to.
My anger suddenly boiled through me as I forced him off of me, fighting back for the first time in my life. I pushed his body hard enough that he stumbled backwards, tripping over a lamp, causing it fall and shatter against the wooden tiles. He was stunned as I stood to my feet.
"I'm sick of you blaming me for what happened!" I shouted, a new found rage inside my chest. My hands curled into fists. I could feel my nails pierce the palm of my hand, allowing blood to drip freely. "You can't treat me like this! You're pathetic and cruel and a lair and a fucking piece of shit!"
Before I knew what I was doing, I yanked the hidden loaded gun from beneath the desk drawer. The metal felt cool in my grasp, like it had been waiting for me. It felt so right, holding it in my hands. It gave me power; power that had always craved, and only now realized that I deserved.
My father quivered in his stance. He knew I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger, not after all he had done to me. He held his arms in the air defensively.
"Sweetheart, please, I only want what's best for you." He begged. I had never seen him so afraid. I wondered for a moment if this was how he saw me. The feeling made my stomach turn.
I aimed the gun, holding the trigger lightly against my finger. I'd do it. I really would. My upper lip twitched as I stared him down. I could feel the years of pain and the anger radiating in my body. There wasn't even a choice. I knew exactly what I had to do.
I released the safely and he began to scream.
"(Y/n) don't! You're mother wouldn't want this!" He cried.
I blinked through tears; tears I didn't even know I had been shedding. Everything around me pulling to a sudden stop. My chest felt empty. "How dare you mention her to me! After all the shit you put me through, how fucking dare you even speak of her!"
I was ready to kill him. The hatred, the anger, it was overwhelming. I felt it consuming me, the same way he allowed it to consume him all those years ago. He continued to cry, huddling in the corner like a child. I couldn't let myself become the monster he was. If I killed him, right now, that is exactly what I would become. I couldn't do that to myself. I deserved better.
I lower the gun.
"You will not come after me. You will not look for me. You will let me go in peace." I said, my voice stronger than I had ever heard it. I knelt down next to him, my face only inches from his. He turned away, afraid. "You will never see me again, you understand? I promise, I will kill you if you come after me. I can assure you, I keep my promises."
He nodded, hands still raised in his air, as if that would protect him. They never protected me.
I tucked the gun into the waist of my jeans and grabbed my backpack from the floor. I stepped out the front door without looking back. I never would again.
I don't know how I got here. Or what the hell I thought I was doing. I sat in the stolen ford, staring at the motel Dean and Sam were currently sleeping in. It was almost 4 in the morning. I couldn't wake them. I couldn't bring this kind of baggage down on them. They had enough to worry about.
Plus there was that whole I'm-never-talking-to-you-again-thing between me and Dean. Maybe tonight could just be a white flag? No. I can't go running to him, not after how I ended things. I sighed, trying to convince myself that I could handle this on my own.
But then I looked at the steady stream of blood pouring down my arm, slipping easily over the fingers that attempted to keep it inside. This needed stitched, bad. I sure as hell couldn't do it myself and I wasn't about to go to a hospital where try would ask a ton of questions. I needed hunters. Honestly, I needed Dean.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath before I was able to push myself out of the car. I walked to the motel, clenching my wound with my right hand. What would he say? What if he was still mad at me? What if he didn't let me in?
I didn't have time to worry about that now. I could feel myself getting lightheaded. I was losing too much blood and I knew I would pass out soon. Whether he was still mad or not, he wouldn't let me bleed out. I think.
I knocked on the door, leaving blood against its rusted frame.
"What the hell is that?" Dean said from inside, his voice groggy. I heard movement and the sliding of the drawer. He's getting a gun. I smiled, of course he was.
"Maybe it's dad?" Sam offered.
Dean shushed him. I heard his footsteps move closer to the door. There was no peephole, so he couldn't tell it was me.
"Who's there?" He shouted, I heard him place the barrel of the gun against the metal door.
I tried to say my name, but I found that couldn't speak. My voice wouldn't come out. Instead, I was crying. I don't know when it started but I couldn't make myself stop. The only thing I could force out was his name, broken and begging.
The door swung open and Dean stood in its frame; wearing nothing but an old worn down T-shirt and boxers, his hair sticking out all over the place. His jaw dropped at my appearance. I knew my arm was bad, but I didn't stop to think what had become of my face. I didn't want to imagine what he must think of me.
"I... I'm sorry... I should go..." I muttered through the sobs. I turned on my heels and tried to get out as fast as possible, but Dean was faster.
"(Y/n), stop." He grabbed me softly. He pulled me into his arms with enormous care. He rested his chin on the top of my head, holding me tighter. "It's alright. You're going to be alright. It's over. I promise it's all over."
I closed my eyes, allowing myself to lean against his chest. I felt his hand running through my hair, trying to calm me down. He didn't seem to care that my hair was knotted with dried blood. He just kept rubbing circles on my back, pulling me closer to him like this was his last chance to hold me. I felt my heart skip, knowing that was in the near future.
He pulled back, still holding onto my shoulders, a light smile on his face.
"We should take care of that arm, yeah?" Dean said, pointing at the wound.
I nodded, staring at the blood that was now all over his shirt and hands. He didn't seem bothered; not at all. Maybe he was used to it, being a hunter and all. He lightly pressed his hand against my back, leading me into the motel room.
When we stepped inside, Sam stood immediately to his feet. "(Y/n)! What happened?"
I allowed my cheeks to lift into a smile, feeling my lips crack. "I followed some good advice." Sam's eyes widened. I could tell he blamed himself. Hunters have a knack for that. I reassured him quickly. "It's ok Sam, I needed it. I needed to get out."
He nodded sitting back down on the bed, not sure if he should believe me or not. Dean turned to him.
"Sammy, I need some ice from down the hall, ok?" Dean said calmly.
Sam nodded and jumped up from the bed. He bolted out the door.
Dean turned to me. "You're going to alright."
"I know. You don't have to keep saying that." I said, already angry at myself for snapping it him so quickly. I looked over to him, he didn't seem to catch offense. Instead, he was staring intently at my arm, wondering how the hell I managed to get a cut so deep.
Dean sighed, pressing his fingers against the wound in my arm. I flinched. "Sam said he talked to you earlier today, about leaving."
I nodded. "Yeah, well the kid's persuasive."
Dean laughed. "I see that."
He stood up for a moment, letting his fingers linger against my hand for longer than necessary. He walked to the other side of the room and grabbed the bottle of gin from the table. I closed my eyes, anxiety flooding in my chest.
"Do you have to? That's going to hurt like a bitch." I bit my lip, trying to ignore the pain in my arm.
Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at the bottle, then back to me. "Only if you don't want an infection. But hey, if you want to lose the arm, fine by me."
He pulled a chair up in front of me as I sat on his bed. It was unmade, but warm. I wondered for a moment what he looked like when he was asleep. Stoic, like he was awake? Or peaceful; like for a brief moment in time he could forget about the monsters that plague us and pretend he was just a normal kid? My bet was on the latter.
"Does it hurt?" Dean asked, pressed his hand against the wound, attempting to apply pressure.
"No." I realized, shrugging. I don't know when the pain stopped, really. I'm just glad it did. "I think I'm at the point where everything is just numb."
He lifted his hand away and used the other, the one not currently covered in my blood, to push my fallen hair behind my ear. "We should probably clean your face too. You've got a lot of blood on there."
I nodded, suddenly very self-conscious. "Yeah..."
Dean grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom and handed it to me. I dabbed the wet cloth against my face, winching at the pressure. I felt his hand on my thigh; not in a I'm-hitting-on-you kind of way. It was more like he was just reminding me that he was there, that wasn't going anywhere, and he wanted me to feel safe. It was working.
"Where are you going to go?" Dean asked suddenly, his hand squeezing my leg when he noticed my thigh twitch out of pain.
"I don't know," I said honestly, lowering the towel so I could look at him. "Somewhere far away from here. Maybe New York. Maybe some no where town in South Dakota. Who knows?"
I could feel myself grinning wildly, despite the broken skin across my face. "I like the freedom."
Dean forced a smile, as if he knew exactly what I had been craving all these years. He probably did. Only, he was never going to leave his family. We both knew that no matter how bad it got, he would never want to; not with Sam around.
He sighed, looking to me, a warmness in his eyes. "I'm proud of you."
I wish I could have responded, but I couldn't form the words. I honestly didn't know the last time I had heard someone say to me. Years probably. I stared at him intently, trying to say thank you, or ask him why, but I was at a loss.
Dean stepped closer to me.
"That's a nasty cut." He point at the jagged scar along my forehead, breaking the silence. "We should probably stitch that too."
"Great." I mumbled. Dean playfully shot me a glance. I grinned back at him.
"So, Sam got you to stand up to the guy, huh?" Dean asked, as he grabbed the bottle of gin, taking a quick swig before dumping some on a fresh towel.
"You jealous?" I laughed, trying to ignore the searing pain as he placed the alcohol covered towel onto the wound.
He shook his head, chuckling. "I'm not surprised he got through to you, honestly. He's a smart kid. Always knows what to say. While I just kind of yelled at you..."
I looked at him, titling my head with a grin.
"Right, sorry about that." Dean apologized, doing that nervous twitch he does as he ran his fingers through his hair. It only made it messier, really. But I found myself enjoying it every time he does.
"No it's fine. I get it. I was kind of irrational." I admitted. It wasn't easy to say. That I had been wrong. I didn't like it.
"It's understandable." Dean simply said.
Then San came running through the door carrying a bucket full of ice. He handed it to Dean. "Here." He said, brushing his hands off on his pants. "I'm going to take a nice long walk now, ok?"
Sam winked at his brother.
"It's 4 in the morning, Sam..." I started but he held up his hand.
"I do it all the time. You two should talk anyway." Sam started backing away. "I think (Y/n) has some stuff she needs to get off her chest."
I looked at him. Glared, actually. "No I don't."
"Yes you do. And you know exactly what I'm talking about." Sam said before he slipped out the door.
Dean grabbed the needle and thread from the counter. "What was that about?" He asked, nodding to the door where Sam had just made his escape.
I rolled my eyes, trying to play it cool. "Sam is under the impression that I only stayed in that house, not because I was afraid to leave, but because I thought I deserved to be there." I forced a laugh, as if I wasn't telling the truth. Honestly, it was bad enough Dean had to see me like this... He didn't need to know that my tragic backstory gets worse.
Dean stuck the needle in my arm, pulling it out the other side, weaving the thread in my skin. I winced.
"But he's right, isn't he?" Dean said, casually enough that I wouldn't go off on him. Clever. But I was done yelling at Dean. I didn't want to fight with him again. I was far too tired for that.
"No..." I started.
Dean raised an eyebrow. "We all have tragic backstories, yours just happens to be a bit less known."
I laughed. "That's not fair to use my own witty ploys against me."
Dean grinned as he continued to sew my arm. "You gave me no choice."
"You don't think my backstory is tragic enough as it is?" I laughed. I wasn't sure why I was. But he made me feel alright. Just like he said he would.
"Of course it is. But we're hunters, remember? What seems bad is always much worse."
He had a point. But did I really want to tell him? He would be gone in a few days anyway, so my secret would be safe with him. I knew I could trust him, it's just.... I didn't want him to know. I didn't want anyone to know. But he's really the first person to come along that cared enough to ask what was wrong. He deserved answers.
"I killed my mom." I said suddenly.
Dean stopped. He didn't look at me, it didn't even take him a minute to respond. "What happened?"
I swallowed, unprepared to tell the story. He gently cut the extra thread handing from the sewn up gash in my arm. He sat on the bed, turning his body so he could face me.
When I didn't answer, he spoke. "I watched my mom die, you know."
I nodded, I knew the story. But he continued anyway.
"She was on the ceiling and she had blood across her night dress. It lit into flames and I had to carry Sammy out of the house, before the fire got us." Dean rested his hands on his legs, squeezing his knees until his knuckles turned white. He clearly didn't like recalling memories either. "These aren't thing you get over. But you can move past it. Grow... or some shit."
I laughed, nodding. He smiled and comfortably allowed the silence to take over until I decided to speak.
"I was 8." I began. I had never spoken the story out loud to anyone before. Not even myself. Dean took my hand when he noticed them shaking. "My parents had just come back from a hunt. Demons. I was in bed when I heard the door close, but there were a lot of loud noises. My parents were normally pretty quiet when they got back, so I wouldn't wake up. I knew something was wrong. So, I got out of bed to see what was going on, and there was my mom... bounding up the stairs, charging at me with a blackness in her eyes."
"She was possessed?"
I nodded, taking a deep breath. "She wrapped a cord around my neck. I tried to say the incantation, but I was so young. I couldn't remember all of it. I was scared and choking and I didn't know what to do. She was yelling at my dad, I don't even remember what about. But I was losing air, fast, and I could feel myself sipping away. So I pushed her."
Dean stared at me, an acceptance and forgiveness in his eyes I didn't expect.
"I wasn't that strong, but she hit her head. The demon left her and all I saw was my mother's body at the bottom of the stairs, blood pooling around her head. I killed her." Tears were building behind my eyes. I tried to force them away. I tried to be strong, but I couldn't and they came anyway. Dean pulled me into his embrace, stroking my hair.
"It was an accident. It wasn't your fault." He said repeatedly until I believed him.
After a while, I sat up and wiped the tears from my cheeks. I was incredibly exhausted. It had been a pretty eventful day, if you want to call it that. Not to mention the emotion roller coaster I just went through. I needed a break. I could feel my entire body craving rest as I looked to the clock. It was almost 6 in the morning.
I turned back to Dean. "I'd like to sleep, if that's ok?"
Dean nodded, "Yeah of course. You can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
I nodded, too tired to feel bad for taking his bed. I crawled under the blankets, pulling them up to my neck.
"I'm going to go and get Sam." Dean said, running his hand delicately against my cheek. "I'll be right back. Get some rest."
I was asleep before he stepped out the door.
