"I know how you feel…"
"Do you? How old were you when Mom died? Four? Jess died six months ago! How the hell would you know how I feel?"
Sam's words echoed around in Dean's mind as he continued his lonely drive to Indiana. They seemed to be an ever constant thought that even Metallica couldn't drown out. Who was Sam to say that Dean didn't know how he felt? Sam had been gone for a long time; a lot could change in four years. He could change a lot in four years.
Her name was Anna Belle Benoit. A name fit for a porcelain doll. She was the belle of ball, and his belle, for a while at least. He met her working one of his first solo cases down in the Big Easy. She was the daughter of an old family, though after generations all that seemed to be left was the family name and a reputation among the hunter community. She and her grandmother lived quite a ways away from the city at the family's old plantation home that Dean thought still only existed on movie sets. Proud columns held up the ancient home, and he swore he saw the ghost of Scarlet O'Hara sweep across the second story veranda. The matron of the plantation, Mrs. Renee Benoit, would never let the house fall into any sort of disarray, holding on to the preservation of the house and of Belle because that's all she had left.
Dean was working a case in the city of a few poltergeists haunting a local museum. It was an open and shut case, and it shouldn't have lasted as long as it did, John would later reprimand his son. Dean had never felt it necessary to mention more than one trip to the Benoit plantation or the truth to why his trip was extended by at least an unnecessary week. His first excursion to the swamps was to consult Mrs. Benoit. After retiring from the hands on aspect of the hunting life style, she had taken up the position of being a Southern version of Bobby. Who could not believe such a sweet little lady? Her accent was enough to sweet talk any one into believing that they truly were working with FBI agents rather than a couple hunters. Mrs. Benoit was a walking encyclopedia when it came to the paranormal, and Dean would not complain about her knowledge of lemon pie either. She was the epitome of an old Southern lady, no one could imagine the sights she'd seen or the acts she'd committed to save lives. It took all he had to remind himself she was a hunter just like him when she pulled out the fine china for dinner and set the table with four different types of forks he could never remember what they all were for.
Mrs. Benoit had taught the same way of life to her granddaughter. After a car accident killed her parents when she was six years old, Belle had been in her grandmother's care. She was twenty years old when Dean met her, and a five foot two spitfire bundled up by a giant bow of Southern charm. Belle could bat big, thick lashes that framed doe-eyed emerald eyes and call someone "Sugah" and have them in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand. But Dean also knew that the same hands could fire a sawed off shot gun after blazing ahead into something without a care in the world. Belle was reckless. It was what drew Dean to her and what would eventually lead to her downfall.
Mrs. Benoit kept Belle away from the hunting life as much as she could, but Belle was headstrong and when Dean came along for help on his case, she couldn't help but find a way to tag along.
"I'll bring her home safely," Dean remembered promising Mrs. Benoit. She just looked at him with hard green eyes, the same as Belle's, and would nod her head before walking back into the home, refusing to watch them drive away in his old Impala. This exchange became a familiar one over the next year, always the same promise, always the same answer.
Dean could remember the first time he met her like it was yesterday. Belle had sidled up next to him on the plush, velvet loveseat while her grandmother was in the kitchen, preparing to bring back her famous lemon ice box pie. At first, Dean was flattered, thinking that she was coming on to him as her delicate fingers traced circles on his fore arm. Everything about her seemed so fragile. It was one of the first things he remembered thinking about her. She truly was like a doll. Her soft skin was smooth, creamy porcelain and her honey blonde curls hung in perfect ringlets down her back. She would fit in perfectly in the scene he'd pictured the antebellum South to be, all dressed up in hoop skirts and pastels.
He remembered playing along with her game, hiding his sly grin of winning her over so easily. He figured he would have his fun then skedaddle out of town, never looking back like he had done a million times. Until he realized that she had played him better than he could ever hope to con someone. Belle had only used him to get to the hunt. Since her grandmother had given her so much knowledge about the supernatural and kept her locked away as far as she could from actual hunts by herself, Belle was always itching to get out into the hunters' world. Later on, Mrs. Benoit admitted that Dean was not the first young hunter Belle had convinced into letting her come along to go gallivanting off for whatever was going bump in the night.
Contrary to her flirtatious behavior, Belle acted like she wanted nothing to do with Dean other than to find a hunt the rest of his time there. She was very professional and an asset to have when they needed a little sweet talking to get into the museum after hours. He wasn't quite sure exactly what brought him back to Louisiana a couple weeks later, although a big part of him said it was his pride. He couldn't have his last attempt at a kiss end with a slap on the face.
Regardless, Dean found himself taking any hunt his father found anywhere in the southeast. Anything to give him an excuse to call on the women of the Benoit household and claim he was "passing through the neighborhood."
It took him three months before he finally got that kiss. He and Belle were walking in the dusky twilight on the edge of the grassy land of the plantation, just before the ground turned marshy and the swamps took over. Belle was barefoot. It was something he always noticed. The girl was more Southern than she liked to admit sometimes. She hated shoes, and unless she was in society or it was absolutely necessary, she never wore them.
He was telling her about his latest hunt, a banshee roaming the eastern seaboard. Belle always loved to hear his stories, be them new or old, from when he and Sam were younger and traveled around with their Dad. She always loved to hear about John, as if she was living vicariously through him as to what a father would be like.
As they were walking, she stopped to see the fire flies dance around them. Dean stopped a few paces behind her, smiling to himself as he watched the way her eyes lit up along with the fireflies. Belle turned, laughing in joy as she watched the tiny lights flash around them.
"Haven't ya ever just stopped to watch them dance?" she asked him, taking a few steps closer to him. She had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, a tiny smirk playing across her pouty lips.
Dean let his own sly smile slide onto his face as he closed the distance between them in two steps. "Well, Miss Benoit, I can't say that I have," he admitted. He noticed a stray curl that had fallen out of her messy bun, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and brush it behind her ear. And with that thought, he felt his arm reach out to do exactly that.
Belle seemed to feel a catch in her breath as his rough fingers touched her cheek, they had been flirting for a while now, but this was the first time Dean had ever touched her like this. He kept his hand on her cheek, his thumb rubbing slow circles along her skin. She felt him close the tiny bit of distance between them and could smell his cologne. It was musky and spicy, something he use to catch her spraying on her pillows before he left her behind for another case. "Well, Mistah Winchestah," she drawled, her accent becoming a little thicker than normal. She closed her eyes for a minute, tilting her head down to take a quick deep breath. "Are you gonna kiss me or not?" she challenged, looking at him through thick black lashes.
Dean didn't need another invitation. He moved the hand on her cheek to her chin and tilted her head up. Her lips were soft against his and the sappy side of him couldn't ignore the movie-esque scene they had found themselves in. Those thoughts were soon washed away by Belle's hands running through his hair and the intensity in which she was kissing him back.
He wasn't sure how long they stayed out there, but the full moon had risen by the time they walked back hand in hand and quite a few more curls were spilling down out of her bun.
A year later, Belle and Dean were almost inseparable. John had figured out a while ago what, or who, was bringing Dean down South every chance he could get, and though he didn't approve at all, he couldn't say anything about it. Dean was an adult, and he couldn't afford to lose another son. Mrs. Benoit was a bit more understanding, allowing Dean to stay at the plantation for as long as he liked, though she never agreed with Dean bringing Belle along on his hunts. The two would always leave in the same fashion, Dean promising to take care of her, and Mrs. Benoit refusing to watch them leave, until that last hunt. For some reason, this time Mrs. Benoit stayed and even waved at them as they drove away. At the time, he had just put it out of his mind, but afterwards, when he asked her why she would only tell them that this hunt felt different. She had a bad feeling about it even before they left.
They were off to hunt a group of vampires terrorizing a small town in Texas. The body count seemed to be piling up, though authorities didn't seem to be too worried about it because the victims were all prostitutes and drug dealers. The only distinguishable detail was two puncture wounds on the victims' bodies that were drained of blood.
After a couple of days in town, the two finally tracked down the nest in an old abandoned warehouse out in the county. It had been empty for months and was the perfect hideout for the bloodthirsty undead. Driving out there, Dean could only reiterate a thousand times how to kill a vampire.
"I know, darlin'," Belle had told him, laughing softly each time. "This isn't my first rodeo. Anne Rice hasn't been the only one to find vampires in the Crescent City."
"I just don't want anything to happen to you," he told her, shrugging his shoulders as he shut the trunk of the Impala, shotgun and large knife in hand. He had yet to tell her he loved her. Dean wasn't that type of guy, but he knew she could see it in his actions. Or at least he hoped she did looking back now.
"Don't you worry," she promised, with a wink. "I'm gonna be just fine. The angels are looking out for us."
After everything, how carefree she looked then and how happy and confident she was at that moment was how he chose to remember her from that night. She was wearing jeans and a simple white tee shirt, but to him she looked like she could have walked down the red carpet in those cowgirl boots. She was so beautiful and radiant. So full of life. With the help of her angels, Belle looked as if she could conquer the world. It was another quirk Dean would always remember, even if he didn't believe or agree with her. Angels couldn't exist. He'd never seen proof of them and just couldn't believe in them like she could. Belle, on the other hand, thought they were everywhere and had a guiding hand in everything. To her, they would always be protected by her angels.
They walked into the nest together, their only real plan to kill as many sons of bitches as they could. But the competition streak in both of them was their downfall. As they moved about the empty rooms, they began to guess how many vampires were really there. The mess that had been left seemed to say there were at least fifteen, but the number ended up being only six.
They were moving into the third empty room when Belle stopped him with a squeeze of her hand. "Betcha I can get more than you," she had a wicked grin on her lips as she said it, dangling the wager in front of him. She didn't even give him enough time to respond before she kissed him quickly on the lips and dashed off, her hips swishing in turn with the curls in her pony tail. The first real sense of unease prickled up the hairs on his arms, but he continued to search the warehouse, finding a set of metal stairs he climbed as quietly as he could. In the upstairs rooms he found three vampires together, they weren't as easy to inject with the dead man's blood as he wanted them to be, but afterwards, taking off their heads became easy work.
Dean swept the rest of the upstairs rooms, finding them all empty, before returning to the bottom floor. He figured Belle would be finished with her living dead and would be at the stairs waiting for him with a cocky grin. When she wasn't there, that uneasy feeling returned and he couldn't help but call out her name, knowing he could just kill whatever else answered. Out right panic took over after a few minutes with no response, and he couldn't help himself from running through the empty rooms on the bottom floor. He found her and that… thing in one of the last rooms. Belle, his Belle, was in the arms of that creature, his bloody fangs dug into the smooth skin of her neck, the same skin Dean had trailed kisses down the night before. She was paler than normal and her precious blood was spilling from bite marks along her arms as well.
Dean saw red as he raced across the room, not even realizing that he crushed Belle's syringe of dead man's blood with the sole of his boot as he ran. She had dropped it while struggling with the vampire who's head lay a mere ten feet from Dean, though he wasn't paying attention to that. He was about fifteen feet from Belle when he was tackled by another vampire. It took him a few seconds to realize what had happened and he slashed viciously and without precision at the creature. He was attacking out of rage, not caring that he was only making more of a mess than helping. Finally, he managed to hack off the creatures head, just in time to see the vampire standing over Belle take her knife and cut his wrist. He brought the gushing vein to Belle's soft lips and let it fall into her mouth as she weakly struggled to push him away.
"No!" Dean screamed, running as fast as he could to them. He hacked away at the vampire, noticing he looked to only be twenty-five, with messy blonde hair. Dean wanted to take in every aspect of this thing, remember the way his stolen blood would cover the ground as his head rolled away. But he didn't get that satisfaction that night. A cry of pain from Belle caused Dean to pause and look back to her long enough for the vampire to escape. He ran off through the open doors as Dean fell to Belle's side, clutching her cold hand.
"Kill me," she gurgled, blood bubbling from the lips he could have kissed for days. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as she struggled for breath. It took everything in her to keep her eyes open, pleading with him to just end her life. They were beginning to glass over and the grip on his hand slackened as she felt herself slipping from consciousness. "Please," she begged softly.
Dean couldn't do it. He couldn't even comprehend the situation they were in right now; all he could think about was the life he saw draining from his beloved's eyes. He scooped her up in his arms, she weighed as much as a feather it seemed, and ran to the car as quickly as he could. He barely had her buckled into the passenger seat before he was jumping behind the wheel and burning rubber. He considered driving her home to the plantation, but he knew she would never make it. The dingy motel room would have to do. The twenty minute drive to the motel only took him ten and it whizzed by in a blur. Looking back, he was pretty sure that he ran every stop sign and light there was. It wasn't until he had Belle laid in their bed and her wounds cleaned as best he could and bandaged that he even took a breath.
His world was falling down around him. There was no happy ending to this story. Belle would die before they left Texas; he knew it would have to happen. She had lost so much blood earlier that if she somehow survived it was going to be because of the vampire blood that devil had made her drink. And if that was the reason she woke up in the morning, he knew he would have to do as she asked. He would have to kill her. She wouldn't be his Belle anymore. She would be a bloodthirsty monster and he couldn't let her become that. He couldn't see her become something she fought so hard to kill. He kicked the rickety motel table, causing it to collapse and send the table lamp crashing to the floor in a million pieces. He cursed the world, punching the wall in his fury. The flimsy sheetrock of the cheap motel crumbled against his knuckles. His breathing was heavy and he fought back tears. Tears of rage, of fury, of sadness. Finally, Dean collapsed onto the floor next to Belle, sobs racking his body until the world went black.
It was three days before she woke up. Dean had just returned from a local diner, a bag of donuts and a cup of coffee in hand. He hadn't left her side other than for food since he tucked her in only to watch her twist in pain as she slept. Belle had broken out into night sweats and would whimper quietly to herself, as if she knew he would worry if she cried out. Dean changed her bandages twice a day, noticing each time the purple bruises seemed to be fading along with the wounds closing up. It only made him realize the vampire blood was working. He knew she wouldn't be Belle if she woke up.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. But once she started to twist around in the sheets, Dean knew that she truly was waking up.
"Dean?" she said softly, quiet enough that if he hadn't have seen her lips move he wouldn't have known. He rushed to her side without thinking, letting the hot coffee cup fall to the ground and splash all over the wall. "Dean," Belle repeated a bit louder, reaching for his hands. He noticed that her eyes were still green, they were still hers, yet the whites were tinged red and he could see they were blood shot. He clutched her hands, not wanting to let the small bit of hope reach him. That wasn't much of a problem after the words he heard in her sweet voice. "You have to kill me." She was calm, and holding his hand firmly in hers, her gaze holding his steadily.
Belle struggled a moment to sit up in the bed, squeezing her eyes shut at the pain of moving around. "Dean?" she questioned again, gaining strength the longer she was awake. He was kneeling next to her, a dumb stuck look on his face she would normally find cute. "Please," she repeated, pleading with him.
It was the pleading tone in her voice that snapped him back into reality. "Belle, no," he said simply and forcefully. "I'm not going to do that. Maybe there's a way…"
"Dean, no," she answered back, much more calmly that either of them were feeling. "I can hear the blood move through your veins, I know that your heart is beating about 107 times a minute right now, and I can hear the woman working the desk's pulse from here."
All Dean could do was look down at his precious, beautiful Belle and shake his head. He wanted to be strong and do as she asked. He knew that was the right thing to do, but he couldn't. "No, Belle, my beauty. I won't."
They stayed at a stalemate for the next couple hours continuing to argue and plead with one another, until Dean could see the blood lust growing. It was taking all that Belle had in her not to rip his throat from his neck, he knew, but she was strong. If he knew of anyone who could withstand it, though, it was her.
"You know, there's been rumors of vampires who don't drink human blood," he told her quietly, still holding her hand as he sat on the bed next to her. "You don't have to be a monster."
Belle was fighting off a small sweat and the world was beginning to go a little fuzzy. She was trying so hard to ignore the rush that was Dean's blood flowing through his veins. She was so hungry! All she could do was shake her head. "No, Dean, I have to die."
"Well then find another hunter to do it," he snapped, letting go of her hand and getting off the bed. He began to pace the room, pulling at his hair. He hated himself for not doing everything his hunter blood was telling him to do, everything his father would do. "I will not hurt a blonde hair on your head, Belle. I won't do it!"
Belle stood too, moving at a speed much quicker than she ever had. This new found ability caused the world to spin even more, and the hunger only continued to grow. "Then I'll do it myself," she said stubbornly, moving towards his knife sitting on the wobbly, but somewhat repaired table. It was Dean calling out for her to wait that made her stop.
"I believe in you, Belle," he stepped closer to her, closing in the distance she had created between them. "Your angels will protect you, isn't that what you always said?"
He struck a nerve, and finally a tear slipped down her cheek. "Dean," she whispered, letting him wrap his arms around her and hold her tightly. "I'm scared." Neither of them knew how long they stayed like that, but when Belle finally pulled away the front of Dean's shirt was soaked from her tears.
"I can't be a threat to society," she whispered, sniffing slightly as she wiped at her eyes.
"Then don't be," he told her, grabbing her hands tightly. He pressed his lips to the back of both her hands before staring down into her bloodshot emerald eyes. Belle only looked up at him with so much emotion rolling off of her. She stood up on tip toe to kiss him one last time, pouring every bit of love, and desire, and sadness into their last kiss. She felt another sob get caught in her throat as she pulled away from him, yanking her hands from his.
"Goodbye, Dean," she murmured to him. Then she slipped out of the motel room and took off running, letting the new vampire abilities take over as tears spilled from her eyes.
"I love you," he told her softly as he watched her disappear into the night, feeling his heart break with each step he knew she was taking fleeing from him. Another hole would find its way in the motel room wall before he began to pack up the room. He knew he would have to leave as soon as he could; there was so much of a mess he'd be leaving behind in the city. Someone had to have found those vampire bodies by now. He needed to be as far as possible, and he knew exactly where he needed to go. Mrs. Benoit needed answers.
As he threw things into the duffle bags, he couldn't help but pack away all of Belle's things as well. Her mascara she left on the counter and the William Faulkner book she had been reading on the way there. He placed all of her things into her bag, not having the heart to let some maid come in and throw them away. He tripped over his own bag, cursing loudly as some of his things spilled out, including a small, black velvet ring box. He couldn't help but reach down and open the box, letting a sparkling emerald glitter in the light. It was a tiny, white gold ring. It was probably old fashioned in comparison to what was in fashion now. Dean had picked it up at some antique shop up north when he was looking for a cursed jewelry box. The ring didn't mean anything. It wasn't an engagement ring or a promise ring. It had just reminded him of Belle's eyes, and he bought it to surprise her. Now she'd never get to have it.
It took Dean four months after he made his trip back to Louisiana to hunt down the son of a bitch that did this to her. He found him hiding out in a back alley in Oklahoma. And Dean wouldn't be ashamed in admitting he enjoyed every slice he made into that monster's skin with a knife soaked in dead man's blood before finishing him off.
His talk with Mrs. Benoit, on the other hand, was worse than losing Belle all over again. He explained the story to her as he would to his father, not leaving out a single detail except Belle running away. They wouldn't understand his inability to go through with killing the "monster" she had become. In their version of the story, he did was he was supposed to and burned the bones in a proper hunter's funeral. His father just clapped him on the shoulder and told him to buck up. He did what was right and had to be done. Mrs. Benoit, although she told him over and over that she understood, never seemed to forgive him. To this day, he was sure that she would still look at him with Belle's green eyes reflecting so much sadness, trying to hide the blame and anguish from him.
He was there when another small mausoleum was added to the Benoit's private cemetery, holding her grandmother's hand tightly as she cried. Even if there was no body, she hadn't felt right if there wasn't something to remember Belle with. The family name ended with her, and just like so many other old Southern families, it had died with her.
The empty tomb stood only about fifty yards away from where he had first kissed her, hidden away by the Spanish moss. Dean would sometimes go there when he was feeling lost. He'd just get into the Impala and drive and a few hours or a few days later he'd find himself standing in front of the tomb, reading over the words carved into the marble stone. He'd reach out and trace them with his fingertips, telling her he loved her and that he was sorry over and over again.
Anna Belle Benoit
October 2, 1981 – May 5, 2003
"May Angels Lead You In"
The last line he had heard in a song on his drive back from Texas. It was by some band he could never remember, something too new for his tastes, but the words seemed to be written to him about her. He always left this place humming them softly to himself, "May angels lead you in. Hear you me my friends. On sleepless roads the sleepless go. May angels lead you in."
He would never know what happened to Belle after that night. If she did what she said she would do and killed herself or exposed herself to another hunter and someone else killed his beauty. He liked to tell himself that she listened to him, and found a way to fight through this, but he didn't like to give himself that hope. If she had, wouldn't she have at least tried to find him? It had been two years with no word. He'd given up hoping for that a long time ago. Regardless, he still kept his head up whenever someone talked about vampires, wondering if they were talking about a little blonde doll with green eyes and a sweet accent.
Then again, maybe it was his penance to pay for letting her go into the warehouse on her own: this unknowing. He would live out the rest of his life never knowing her fate and forever blaming himself. It was poetic really. Something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story. She had always loved reading them as bed time stories. "Anna Belle, Anna Belle, Anna Belle Lee…" he use to tease her. If only he had known how ironic the poem would be later on in his life.
Dean took a deep breath and shook his thoughts away. He was passing an illuminated green road sign letting him know that Burkitsville, Indiana was only three miles away. He squeezed his fingers tightly into the steering wheel, shaking his head one more time. He needed to get his head in the game for this case. That's what he needed to worry about, not Belle or where she could be now. Though he still couldn't help but reach into his pocket and feel his fingers close tightly around a small, velvet box.
xxx
So, whatcha think? I've had this idea rattling around in my head for a really long time, but it wasn't until I was going through and rewatching the entire series that I actually felt the need to write it all out. I haven't written anything in a couple years. But hopefully this will be a great way to get started in it again! So let me know your opinions! Do ya like it or hate it? Want a continuation to this story? Let me have it!
The song mentioned is "Hear You Me" by the wonderful band Jimmy Eat World. They're one of my favorite bands, and this song I think it's just so appropriate. If you listen to the rest of the lyrics it really does apply, he never said thank you for anything she did, and Dean never told her he loved her. I also think Poe's Annabel Lee is a perfect parallel. In the poem, his love is taken from him too early and he continues to go to her grave, just like Dean.
Anyways, enough of this blah blah blah. I hope you all enjoyed the story, please let me know in your comments!