Seven times they had been together. Seven times. That was three more than any one girl Dean Winchester had ever been with in his eighteen years.
She had peered at him through a thick set of eyelashes that framed eyes the same color blue as the sky at noon and smirked, and he was hooked, that easy. He liked the way she felt, liked the way her dark hair smelled like apples and the way her fingertips were cool against the smooth skin of his back. He liked the way she laughed, liked the way she fit next to him the way too puzzle pieces fit together.
He liked the way she made him feel this little tug toward a normal relationship: one that lasted, one that endured, one that tied two people and two people only. He just liked her, and figured that one day, if he stayed long enough—which he wouldn't—he could love her.
Amy was a simple being. She liked action movies and collected playing cards. She wore shorts and v-neck t-shirts almost every day, showing off a nicely toned figure. She ran track and was a valuable part of the varsity swim team.
It was clear that Amy didn't do relationships, either. When they occasionally walked through the halls at school together, she ignored the waves of every guy she passed, always sending looks of shock and annoyance across their faces and a look of smug satisfaction across hers.
They were spontaneous about it, always. Sometimes a midnight phone call—bringing the song "Urgent" to mind—sometimes the back seat of her car in the back of the school parking lot behind the gym, and once an actual motel room. She never acted weird the next day, never avoided him: she'd just glance up at him through those eyelashes, one eyebrow arched, and he knew.
What he didn't know, however, is why she had to die.
Had it been a demon, or a werewolf, or a vampire? No. A poltergeist? No. Instead, it was something new, something he had never even dealt with, never even thought he would have to deal with.
She had been walking to her car after school and had been hit by a truck, probably driven by someone who was under the influence of something or another. The driver had taken off, and the car wasn't seen again, but she had died right there, instantly, from a head injury.
He felt inclined to go to the funeral, and tried to talk himself out of it several times: it would just be awkward. Her family would just glare at him. He didn't want to intrude.
Naturally, though, he went anyway, standing in the grass with a herd of men and a handful of women, and when it came time to toss a rose down onto the lid of the glossy white coffin, as customary at funerals for the wealthy, he wasn't sure how to feel. He simply felt detached from everything, detached from reality, detached from all he knew.
But when he pricked his finger on a forgotten thorn on the white rose's stem and dropped the rose, watching it slide off the coffin lid and down into the mud of the plot, he swore he could hear her laughing.