Jo Harvelle, age 13:
The blade felt right between my fingers, like it was made for me and not my dad (Harvelle and don't you forget that).
I could picture myself fighting, hunting just like him, all I needed to know was how to throw a knife, and that was too easy.
Before I could lift the blade, he took it. Worry was growing in his honey brown eyes, as he said over and over that I wasn't ready.
"Teach me how to throw it, please. I'll need the skill someday, please, please, please."
The pleases went on for a while, until he finally broke down (like always).
"Fine, but don't tell your mother. She'll take away my whisky for a whole year if she even heard your name and knife near each other."
It was harder then I thought, but Harvelle's never give up, or at lest we go down kicking and screaming.
When I finally got the target there were a million nicks in the wall, dad was so happy that he even gave me my own knife.
"That's my girl."
The nicks were gone, along with everything that was the Harvelle family.
All I had left of my father was a small knife, and his blond hair.
Smoke was everywhere, the faint smell of burning skin, and a grave yard in front of me.
I couldn't move, everything felt numb and useless, I'll I could do was lay there, burning.
"Jo?"
Someone hand grabbed my shoulders, and started to shake me. I couldn't see them; all I could do was feel their cool hands smothering the burning skin that I was covered in.
"Jo!"
I felt light as the ground became further away, then everything went black.
The feelings came back too soon; my body was burning like someone dosed me in gasoline and decided I was a candle.
The pain was muffled with the white sheets that covered me; I had never seen so many blankets in my life, blue ones, red ones and black ones.
"She's been out for most of the day; I'll call you when she wakes up. Yep, bye, Ellen."
'Ellen! She's alive?'
"Everything hurts."
My voice was hoarse and with the long awaited words came a lot of coughing.
"Jo, good you're awake."
The warm hands that had saved him from the burning ground belonged to the one and only Dean Winchester.
"How are you feeling?"
I flinched as he touched the wounds, starting to rebandage them.
"Peachy, where am I? Where's Ellen?"
It hurt to speak, like tiny flecks of my throat were coming off every time I said a word, but I needed to know if she was alive, right now she was my world, the only thing I had left.
"Ellen's at Bobby's, and we're in a hotel a few miles away from the road house. You wouldn't have made it all the way to Bobby's, so we stopped here. Now, shut up, I don't want you to die because you wouldn't stop yapping."
I watched him in silence, the way his hands moved, gently trying not to hurt anything, it was strange to see him like this, without the mask of a smile.
His hands were rough like sand paper on china, the pain surged with just one touch.
Most of my body was red with heat; the worst burnt parts were my finger tips, red and brown.
Flashes of memories began to surface in my mind, burning bones and shallow graves.
"You can tell my mom that I buried Ash, every bit of him."