The last time I saw my Mother was fifteen years ago. She was beautiful, the most beautiful, kind and incredible woman you could ever meet. I don't remember much from before I was seven, but I do remember her. I remember the way he would hug me, tickle me, make me hot cocoa when I couldn't sleep. I remember her face, how she would sit by my bed each night and say 'don't worry, angels are watching over you,' as she gestured towards a little porcelain cherub which was placed above my bed. I just remember her.
My parents, they were the happiest couple in the world. I don't remember one fight, one time I was sent to bed early, one time when I wasn't allowed to lick the cake mix bowl. It was all, so normal, but so perfect. I wish nothing had ever changed, but it did. And there's nothing I can do to change the fact she's gone. And I'll never see her again.
When my Mom died, a part of my Dad died with her, the caring, compassionate part, the part that loved. I suppose, it's not surprising, considering what he saw, I doubt anyone would be the same after that. But all the same, it did lead to us not growing up in the healthiest way. There were no more goodnights, no more I love yous, and no more angels. All our miracles had ended there was nothing left to wish for.
Our life was a pattern, finding a job, staying in a crappy motel for a few weeks, then moving on. Just an endless cycle. We grew up unlike any children I've met, and it made us different from everyone else. No-one wanted to know the strange children whose parents couldn't be found who joined school in the middle of term.
My brother and I, we had to stick together, to look after each other. We didn't have anyone else who would. Our dad, he was always away, drunk, or just plain miserable. I was in charge. At the very beginning it was fun, but after only a few days I realised looking after a one year old is a lot harder than it looks. A lot harder. Time moved on though, and Sammy grew up, he could take care of himself more, but not completely.
I was always blamed when something went wrong, no matter what, but I didn't mind too much. I had to look out for my little brother, the way siblings were supposed to, the way parents were supposed to. I doubt Sammy even remembers our Mom, the night she died he was only a baby, still in his crib, right in the room where she was murdered.
I didn't see my Mom burn up, but I heard something. I don't know what it was, not a scream, not a moan, something. Something I haven't heard since, with all the things I've seen and hunted, I have never heard that noise again.
I saw the fire, the huge, blazing fire. I saw my Dad turn to face me, to shove my baby brother into my arms and shout, 'Take your brother outside! Now, Dean! Go!' And I think, I'm sure, I saw something on the ceiling. I don't know what. My Dad never talks about what happened, but I know what I saw.
That night gave me nightmares for years, I think it gave my dad them too, but I never asked. I just wish something could have gone differently, that there really were angels watching over me. But there aren't. There's nothing in this world but evil, stuff of nightmares that it's my job to put an end to. Angels never were watching over me, because they were never there, my Mom, she was my angel, but now, she's gone.
