Word: Floor
Word Count: 400
Sissy comes on Dean's third birthday with a knapsack full of clothes. He's just about to shove a fistful of cake in his mouth when Mom whisks him up into her arms and yells at Dad. She uses big, long words Dean's never heard before—illegitimate, irredeemable, impossible.
You little piece of shit.
Dean starts crying and Mom clutches him closer, but she doesn't stop screaming. Sissy sits at the head of the table, head bowed, quiet.
Sissy ends up staying in the playroom. Dad pushes aside the shelves and resurrects an old army cot, but Mom refuses to help.
Dean likes Sissy. She reads him books before bed and always ensures that Ted's somewhere within Dean's grasp. She's gentle, nice, and Dean wishes that Sissy was his sissy, but Mom says that it isn't like that, that Sissy's Daddy's but not Mom's or Dean's.
Dean doesn't understand, but he sticks his thumb in his mouth and nods that he does anyways.
When Dean's a bit older and Mommy brings Sammy home to stay, Sissy doesn't play with Dean anymore. When he taps her leg, her eyes get all dark and glisten-y, just like Dad's Impala.
She says that she's going to make sure Sammy grows up alright though, so Dean doesn't tell Mom. Sammy's Dean's and Daddy's and Mommy's. Sammy comes first, Dean says to himself, Dad always says that Sammy always comes first.
Mom finds out about Sissy's black eyes when Sammy's four months old. Dad's at work, and Sissy's just changing Sammy's diaper all proper like, but Mom walks in, Sissy turns around, and Mom tells Dean to hide under Sammy's cradle.
There's a loud noise, real loud, louder than Mom yelling at Dad, louder than fireworks on the Fourth, louder than Sammy when he's all cranky. When Dean crawls out, Mom lifts him into her arms. There's a speck of red on Mom's cheek, and Dean asks Mom if she's been crying.
She doesn't respond, just curls Dean and Sammy closer and walks right on out of Sammy's room.
Mom tells Dad and Dean that Sissy ran away. She uses words that Dean's never heard before—vagrant, vivacious, vacillant.
I'm sure we'll find her.
Two months later and still no one's found the charred skeleton of a sixteen-year-old girl underneath the floorboards of the Winchester home, wrapped in a black body bag and covered with salt.