I was only 8 when I watched my parents die. I was an only child, and I was the center of their entire universe. I was blessed with a charmed life of full fridges and bags of money. I can hardly remember the rapid scene that had unfolded before me. It all happened too quickly- my mother and father up against the wall; yelling, screaming, pleading for me save myself, as if I was old enough for my life to have any importance. It was their last words to their daughter before they died. Before their throats were slit by one of the jagged, razor-sharp claws and they were forced to let out their last, gargled breath.
Then I remember it's eyes. They were the only thing visible in the darkness. Gruesome, bloodshot eyes. The irises were pure white, only a tiny black orb for a pupil, staring me dead in my own petrified sockets. Even in the dark, I could tell that it was grinning. Grinning at me. Leaving its mark. Letting me know what it was capable of.
Then it lunged.
It dug its claws into my shoulders, pinning me to the ground. I was helpless there, screaming, crying in pain. I remember that part vividly. It then rose me high above its head, the claws continuing to pierce through more of my flesh.
It was John Winchester who saved my life.
He came barging in through the bedroom door, not hesitating for a second before he started firing rounds of rock salt into the beast who had full intent of having me suffer.
I knew that this creature wasn't dead. It merely vanished after the second shot hit it. I hit the ground- hard, if I might add- with a sharp outcry. It didn't come back the rest of the night, but it did leave its mark.
It left its claws, buried deep into the flesh just underneath my shoulder blades. Four in each side.
John picked me up in his arms, running down the stairs and out of the house. I remember asking him as he ran to his truck, carrying my weak eight year old body, if he was alright. If the demon had hurt him. He didn't answer any of them. He merely set me in the passenger side of his truck and carefully but hurriedly buckling me in and slamming the door, jogging over to the other side of the truck and revving off, far away from the home.
We arrived at a rough, run-down motel. It was definitely not the environment that I was used to, having been treated with diamond earrings and gourmet meals. An alert Dean Winchester greeted us with a beyond questioning look.
"Who's she?" He asked, wide-eyed and skeptical of the bleeding little girl that his father had just laid on the tattered motel sofa.
John didn't answer, he simply commanded the son to grab some rubbing alcohol, a scalpel, forceps, and a few other things. Being the obedient boy he was, Dean was gone and before John could even finish his sentence. He came back with the necessities that his father had asked for, and John was quick to work; pulling out each claw with a scalpel and forceps and dousing each wound with alcohol. I tried my best to stay quiet, to try and look strong... But it was obvious that I was in agony. With every wince, cringe, gasp, and tear the pain had only intensified. A groggy, sleepy-eyed Sammy emerged into the room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
"What's going on...?" He murmured, furrowing his brows. Dean was quick to reassure him and lead him back to bed, sitting with him until he was fast asleep again.
That night, John Winchester saved my life. That night was the night that had started it all.
That night was how my adventure began.