Articles of Alise

It is a blazing hot day, and you grab your hair in one hand and hold it off your neck, fan yourself, look around. Your grandfather is off to the side, talking to some parishioners. He makes an imposing presence. Tall and handsome, spry even at his advanced age. He barely talks to you and your mother anymore, her illness like a stain on his vest he otherwise pretends is clean. 

The truth is that having his attention off you is a blessing. Only one more year, and in theory you’re free to go where you want – if it wasn’t for your mother’s ill health. If it wasn’t for the fact that you have nowhere to go. You’re done with school, but your grades aren’t good enough to get you anywhere. It feels like you’re just treading water, while the need to get away burns a hole into your stomach. 

You’re good at two things: knowing hunting lore and keeping secrets. The first one you learn from your many afternoons spent at Bobby's house. He’s still the place you disappear to when things get too much. He lets you borrow any book you like, answers any questions you have. If you ask a lot, you sometimes get him annoyed, but other than sigh and grumble, he doesn’t do much to stop you.

The second one, the keeping secrets? You don’t know where you learned that. Maybe it’s part of your DNA. So while the promise of freedom is there, the practicality of it is a different matter. You sigh, and then suddenly you hear a voice that makes you turn around quickly. 

He’s far off, talking to your grandfather, but you recognize the tall frame, the dark hair, the timbre of his voice. It’s John Winchester. You take a step forward, because where John is, Sam and Dean might not be far behind.

You don’t make it far. Two steps, and then a pair of hands clasps around your waist, briefly tickling you. You spin around, and Dean’s grinning face is revealed to you. 

For a second you almost squeal, but bite your lips instead because you don’t want anyone to see you like this, and then you throw your arms around him. Dean hugs you back, pulls you close and through the overarching happiness to see him again you can’t help but notice that he’s filled out, that he’s taller, that he’s grown up. You let go of him, and stare up at him with an unbelieving smile. He’s still the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen, so pretty that to look at him is almost painful.

The Winchester patriarch has always made you nervous. He’s handsome and can even be somewhat charming when he wants to, but he’s also a clenched fist of nerves. You see the way the boys tense, straighten when he’s around. Like little soldiers. A couple of times, when he didn’t know someone else was around, you’ve heard John shout at them. Dean doesn’t have the same disdain for him you have for your mother, but you’ve seen some of it in Sam.

You are reminded of that when you turn away from Dean and see his little brother lingering behind him, hands deep in his pockets, looking around suspiciously. 

“Hey Sammy,” you say and as he steps closer, you reach out your hand and ruffle his hair, although he’s getting to be taller than you. He’s skinnier than he was when you last saw him, lanky in that way boys that age often are, all elbows and Adam’s apple. 

“It’s Sam,” he says, with a voice that cracks and he immediately blushes. Could be a late effect of his voice breaking, could be nerves, you think, by the way he avoids looking at your face. You make a note not to treat him like such a kid. 

Then Dean slings his arm around you, not in that romantic way, but in the way where your neck is caught in the bend of his elbow. You giggle, and he leads you away, Sam following close by. 

“What have you been up to?” Dean asks as you walk away from the tent to a nearby tree, the buzz of people’s voices replaced by the singsong of birds. “Anything exciting happen in Sioux Falls?” You roll your eyes, grab Dean’s wrist to steady yourself, but more than that just to touch him. 

“Nothing exciting ever happens in Sioux Falls,” you reply. It’s not true, you barely go into the city proper. But out here, on the outskirts, where it’s farms and churches, nothing happens that you would want to talk about. 

“So what’s the case your dad is on?” you ask instead as Dean lets go of you, and the three of you plop down in the shade of the large tree, Sam on the other side of Dean, a safe distance between you, but not between you and Dean. You’re shoulder to shoulder and as you stretch out your naked legs, you catch him looking at them. 

“Exorcism,” he answers, and you notice he's talking with a little bit of an extra put-on drawl. It makes your heart flutter with love. Dean might be a man now more than he is a boy, but he’s still trying to seem like more of an adult than he actually is. 

“Exorcism or crazy person?” you ask, wrapping your arms around your knees. There’s enough people out here that have actual, real demons possessing them, but your church – your grandfather’s church, you correct yourself, because it sure as hell isn’t yours – somehow still seems to land a lot of cases where it’s really a person that needs other things. Medication, a hospital. Oh, but that would be shameful. Better to think they are possessed. You shake your head just at the thought of it. 

“Not sure,” Dean says, shrugging. “I guess I’ll see.” Your head whips around to him. 

“You’re gonna join him?” you ask, eyes wide, and a flash of jealousy that is physically painful goes through you. Dean gets to hunt, he gets to face off with what is out there, while you get to sit at home and listen to your mother talk about things you’re not sure ever happened. It’s not fair. 

Dean nods, squints into the distance, and you wonder if he knows how good it makes him look. 

“Maybe you should come,” he suggests, and you scoff.

“Yeah, right,” you say. “Like they would let me.” Dean shrugs again. 

“I can ask,” he says. You frown at him. 

“Why would you do that?” you ask, making your voice sound a little suspicious and it makes Dean chuckle. 

“You wanna be a hunter, don’t you?” he asks, and the fact that he not only remembers this about you but takes it seriously stirs something in you. Something that feels for a second like you’re dizzy. 

“Yeah,” you respond, but your voice is a little quiet. You quickly collect yourself. “Besides, I can say some stuff in Latin, it’s not that hard.” Dean chuckles again. 

“You been practicing?” he asks and you nod. 

“Bobby lets me use his library,” you say, and concentrate. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis—“ you say, then stutter, because although you know this in your sleep, Dean is looking at you while you say it, and his eyes are so green and you see that he looks at your mouth while you say it. He grins when he sees your reaction. 

“Satanica potestas,” you hear Sam finish on Dean’s other side, and you both turn towards him. 

“That’s right,” you say with a big smile, and Sam turns his head away, but not fast enough that you don’t see him turn beet-red. Dean turns back to you, watches you intently. 

“I’m gonna talk to my old man,” he says. “Let’s see if we can’t get you to your first proper exorcism.”

You don’t know how Dean does it. Even years later, you prod and tease him to get him to tell you how he convinced John and your grandfather to let you join the exorcism, but he never does, instead clicks his tongue and shakes his head, pulls you close. 

“I’ll never tell,” he’ll say, acting all mysterious. 

You don’t think he actually did anything – maybe he just caught the two older men on a good day. But when he calls you a few days after the revival to tell you to be ready in a couple of hours for John, Sam and him to pick you up, it takes you everything not to scream with excitement. It’s not an appropriate reaction to being able to join an exorcism, you know that, but still. 

It feels like something is moving, something is happening, something new when all you know is repetition, the same things over and over. 

One of the women from the church comes over to be with your mother for the afternoon, and before you know it, you’re taking bounding strides out of your house towards the Impala idling at the end of the driveway. You climb into the backseat, next to Sam. 

“Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” you pant, both from excitement and the run down your driveway. John only nods, doesn’t say anything but you look at Dean in the passenger seat and you can’t hide your bright smile. Dean returns it. 

Sam’s sitting in the back with you, and there’s a bunch of books there, worn-down paperbacks and you grab one of them at random, just to give your fidgeting hands something to do. Alas, Babylon, it says on the cover, and you scan the back. 

“Any good?” you ask Sam. He clears his throat before he answers. 

“I like it,” he says. “It’s about an atomic bomb exploding and this group of people that try to survive together.” He chews the inside of his cheek like he’s unsure whether to say more. 

“I like that they work together,” he continues, and you look up at him, at his face. There’s something so soft about Sam and it moves you, and for a moment you hope he will always get to keep that. You look into his eyes that seem almost black in the low light of the Impala. 

“They help each other instead of turning against each other,” he continues, and then he’s stuttering again under the weight of your gaze. But you don’t look away. You want him to know that it’s good that he likes the book where people work together. You smile a little. 

“That sounds nice,” you say and a grin explodes on Sam’s face that makes your heart sing. “Think I can maybe borrow it?” Sam’s head nearly falls off with how hard he nods. 

“Thank you, Sam,” you say, laying the book down on the seat again. 

Despite the brilliant heat of summer, you feel a shiver run over you when you get out of the car. The house you’re in front of is small, humble, shaded by large trees. It’s pretty, but something about it makes your skin rise into goosebumps. There’s a swing nearby that creaks in the early evening breeze. Dean stands next to you, close enough that you think you can feel the atoms between his and your body. 

“Spooky,” he whispers, making you giggle. 

Just then, your grandfather’s big Pontiac pulls up onto the dusty driveway. You turn, hands going in front of you, fingers knotted together and subconsciously you step from one foot to the other. Dean seems to notice, frowns, but doesn’t say anything. 

Your grandfather gets out of the car, shakes John’s hand. He throws you one look, but doesn’t acknowledge you or the boys beyond that. You’re happier for it. 

It’s cold in the house, which with the outside heat should be a relief, but you shiver again. Dean looks at you and you shake your head. You’re fine. 

Mr. Watts, the owner of the house, motions for John and your grandfather to sit on the ratty couch in the living room. It’s his wife you’re here to see, and he himself is skinny except for a pouch around his middle that looks disproportionate on him. He wears wire-rimmed glasses and there’s sweat on his upper lip.

You linger in the background along with the boys, trying to draw as little attention to yourself as possible while Mr. Watts tells the two men what has happened. How his wife has been acting stranger and stranger over the last year, all of it culminating in her attacking him with a knife a week ago. He doesn’t have the money to put her in a hospital, but then he also doesn’t think this is something a doctor or medication can solve. 

“Bess has always been a little strange,” Mr. Watts explains. “She’d go mute sometimes, and then she wouldn’t do anything. Not cook, not clean, not even wash herself.” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable at admitting his marriage’s failings. “But she never got aggressive, that’s new.” You see your grandfather take notes in a small leather-bound notebook while he nods. 

“Did anything happen, prior to her turning aggressive?” he now asks. Mr. Watts fidgets. 

“She, uh, she ran off?” he says, phrasing it like it’s a question. “Just got up one evening after dinner and walked out into the night.” He huffs an awkward laugh then. “I thought she was just going for an after-dinner walk, but she didn’t say anything, just walked into the dark, no shoes or jacket.” 

He swallows, his thick Adam’s apple bobbing. “I let her go ahead, but she didn’t turn back, so after a while I followed her.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, only the scribble of your grandfather’s pen filling the room, a fly buzzing somewhere. 

“When I found her, she was just… walking,” Mr. Watts continues. “Just walking away from the house. I had to drag her back. She didn’t fight me at first, but she started when we got closer and then…” 

He stops, licks his lips, swallows again. “I got her back in the house and that’s when she went for the knife. Had to knock her out to stop her.” 

It makes your skin crawl, how casually he says that last part. Like his wife walking out on him is somehow more terrifying than the fact that he hit her. 

“I think something got to her out on that road,” Mr. Watts continues. “I think the devil got to her.” 

You see John open his mouth, then shut it. You’ve long suspected that he uses your grandfather’s connections and standing in the community, but doesn’t share his beliefs. John’s seen devils, you’re sure, and it’s not the ones that the church’s members are afraid of. 

“How about we take a look at her,” John suggests with that deep rumbling voice of his. You feel Dean stir, next to you, and look up at him. He looks serious, concentrated, so you try to look the same way. 

Mr. Watts leads you into the bedroom. The smell hits you immediately, and you almost gag. Ammoniac and sweat, the smell of a car that’s been standing in the sun for too long and something else, something sick and diseased under that.

Mrs. Watts – Bess – is tied to the bed. Her husband used ropes and one look at her red and inflamed wrists makes you shiver and avert your gaze. She is wearing a nightgown, the armpits and chests dark with sweat. Her hair is stringy. She is pale and shaky. 

Mrs. Watts is staring at the ceiling, but not really at the ceiling, at something beyond it, while she quietly mutters to herself. Your shock must show on your face, because you can feel Dean stand close behind you. Maybe to remind you he’s there.

Your grandfather opens his bible, stands at the foot of the bed. He says a Hail Mary while he gently fingers the pages of the holy book. Mrs. Watts makes a small noise in her throat, but she doesn’t react otherwise. 

“Bess,” her husband says, then clears his throat. “The pastor is here to help you. He brought a friend who’s gonna assist him.” 

Mrs. Watts just keeps muttering, low, under her breath. You see John reach into his jacket and he pulls out a flask. He raises it while he unscrews it. 

“Holy water,” he says, tone flat, mostly to Mr. Watts, who nods. John sprays some of the water on the woman, straight from the flask. There’s no reaction. John throws Dean a look, and you sense Dean nodding behind you. You remember reading about this - not the kind of demon they’re looking for. 

Your grandfather’s work isn’t done though. He opens the bible, immediately seems to land on the page he wants. He starts reciting something but you’re barely paying attention to him. Because the moment he starts talking, something in Mrs. Watts starts changing. 

Sweat breaks out on her brow, her eyes start moving around the room and her breathing becomes more shallow, quicker. Your grandfather doesn’t stop, isn’t deterred by her reaction but John is. He studies the woman, watches her start to move, start to pull her hands against the ropes binding her. 

“No,” she mutters, but you’re not sure if she’s talking to any of you in the room. 

“No, no, no,” she continues, and then: “Get out!” 

She’s not looking at anyone, her gaze flicking back and forth, but you can’t stop staring at her. Can’t stop looking at her face, the fear that twists there, the confusion. The hate. There’s something sickening and fascinating about her, you think, as her voice keeps getting louder, shriller, until she is almost screaming. You would like to scream too. It seems like a wonderful thing to do. 

John’s hand lands on your grandfather’s shoulder. 

“I think that’s enough,” he says, voice steady, but your grandfather simply shakes off the hand and continues. John turns to Dean. 

“Get Sam out of here,” he says, then throws you a look. You take it to mean that he wants you to leave too, but it’s hard to think over Mrs. Watts starting to scream: “Bad! Bad! Bad! Don’t look! Bad!”

Dean seems to agree with his father, and he grabs you by the elbow, Sam with the other hand and starts moving towards the bedroom door. You need to pass close by the bed to leave the room, the prospect of which makes you excited and nervous in equal parts, and just as you pass by, Mrs. Watts voice raises higher, and she yells: “You like being fucked by old men, you whore?” 

You freeze in place, and the world slows down around you. She’s still staring at the ceiling, and then a litany of other curses leave her. 

It’s not a conscious decision on your end to look at your grandfather. You’re not even sure you do it because of what Mrs. Watts is saying, it’s simply because he’s in your periphery, but he looks back at you for only a second and you know he thinks what you’re thinking. Remembers what you’re remembering. 

It almost makes you float, the moment. Because you weren’t even sure it happened, had yourself almost convinced it was all a bad dream. 

His look, however, confirms it. It wasn’t.

You come crashing back to earth as Dean drags you out of the room. Someone – you’re not sure if it’s Dean or John or Mr. Watts – throws closed the bedroom door behind you. 

You’re ripping your arm out of Dean's grasp before you even know what you’re doing. The walls are coming at you, and you don’t understand what’s happening, but your chest hurts and you think you’re going to die. Distantly you hear Sam ask what’s wrong with you and then Dean, you think it’s Dean, touches your shoulder but you’re already stumbling out of the house. 

You have no idea how you manage to open the front door because you don’t feel your hands. You make it to the Impala, because it’s standing the closest to the house, and you just manage to get one hand on the hood before you bend over and vomit into the grass. Sour, acidic taste explodes in your throat and mouth, and tears shoot into your eyes at your stomach's convulsions.

You’re still shaking and there’s cold sweat running over you when Dean finds you. He touches you before he moves into your line of vision, and you flinch. 

“Hey,” you hear him say, but it’s like you’re underwater and he is standing at the edge of the lake. 

“Hey,” he says again, and there is a pain somewhere in your chest that can only mean something terrible is happening. 

“It’s alright,” Dean says, and you can just tell that his voice sounds worried. You squeeze your eyes shut, hope that the spinning stops. Your teeth are clattering as you try to steady your breathing. 

This isn’t your first panic attack. When that boy touched you and you nearly scrubbed off your skin in the shower afterwards, or when your mother locked you in the basement. She closed the door at the top of the stairs, taking the last of the light with her, and your heart started pounding, tears and snot running down your face, and you were sure you were going to die. You learned the hard way how to bring yourself out of that fear. Focus on your breathing. Press the pad of your thumb against the pads of your other fingers, one by one, then do it again. Over and over. Slap yourself in the face, that works too. But you can’t do that out here, now.

So you concentrate on the touch of your fingers, where they’re on the warm hood of the Impala, and it slowly helps you come back to yourself. Remind yourself of your body, of what it can feel, smell. The stink of vomit is there, but also there’s grass and summer and flowers and somewhere in there, there’s Dean. 

You look up at him, so close to you, and you’re sure he must be disgusted by the sight of you. But then he raises his hand, runs it over your mouth before wiping it in the grass below him.

The shock to your system is immediate. No one has ever done that for you. No one has ever looked at you and seen your sickness and thought you deserved kindness. His face is worried, eyes squinting and he’s frowning. 

“I’m okay,” you manage to gasp, and it’s almost beginning to be true. You look to the side when you hear shuffling, and Sam’s standing a few feet away. You swore to yourself you wouldn’t treat him like a kid, but he looks so scared, and you don’t want him to be. 

“I’m okay,” you say again, louder this time. 

The front door opens, and John steps out. He stands in the doorway for a second, watching you, squinting in the low light. You can’t keep his gaze, so you look down. You hear him sigh. 

“Let’s get you back home,” he says, and it feels strange to be addressed by a man you’ve known for ten years but who’s rarely ever made the effort to acknowledge your existence.

Dean holds your arm and helps you stand. You’re still shaky, so he moves you to the back of the Impala, helps you inside then motions for you to scoot into the middle of the bench seat. You do, and then Sam is getting in on the other side, and suddenly you’re sitting between the two brothers. 

You turn around, look back at the house just as your grandfather is stepping outside. It’s hard to be sure, because the early evening light is bouncing off the windscreen, but you think he looks at you. You turn back, towards the front just as John gets into the car. 

As he turns the key, Sam touches your hand. You look over at him. His lips are pressed together and he’s pale, but he’s looking at you, even though it seems to take all his bravery to keep your gaze. 

Then Dean takes your other hand. He’s looking forward, not meeting your gaze but eyes narrowed, alert. That’s how they drive you home, with you holding both brothers’ hands. 

When you get to your house, Dean walks you to the door. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks and you just nod. You haven’t made any plans for tomorrow, but you know you need to see them again. You’ve never wanted anything more in the world 

Once your neighbor has left and your mother is situated in bed, you stand in the upstairs bathroom. There is a large mirror on one wall, and you stand before it as you take off your dress. You stand there, only in your underwear and look at yourself. 

There are things you don’t remember, but you’re not sure what those things are. You put your face in your hands and peek through your fingers at your reflection. 

You will leave this place, you promise yourself then, not for the first time. You will leave and you will be somewhere else, and you will have love and goodness in your life. You think about Dean, about the way he wiped his hand over your mouth, no disgust on his face, and you wrap your arms around your body. 

The light in the bathroom is blue as night breaks, and you stand there for a long time, until your body does not look scary to you anymore. It just looks like a body. You go to your room, take your underwear off and climb into bed naked. The blankets feel funny against your skin this way, unfamiliar. You roll on your side, pull in your legs and tug your hands under your face. 

You lie there, eyes open until the room disappears in darkness. Until you don’t know anymore if your eyes are closed or open.

In the morning, Dean calls to tell you he’ll pick you up shortly. You leave the house, for a second wondering if you should feel guilty because you’re leaving your mother alone for the second day in a row. The carer your uncle hired a while ago is there and another neighbor is coming over later, but still you wonder if it is right to go out again. 

All guilt disappears from you when you pull the front door closed and look to the end of the driveway. Dean is standing there, leaned against the Impala, and your heart does a double take. 

You spent the morning making yourself pretty for him, even though you haven’t fully admitted it to yourself. He’s rejected you twice and there’s fear in you that he will again, but you can’t help yourself in hoping a little. The way he touched you, the way he couldn’t see anything disgusting or sick in you - you can’t get it out of your head. 

Dean grins at you as you jog towards him. 

“You’re always running everywhere,” he says as he opens the passenger door for you. You give him a brilliant smile just before you climb in. 

“I have many things I still need to do, Winchester,” you say. “No time for dilly-dallying. Idle hands and all that.” 

Dean chuckles and closes the door once you’re inside. You turn around to look at Sam. He looks up, lips pressed together in a shy smile. 

“Do you feel better?” he asks. You frown at him. “You were sick yesterday.”

“I feel better, Sam,” you say, giving him a small smile. “Thanks.”

When you woke up this morning, you lay there for an hour, thinking about everything that happened on the previous day. You stared at that ceiling like crazy Mrs. Watts, but instead of the disgust you felt for her the day before, you wondered now. Wondered what she saw in the slats of her ceiling. Wondered if she would ever get out of those ropes that made her skin red. 

Then you got up, stood under the shower for a long time. Looked at your body again in the mirror. You ran your palm over your arm, slowly, feeling every hair, every mole there. 

“Mine,” you said to your reflection, and a part of you was actually surprised to see her repeat the word. 

You roll down the window now on the passenger side, let the wind rushing in cool you down. You throw a look over at Dean and he smiles at you, looks at you a second longer than he needs to. You rest your head on the back of the bench, watch the reflected light play on the roof of the car as the wind whips into your face. 

Dean drives the three of you to the woods. He grabs a bag from the trunk, and leads you and Sam into the cool shadows. Once you’re a good way in, he finds a fallen tree trunk, puts the bag on it and opens it. 

He takes out some cans, one of them a soda he throws Sam, then a couple of beers. He holds one out to you and you take it from him, open it. The foam goes over your fingers and then Dean opens his own, toasts you without breaking eye contact. You sip the beer, its sweet yet bitter taste settling comfortably in your stomach. You walk a few feet away, look into the forest. 

“How far are we from the next house?” you ask. You turn around to watch Dean shrug as he leans against the tree trunk. You think you caught him checking you out. 

“Couple miles,” he says. 

You nod, then turn back. You lean forward a little, take a deep breath, and then scream into the forest. It’s a high pitch, girlish, but still strong. It echoes off the trees, a few birds taking flight but other than that it simply disappears into the thickness of trees. When you turn back around to Dean, he has an unbelieving look on his face, huffs. Then you turn to Sam, and he’s grinning. You wave him over.

“You do it, Sammy,” you say, and he stomps towards you. 

“It’s Sam,” he says as he passes you by, but you see the little smile on his face, the one with the dimples. He stands ahead of you, throws you another look as if to get your approval. You nod at him, and then Sam screams. 

His voice cracks on it but it’s a good scream. So that it’s not so alone, you send another shorter one right after it and Sam laughs. You both turn to Dean, and he’s fully shaking his head at you now. 

“You two are crazy,” he mutters, but it only makes you and Sam laugh more. When you turn back to Sam, he seems to be thinking something, his brows drawn close together. 

“Can I have a beer too?” he asks. Dean inclines his head. 

“You’re too young, Sammy,” he says. Sam frowns. 

“I can almost drive!” he fires back, and you wonder if he’s trying to look cool in front of you. 

“Come on, Dean,” you say. “Don’t be such a square.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, then pulls another can out of the bag, throws it at Sam. Sam grins at you while he opens it, and you’re pretty sure you’ve just bought his undying loyalty. He takes a sip, makes a face. 

“Tastes like piss,” he says and this time it’s you and Dean that laugh together. You take another sip as well, and you like the way it grounds your body, makes it feel like all your weight is in your feet. Turning to Dean, you motion towards the bag. 

“What else is in there?” you ask. Dean raises his eyebrows. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, and then he downs his can and burps. You shake your head, but you can’t help but chuckle. 

Dean sets the can on the trunk and turns to the bag. He opens it and pulls out a revolver. You’ve been around guns most of your life, but it still surprises you. 

“If you wanna be a hunter,” he says, “you need to know how to shoot stuff.” 

You’ve shot a gun before but you still let Dean walk you through it, mostly because it allows you to stand close to him, have his hands cover your hands. Your heart beats hard and fast when he stands behind you, puts his arms on top of yours and helps you aim. 

“Breathe in,” he says and shows you how, and you can feel his chest move against your back. It makes you feel hot and tight all over your body, and you want to drop your head back, rub yourself against him like a cat. “And then shoot when you’re breathing out.” His chest presses against your back and you nod. 

He’s lined up the cans the three of you have finished – one from you, one from Sam, the abandoned soda, and two from Dean – and he steps back to leave you room. You repeat everything he’s told you in your head, and then squeeze the trigger. It misses, by a good bit. 

“Not bad,” Dean says and you know it’s a lie, but it makes your breath catch in your throat that he says it, even if it’s not true. You do it again, shoot, and the bullet impacts into the trunk, not far from one of the cans – not the one you were aiming for, but you decide the brothers don’t need to know that. 

You shoot until you hit one of the cans, whipping your head around in excitement while Sam and Dean applaud and whoop. Sam’s next, and he’s a good shot, but it’s nothing compared to the display Dean puts on. 

With a little bit of a shudder you realize that Dean is showing off – is making sure it looks extra effortless. When he’s done, he looks at you, as if to gauge your reaction. You give him your most brilliant smile and allow yourself to hope that he is showing off for you, and not just because he’s a young man with a gun. 

It's your turn again soon, the cans broken and riddled. 

“Shoot that tree over there,” Dean says, pointing at a broad pine with the hand holding his newest can of beer. Sam has finished his first one, opened a second one, still making a face at every sip, and his eyelids look heavy, but he seems content. You push out your bottom lip, realizing that you’re a little tipsy yourself. 

“Poor tree,” you say and Dean chuckles. 

“Just imagine it’s someone you hate,” he says, leaning against the trunk behind him. You turn back to the tree. 

You’re not sure there’s anyone in this world you hate. Your mother, sometimes, but more than that she makes you sad. You don’t like John Winchester, don’t like how nervous his sons get around him. But you don’t hate him. 

Then, suddenly, everything becomes quiet. It’s as if your blood flow is slowing. You raise the gun, aim it at the big tree. Breathe in, breathe out, and shoot. 

The bullet hits, and you imagine it piercing your grandfather’s body. Imagine blood spurting from him. He wears black, usually, so it would be difficult to see, but you would know it’s there. 

The second bullet impacts, sending an explosion of bark flying. You would look straight at him, just like this. He’s a tall man, strong, but you’re sure he would fall to his knees quickly. You would keep doing it, keep shooting him until he is as riddled as the cans, and then shoot him some more. 

He would beg you to let him live, but then you decide you don’t want to hear his voice, so you would shoot him in the head. Bring the barrel to his forehead, wait a second, so he would have time for the terror to flow through his body. And then he would be gone. 

The revolver is clicking empty and you suddenly realize Dean is standing close to you. You pull the trigger again, but the chamber is still empty. The side of the tree you’ve been shooting looks rough, mangled. Dean’s hand lands on top of the weapon as he slowly takes it from you. 

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice soft and you look up at him. There’s a slightly worried look on his face. Suddenly you swat your hand at your face, feeling something touch it. It comes away wet. You’re crying. Dean shoves the gun into the back of the waistband of his jeans. You blink, not sure what happened. 

“How about we get something to eat?” he says. You look past him at Sam. He doesn’t look tipsy anymore, but wide awake. 

The heat of embarrassment shoots to your face, but then Dean is moving, packing everything back up and then he reaches his hand out to you. 

“Come on,” he says, and you take it. Your hand fits perfectly into his, like it belongs there. 

The three of you walk out of the woods. You drive to a small diner in town, buy burgers and milkshakes. Sam and Dean blow the tips of their straw wrappers at each other until the waitress tells them to stop, then they make shapes on their food with ketchup, asking you to guess what they’re drawing. You realize they’re trying to cheer you up, or distract you, and it moves you deeply. They can’t possibly know what you were thinking about when you were firing that gun, but they must have seen that something upset you. 

After you’ve eaten, you walk down main street, looking into shop windows, laughing and joking at anything and everything. Sam is being extra silly, and you wonder how often he tries to cheer up Dean when John is having a bad day, how he must feel that those grown men’s moods rest on his young shoulders. 

As you’re walking, Dean points at something past you, and before you know it, his arm is around your shoulders, squeezing you to drive home the joke he was making, but when he’s done, he doesn’t remove his arm. It stays where it is, and you finally understand why they call it having butterflies in your stomach. You feel like your feet are about to lift off the ground.

There’s a drive-in movie theater where they’re showing a rerun of Pet Sematary. You park around the corner and make Sam get in the trunk, both you and Dean giggling stupidly. You manage to get in, not scrutinized by the guy in the ticket booth, and let him out again, Sam huffing and puffing when he’s finally free. 

All three of you sit in the front bench, staring up at the movie screen. You feel Sam flinch a few times, but he pretends he isn’t scared. Dean grabs more beers from his bag, warm now, but you couldn’t care less. It mixes with the salty taste of popcorn on your tongue and at some point, Dean’s arm is around you again. 

It takes all your bravery, but you turn your head and look up at him. The sun’s gone down, and the alternation of light and dark from the big screen makes you see him and then not see him. But he’s looking at you and you are closer to each other than you’ve ever been, or at least since your failed attempt to kiss him on that dirt road years ago. You wonder if he’s doing this, being like this, because he feels sorry for you, or if it’s something else. 

Dean drives you home after the movie, Sam asleep on the bench in the back, gently snoring. When the car is parked in front of your house, you look at Dean in the semi-dark of the street lamps. 

“See you tomorrow?” he asks. You don’t have to think about it. You want every day of the rest of your life to be like this, exactly like this.

“See you tomorrow,” you say and you smile at Dean. 

Suddenly, he leans in and you freeze. His hand goes up, and he runs the pad of his thumb over your cheek. He looks at your lips for a long time and you don’t move, don’t breathe, worried that you will break the spell. Then he swallows, looks down. 

“I really want to kiss you,” he says quietly, and your heart is hammering so hard in your chest that you’re sure he must be able to hear it. “But I don’t think I should.” You need to lick your lips because your mouth is as dry as the desert. 

“Why not?” you ask, voice scratchy. 

“Because,” Dean answers, “I don’t know how long we’re staying. I don’t know when we’ll be on the road again.” 

You hate that thought, hate that they might leave and that you will still be stuck here. It makes you sad beyond belief. 

“I’m gonna be eighteen soon,” you reply. “I could… I could come with you.” 

Immediately you regret it. Something hard goes over Dean’s face. 

“No,” he says and you take a sharp breath through your nose. He just said he wanted to kiss you. Is he just trying to get you to do something? Kiss him or have sex with him? You don’t understand. Dean’s face softens when he sees that you’re upset. 

“It’s not a nice life,” he says, gently now. You chew the inside of your lip. 

“Anything’s nicer than being stuck here,” you mutter. 

“I don’t know,” Dean responds, shaking his head slightly. “Your own room, and your mom doesn’t care what you do. Doesn’t seem so bad.” You look away from him, then, stare out into the night. 

“Believe me,” you say, and there’s a cold edge to your voice. “It’s horrible.” 

Dean is quiet for a while, the only sound in the car the three of you breathing. You hear Dean swallow. 

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, “but you still can’t come with us.” You nod. 

“Good night, Dean,” you say, and then you’re opening the door of the car. You stride out, because you can feel tears burning in your eyes, and the hurt and shame at being rejected by Dean, yet again, is too much to bear. You hear him call your name through the open window, but you don’t turn back. 

You walk into the dark house, close the front door behind you and lean against it. Then, slowly, you walk upstairs. 

The door to your mother’s bedroom is open, and you peer in. She’s lying on her back, head turned slightly to the side, one hand across her front. Without knowing what you’re doing, you step inside. 

Slowly you walk towards her and sit at the side of her bed. She stirs, wakefulness trying to pull her up. She looks so different like this, you realize. The face that is in a constant mask of anger or, these days, confusion, is soft now, relaxed. She’s beautiful, your mother. 

Her eyelids flutter, and then she’s awake. She doesn’t seem surprised to see you there, sitting next to her, staring down at her. She reaches out her hand and cups your face, a gesture sweeter and softer than you can ever remember getting from her. You must look sad, because she coos at you. 

“It’s okay, my darling,” she says and new tears spring into your eyes. “Alright, little dove.” She’s never called you that before. 

Her confusion becomes clear when suddenly her hand leaves your face, goes out to the side and then comes back down on your cheek with a loud slap. 

“Bad!” she says, and the sting on your face is both painful and sobering. Her hand goes out again, but this time you grab her wrist, and you pin it to the bed, near her head. You grab her other arm as well, and you’re aware that you’re squeezing too hard, that you’re hurting her, but you can’t stop it. You lean over her, both arms pressed to the bed and she looks terrified, sobs. 

“Fuck you!” you spit. “You are never touching me again. Never, you hear!” 

She whimpers and you push her thin wrists deeper into the mattress, imagine breaking them for a second, then let go and stand up. She’s still whining, and the tongue of shame licks at you, but you ignore it. Because the anger is stronger. 

She cries like a child that woke from a nightmare all while staring at the ceiling, as if there is someone looking back at her and for a second, you wonder what she sees. 

Then you turn around and leave the room.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

You know the third photograph from the right, with the chipped frame, is Sam and Dean when they’re around six and ten. Two down is one of Bobby and your father. Bobby sees you look up at one of the only two photos that exist of the man you don’t remember.

“You look like him, you know,” he says and you smile. “The older you get the more you do.” 

The other picture of him, the only one your mother hasn’t gotten rid of, is in your bedside table at home. It’s of him holding you the day you were born. His eyes are wide and the older you get the younger you think he looks in it. He would be dead a year later, crushed by a semi-truck, but he looks so alive in that picture. Alive and terrified.