Tell Me Your Story

Chapter Seventeen - The Story

Dean watched Cas, trying to read his face. Anger was the most obvious emotion, and sadness, but Dean thought maybe he also saw a little fear. Cas' eyes dropped from Dean's face to his own hands, a thousand unreadable thoughts going across his face, before he settled on one. Dean opened his mouth, about to speak without knowing what to say, when Cas stood up. Dean watched as Cas walked over to his dresser and pulled a notebook out of one of the drawers. Cas stared at it for a second, before handing it to Dean and pulling out his phone. Dean took the notebook.

Don't read it until you get home, and if you tell anyone about it or show it to anyone, I swear to god i'll kill you.

Dean stood up.

"I should go, then. Thanks for letting me crash here. And Cas... thanks for trusting me," Dean said. Cas just turned away from Dean. Dean went down to his car and started it up before realizing he didn't know where to go. He didn't think Sam would appreciate him coming back so soon. He glanced up at the house to see Cas still watching him from the window and started driving, figuring he would decide where he was going on the way.

Dean ended up just driving around for almost an hour before giving up and returning home. When he opened the door, he was greeted by the sweet sight of an empty house. Dean hurried up to his room and sat on his bed, pulling out the notebook and opening it, starting to read.

I guess I remember the sounds the best. The crunch, the scream... but the doctor says I should start from the beginning, so that's what I'm going to do. Mom and Dad were thrilled at the prospect of having a third kid. My mom always said three was a nice number, although I don't see the reasoning behind that. Anyway, they were excited, and in the interest of full disclosure(something else the doctor said), so was I. I mean, I loved Gabe, sure, but the prospect of having a little sister was new and exciting for me, I was always asking about her, since I was still talking back then. We were all happy those first seven years. But one day, I got in trouble at school. It involved calling a kid a few unpleasant names. But my mom had to come pick me up early. She was disappointed, but she didn't bug me about it. She just turned on the radio and started singing along. She did that a lot, singing along to the radio. Her singing voice was beautiful, sometimes she did funny voices to make me laugh. That particular day she just sang normally, and I sat in the backseat listening and looking out the window. It was a beautiful day. It was fall, so the leaves were turning different colors, and the sky was so blue. I don't know how far away from our house we were when it happened. Probably not that far, though. I wasn't even paying attention. All I knew was that one minute my mom was singing and the next she was screaming. There was a crashing sound and all of a sudden we had rolled into the ditch by the side of the interstate. I started crying almost immediately. I'd broken my arm, although I didn't know that yet. I couldn't get out of my seatbelt, so I started begging my mom to help me. I think about that moment a lot, and there are so many times that I've wished my cries had gone unanswered. But she was still alive. She tried to calm me down, telling me everything was going to be okay. And she apologized. She fucking apologized to me, like it was her fault. "I'm sorry" was the last thing she ever said to me. And she died, with me sitting in the back seat, crying, not knowing what was happening. And the radio was still on. The goddamn radio was still going, and I had to listen to the top 40 hits while my mom got cold in the front seat. I managed to slip out of my seatbelt after a while - it felt like years - and I crawled up to the front seat. God I wish I hadn't. Her face was all cut to hell from pieces of the windshield, and she was all twisted around in ways she shouldn't have been. Her eyes were still open, and they stared at me. I didn't like the way they stared, but it didn't cross my mind to close them. I did the only thing my seven-year-old brain could think to do. I curled up in her lap and cried. And that was exactly how they found me. They had to literally pry me off of her. I catch myself thinking about what might have been different all the time. How I might have turned out. What it would've been like to have a little sister. Dad never looked at me the same again. Maybe he thought of it as my fault. Maybe I just look too much like her. Maybe both. I don't know. But I don't blame him. I can't stand to look at me either.