AN: Just some suggested listening for this chapter - and the story in general: Sweet and Low by Augustana, Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles, Pick Up the Phone by The Notwist, Where the Kids Are by Blondfire, Time by Hans Zimmer, Angels on the Moon (Acoustic Version) by Thriving Ivory, King and Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men, Young Blood (Renholder Remix) by The Naked and Famous, and Comes and Goes (In Waves) by Greg Laswell.
I think I'm definitely going to need to put together a soundtrack playlist for this story.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters you recognize nor any of the songs featured in this story.
she said she collects pieces of sky
Written by Becks Rylynn
Part Three
i will step out of your past
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trouble that we've come to know will stay with us
with every step it slowly grows
rub off the rust
- the notwist; pick up the phone
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Lydia is a meticulous girl.
She is carefully crafted, elegantly structured and effortlessly perfect.
It's strange for a girl her age, but it's pretty much the epitome of who she is, whether she remembers that or not. This is something Dean learns about her very quickly. Things have to be done just so with her. She obsessively cleans and organizes cutlery in diners, she alphabetizes his collection of cassette tapes, she folds and hangs up her clothes no matter where she is or how long she's going to be there, and she can spend hours doing her hair and make-up, just to make sure it's perfect. Perfection - or rather, her perception of perfection - is a part of her daily life. If something is not perfect then it's not worth it. Things are done her way or they're not done at all. It's aggravating, yes, and it grates on him more often than not, especially when she's critiquing him on something she knows next to nothing about (how to shoot a gun, how to cook a burger, how to drive the Impala) but it's something he grudgingly leans to accept. She's a teenager and this is what teenagers are like. Dean can vividly remember Sammy as a teenager. He was an insufferable mopey little shit.
She is also a counter. She counts her calories, she counts his calories, she counts how many bottles of nail polish she has, how many tubes of lip gloss, pairs of heels, she counts her steps, she counts her breaths, she just counts. It's a method of control for her. All of it. These things make her feel better. They let her breathe. She can't control a lot of things in her life, but she can control these small things. And okay, so maybe it's not the healthiest way to be dealing with everything but surely it can't be the worst.
He would ruminate on this obsessive behavior further, but he doesn't have a leg to stand on in that respect. There is something about Lydia. He's like a first time parent with her. He still checks on her every night, creeping over to her sleeping form with muted prayers of, please be breathing, oh, god, please be breathing.
We all have our own methods of control.
Lydia's is perfection.
Dean's is Lydia.
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For a little while, Lydia almost lets herself believe that it only happens when she's sleeping.
Her memory lapses are tricky things. While they were in Purgatory, they were unusual. In the course of a year, it only happened maybe three or four times. As soon as they got back to the real world, however, it started happening more often. She isn't necessarily surprised by this, to be honest, and neither is Dean (Purgatory suppressed everything, it wasn't stretch to think it would suppress this as well) but she isn't happy about it. Her episodes are nasty, unpredictable things. She never knows when they're going to happen or what she's going to be like during them or if she's going to remember the things she does while in the midst of one. The one thing about them that is predictable is that they always happen when she's sleeping. It's simple. She goes to sleep at night and when she wakes up in the morning, she doesn't remember who she is or where she is.
In the beginning, it always goes like that.
Until.
The first time, it's all Pixar's fault.
One night, while they're still in that old cabin in Whitefish, Montana, she decides she wants to be happy and forget about her troubles for a night, so she makes Dean and Sam watch movies with her. Dean and Sam are very strained right now because of Reasons (those reasons being faked text messages, fresh break ups with Benny and Amelia, Dean taking her to New Orleans without consulting Sam, Lack of Trust, and What Sam Did & Didn't Do While Dean Was In Purgatory - it's basically just a whole bunch of shit that she is a thousand percent done with) but they both flop down on the couch anyway, a Winchester on either side of her, bickering about licorice and movie choices.
Lydia makes it through Dean's pick of Die Hard by mocking it mercilessly, which is not a hard thing to do. She makes it through Sam's pick of Inception by unraveling all of the secrets and mysteries within the first half hour and spending the rest of the movie bored to tears. Then, finally, it's her turn. Originally, she was going to go with Brokeback Mountain, because there are so many Purgatory + Dean/Cas jokes curled up tight in that movie, but considering things are a little weird between Dean and Cas, she decided that was too mean and went for Black Swan instead. Natalie Portman won an Oscar for that, and the internet seems to think it's worth watching. But after the gratuitous violence of Die Hard and the insufferable heaviness of Inception, she just needs something happy.
She pops in Up because it's Pixar and it's sweet and brightly colored.
...Biggest mistake of her life.
As it turns out, Up is not a happy movie. As it turns out, the first ten minutes of Up are soul crushing and everything that is wrong with everything ever. Did you know that? 'Cause Lydia sure didn't. Spoiler alert: The sweet old man's wife dies. In the first ten minutes!
Dean doesn't even make it all the way to that part. He gets to the part where Ellie and Carl find out they can't have kids and then he leaps to his feet, declares, quite loudly, ''Nope!'' and leaves.
Sam is fucking weeping beside her, mumbling under his breath, ''This is supposed to be a kids' movie, why is it so full of pain? Why is this a thing that exists? Who thought this was a good idea?''
Lydia is powering through, though. She will admit that she's a little blubbery herself, because she has a soul and if you don't cry during Up, you have no soul, but she's determined to make it through, and she is nowhere near as inconsolable as Sam. She picked this movie. She has to watch it. She has her tissues and her popcorn and her chocolate. Things will be fine. It's not like the movie can possibly get sadder.
But then it happens.
It's after the montage of pain. Sam is desperately trying to compose himself and Lydia is...not feeling so great all of a sudden. It happens quite suddenly, like an avalanche, a rock slide. It starts with a weird taste in her mouth, kind of like pennies, grows into a hot flush that creeps up the back of her neck and turns her cheeks as red as her hair, and it eventually escalates into a ringing in her ears. She has no idea what any of this means, but she's about to. She tries to shake off the feeling and shoves the chocolate away from her, appetite suddenly diminished. She lasts a few more minutes, trying to focus on the movie, but it keeps getting stronger and the ringing is getting louder and louder, it's turning into a roar, and then...
...and then she blacks out.
When she comes to, it is dark and silent, and she is lying on her cot in the cabin. There is something heavy on her stomach and she can't move her hands. She blinks to adjust her vision and sluggishly moves her eyes down. Dean is practically draped over her, fast asleep and gripping her wrists, holding tight even in his sleep. He does not look comfortable. At first, in her bleary, not quite awake state, she's not sure why he's holding onto her, until she becomes aware of something sticky caked underneath her fingernails.
''Dean,'' her voice is raspy and her throat is raw, like she's been screaming. She tries to wriggle out from underneath Dean and get her wrists free. She turns her head to the side and catches sight of Sam, sprawled out on his own cot, one arm thrown over his face. Even in the dark, she can still see the angry red scratches on his skin. She swallows thickly, dread bubbling in her throat. ''Dean,'' she kicks her legs fruitlessly. He stirs. ''Wake up,'' she grinds out through her teeth, ''you asshole, you're going to bruise me.''
He wakes up. When he slowly lifts his head, still half asleep, she feels horror creeping through her. The scratches on Dean's face are worse than the ones on Sam's arms. They are deep and there is a smear of blood on his forehead. His neck is scratched all to hell and so are his arms. Her lips part in shock. He looks like he got in a fight with an alley cat and lost. ''Oh my god,'' she whispers.
''Lydia.'' He bolts upright, letting go of her instantly. ''Oh, sweetheart. Hey,'' he cups her cheek gently, for about half a second, before he draws his hand back quickly. He turns away from her for a moment to shake Sam awake and when he turns back to her, he's smiling. The smile he gives her is easy and careless. ''You back with me?''
She sits up slowly, still staring at the marks she's made on his body. She looks down at her hands, sees the chipped nail polish and the dried blood, and she thinks she's going to be sick. ''Oh my god,'' she whimpers again.
''Lydia - ''
''Did I... Did I do that to you?''
''It's fine.''
''It's not fine!'' She screams. Her cheeks go red with shame. She angrily wipes her hands on the sheets, but the dried blood stubbornly remains right where it is. ''It's unacceptable,'' she snaps. She throws off the covers and rises to her feet. She glares at both Dean and Sam, even though she's not mad at them, and staggers over to the sink, turning on the faucet as hot as it goes. She scrubs at her nails until the blood is gone.
''It's understandable,'' Dean says firmly. ''We were two unfamiliar men in a busted up cabin in the middle of nowhere with guns on the table, and we wouldn't let you leave. You could've done worse. You should've done worse.''
''Don't make excuses for me,'' her voice is cold.
He blatantly ignores her. ''It's not even as bad as it looks,'' he murmurs. ''Right, Sam?''
Sam nods. He gives her a sweet, little lopsided smile. ''We've had worse.''
''See?'' Dean grins. ''It's just a few scratches,'' he yawns. He sounds tired. His voice is all low and rumbly, gravelly, but not as gruff and short as usual. She remembers that when they were in Purgatory, that tone of voice became oddly comforting to her, like some sort of twisted lullaby. It was soothing. It reminded her of something. Someone, maybe.
''Just a few scratches,'' she scoffs. ''You look like you had angry sex with Catwoman.''
Sam sighs. ''Gross.''
Lydia's hands are still dripping wet, water droplets falling onto the ground noiselessly. She takes a few steps towards Dean and pulls herself up to her full height and then some, standing on her tip toes. She is still significantly shorter than Dean, and light years away from even being in the same hemisphere as Sam. ''Tell me what happened,'' she demands.
Dean rubs the back of his neck with a grimace, displaying the scratches on his forearm. ''It was just,'' he stops. ''It was just one of those things.''
''One of those things,'' she repeats. ''You mean a memory lapse? A fugue state? One of my,'' she curls her fingers into air quotes, ''episodes?''
''Yeah,'' Dean folds his arms. ''One of those.''
''While I was awake?''
Dean and Sam share a look that she is not comfortable with. They both look so pitying. ''Yes.''
''That's never happened before.''
''...No.''
She picks up a dish towel to dry her hands. She works her mouth silently for a moment and does not freak out. Lydia Martin, whoever that is, does not freak out. She may not remember much, but she remembers that. She does not let people see her cry. ''Am I getting worse?'' She asks. She does a brilliant job of keeping her voice steady.
Dean lookswinded. ''I don't know.''
Lydia feels defeated, which is another thing she refuses to tolerate. She sags against the kitchen sink, dropping the dishtowel back onto the counter carelessly. She doesn't know what to do. She really hates that. She rakes a hand through her hair and licks her lips, raising her eyes to Dean. Mostly he looks reassuring and apologetic, but she can see worry shining through. And pity. There are a lot of things he doesn't want people to see, she has learned, and whether he knows it or not, they're closer to the surface than he thinks. She gives herself another minute, lowering her eyes back down to her chipped manicure, and then she pushes off the sink and disappears into the bathroom.
She can't be gone more than three or four minutes tops, searching for the first aid kid and her cosmetics bag, but by the time she gets back, there is a brand new kind of tension in the air between Dean and Sam, and Dean looks like someone has just kicked his car. She glances in between them, wrinkles her nose, and then quickly decides she doesn't want to know. Their stupid issues are just that. Theirs (and also stupid). She has enough on her plate as it is.
She tosses the first aid kit at Sam without warning, says, primly, ''Fix your brother's face'' and sits down at the table. She rummages around in her cosmetics bag, pulls out her nail scissors, and she cuts her nails.
Eventually, after she cuts them too short and keeps cutting, until she bleeds, Dean has to close one big hand around hers, wrestles the scissors away from her and has to say softly, firmly, ''Sweetheart, stop.''
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Lydia is in the bathroom.
Lydia is in the bathroom and Dean's heart is pounding against his ribcage like a drum, body humming with anxious, nervous energy. His facade slips and he has to catch his breath. He can feel Sam's disapproving stare burning into his back. His eyes slide sideways, the direction Lydia disappeared, and then he reluctantly allows himself to turn and face Sam's wrath.
Sam looks unhappy. That is an understatement. Sam looks pissed. ''You just flat out lied to her, Dean.''
''I'm handling it,'' says Dean, and wishes it was that easy, that simple, that cut and dry.
''Maybe it's not about you handling it,'' Sam snaps at him. ''Maybe this isn't about you at all. Maybe this is her life you're fucking around with and she deserves to know what's happening to her, you ever think of that?''
''I'm protecting her.''
''She's not a child,'' is the cold and even response to that.
Dean's smile is as cold as Sam's voice, twisting angrily onto his features. ''She is my child.''
''Except for the part where she's not.''
''Do you think I'm doing this for shits and giggles, Sam?''
Sam sighs and hangs his head. ''I think you don't want her to be scared. And I get that,'' he says quickly, with a nod. ''I really do,'' he takes a few steps towards his brother. ''But newsflash, man, she's already scared. Maybe knowing what's happening to her will help.''
''Yeah,'' Dean snorts, ''and maybe it'll turn her into a paranoid shut in and I'll have to sit there and watch her wither and rot and fade away.''
''Regardless,'' Sam whispers, ''don't you think she deserves to have a choice?''
Dean scrubs a hand over his face, forgetting that there are scratches on his skin, and it hurts. He winces and lets his hands fall to his sides. ''I think,'' he pauses, clenching his teeth together. ''I think that I'm doing what's best for her, and that's all I can do.''
Sam regards him silently, and then says, ''You know,'' in a very soft, quiet tone of voice, already sounding ashamed of what he's about to say. ''This is something Dad would've done.''
Well, isn't that a slap in the face. That's a fucking low blow right there. Dean feels like his first instinct to that should be to lunge, shake his jackass little brother and make him see that he's doing the best he can and that stupid shit like that isn't fucking helping. Instead, he shrinks back, recoiling in hurt, chest heaving, lip curling, fists clenching. All the air just whooshes right out of his body and he can't even defend himself. He unclenches his fists and looks away. And fuck, you know, he knows he's a fucking worthless bastard, but seriously? Seriously, with the Dad topic? Jesus, Sam. The really sad thing, though, is that he can't even say that Sam is wrong.
Dean takes a few breaths. He clenches and unclenches his fists once again. He doesn't even think, for a second, about throwing any of the stupid shit Sam has done back in his face. And then Lydia comes back. He shoves everything to the back of his mind and focuses on her. He can only hope he doesn't look too wrecked.
While Sam is treating the wounds on his face, Dean watches Lydia cut away at her nails and thinks about how terrifyingly much he loves her. He remembers New Orleans, Julia, the pendant he manipulated onto her neck by telling her it was his mother's, the herb supplements he has to keep slipping her just to keep her here with him, the lies he's telling her, all the things she doesn't know...
And yeah.
Okay.
So, maybe this is exactly the sort of thing Dad would've done.
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In New Orleans, Dean is kneeling in front of a still trembling Julia, helping her shaky hands tilt a glass of water to her lips. There are several bloodied tissues strewn out on the table and there is dried blood on her fingers. Ruby looks ready to punch through whatever magical barrier is keeping her out, just to get to Julia's side.
''Better?'' Dean asks, keeping his voice soft. It's taking a remarkable amount of self control to not demand Julia tell him what she knows right now. He moves his hand to her knee, and she raises her eyes to him at the touch. She arches one single eyebrow and puckers her lips. He wisely retracts his hand.
She nods slowly and takes one more sip of the water. ''I'm sorry,'' her voice is hoarse. ''I... I had no idea it was going to take such a toll on me. I didn't mean to frighten you.'' She looks up to meet Ruby's eyes. ''Either of you,'' she tacks on meaningfully.
Ruby relaxes slightly. Slightly.
Dean raises his eyebrows and very pointedly does not ask what the fuck?
''It...'' Julia shakes her head, eyebrows knitting together. Her teeth sink into her lower lip. She looks...worried. That does not bode well. ''It required more power than I thought it would to access her mind.'' She places the glass of water down on the table. ''My circuits overloaded,'' she says dryly.
''But you did it, right?'' Dean blurts out, and doesn't even have to look behind him to feel Ruby's disapproving stare.
Julia rises gracefully to her feet, lips quirking into a smirk. She stares down at Dean, who is still kneeling on the floor, and something about her exudes power. It oozes. It's eerie. ''I did.''
Dean stands to tower over her. She still seems to have the upper hand. ''You know what's happening to her, then? What's happened to her?''
Julia pauses before she answers, attention slipping over to Ruby just long enough for her smirk to stretch out into a softer, kinder smile. ''It's a wall,'' she says, regretfully.
He audibly sucks in a breath. His body tenses, goes ramrod straight, and he folds his arms over his chest. ''A wall,'' he parrots. ''Like - ''
''No,'' she's firm, definitive. ''Not like the kind your brother had in his head.''
''How do you know about that?''
She scoffs. ''Please.''
''Okay,'' Dean rubs at his temples. ''Okay, so... How is it different?''
She hums in contemplation and considers her words very carefully and for a long time, before she answers, ''Do you know how ivy grows?''
He does not know what the fuck to do with that. ''How is that at all relevant?''
Julia gives him a look, proving that apparently this is where Ruby learned the art of sass. ''Sooner or later, it covers everything,'' she deadpans.
Dean waits for more. It does not come. ''...And...?''
''It's like that.''
''...Uh, Jules,'' Ruby pipes up, after a painfully awkward minute of nothing. ''I reeeaally think you're going to need to elaborate there, babe.''
Julia puts one hand on her hip, looking affronted. She tilts her head to the side and says, bluntly, ''Your daughter's head is all fucked up.''
''Keep elaborating,'' Dean hisses. ''And she's not my daughter.''
Julia seems to deflate a bit, looking wrung out and weary, rubbing at her forehead. ''It was...confusing,'' she confesses. ''Being in her head. But from what I saw, it's almost like there are two forces at work. One of them was dark, the other was light. Someone put up a wall in her head. That was the original source of her amnesia,'' she tells them. ''And the wall started to crumble. Not organically, mind you, someone was actively trying to break it down.''
Dean clears his throat. ''Why?''
''To help her access her memories, I'd wager,'' she shrugs. ''But they're not the only party at work. Like I said, some dark source put up the wall and when the light source tried to fix it... The darkness is trying to cover the wall to keep whatever's behind it from seeing the light of day.''
An uncomfortable silence invades the space between and Dean swings his eyes over to the door separating him from Lydia. A wave of sudden anger surges through him. She is seventeen years old. She's a child. Who would do this to a child?
''Essentially what you're saying,'' Ruby drawls, ''is that there's a battle of good and evil going on in her head?''
''Well,'' Julia lifts one shoulder in a sort of aborted shrug. ''I believe it's more complicated than that, but yeah, sure. Let's go with that. It certainly sounds more dramatic, doesn't it?''
''It really does.''
''Who the hell does that to a little girl?'' Dean spits.
''Maybe she knows something she shouldn't,'' Ruby suggests. ''Maybe she saw something she shouldn't have.''
''Dean,'' Julia places her hand on his wrist. Her hand is cold. ''There's something else you should know.'' Her tone is hesitant and this time, when she offers him a little smile, it's sad and pitying.
Dean doesn't like that. He doesn't like that one bit. He stands straight. ''And what's that?''
''What's happening to her... It's degenerative.''
His mouth has suddenly gone bone dry. He looks to Ruby, but she has looked away. ''What,'' he has to clear his throat - again. ''What does that mean?'' He asks, even though he already knows.
''It means she's going to get worse,'' says Ruby, her voice a low, awkward sounding murmur, body drifting to the side, closer to Dean.
Julia nods. ''It's what's causing her memory lapses, and it's only going to get worse. Her episodes will start lasting longer, they'll happen more frequently, come on more suddenly; she'll probably suffer from seizures, anxiety attacks, bursts of violence, and her immune system will be compromised. By the later stages, she will most likely be confined to a bed, her organs will start to fail, and she may even lose control of her bladder and bow - ''
''Stop!'' Dean scrubs a hand over his face. He can see it all in his head, vividly; how she will begin to wither, gradually at first and then more quickly; how Lydia, that bright, beautiful spark will just fade away, burn out. He remembers now. Why he never lets himself have friends, family. Everything around him always dies. He had a plant once and even it died. He is always left with nothing but ashes. ''Just...'' He closes his eyes. ''Stop.'' He swallows thickly and when he opens his eyes, he's looking at Ruby. She has one arm wrapped around her stomach and she's gnawing on her thumbnail. She looks guilty, like she never should have brought him here. He looks away from her, back to Julia. ''That's - Alzheimer's. You're describing Alzheimer's, Julia.''
The fact that Julia looks as upset as he does, like she can feel what he is feeling, is not helping. ''Yes.''
''She's fucking seventeen years old!''
''And somebody is leaving claw marks all over her mind like it's a battleground. This is what happens. She's slipping away, Dean.''
''No.''
''Dean - ''
''No.'' He's three seconds away from pulling out his own goddamn hair. ''No. I don't accept this. I don't - There has to be something you can do. You - '' He looks in between Julia and Ruby desperately, pleading. ''You're both witches!''
''I am not a witch,'' Julia hisses, sounding genuinely offended.
''Fucking whatever!'' He advances on her, running on fumes and terror, which, yes, he realizes is not wise. ''I don't care if you're a witch, a psychic, or a fuckin' abominable snowman! Just fix. My. Kid.''
''Dean!'' Ruby's voice is commanding. He doesn't even have to look at her to know her eyes have gone black as tar. ''Back off, or I swear to God - ''
''Don't you dare fight my battles for me,'' Julia snaps at Ruby. ''I am not your own personal damsel to save. This was always your problem, Ruby.'' Then, to Dean, ''I'm sorry,'' her tone is agonizingly final. ''But I can't do much. I can give you something that wards off illness and might - might - stabilize her for awhile but other than that, this is out of my hands.'' She pinches her lips, exasperated. ''You can be as angry as you want,'' she says. ''That's your right as someone who loves her. You can scream and cry, you can threaten me, scour the globe for a better second opinion, but it won't change the facts. That is a very sick little girl you got in there, darlin', and whether she lives or dies is, as scary as it sounds, entirely up to her and whoever wins that battle inside her head. It's a sad truth, but I'm sorry, that's what it is. The truth.''
All Dean can really do with that... He has no idea what to do with that.
He sinks into a chair, body just folding into itself and collapsing weakly. He feels helpless. That is not a feeling he relishes. It's like that night in Cold Oak, or May 2nd, 2008; it's like when that Argent woman sliced Ruby open with her own knife and it took her almost a month to heal herself completely, or when Cas stood before them and declared himself to be the new God, or when Bobby... When Bobby... He leans forwards, rubbing at his aching eyes with the heels of his palms. It's like that night, that one night, when his mother burned on the ceiling and took his father apart, piece by piece, with her burnt hands. He tries not to think about that. He draws in a few shaky breaths, and he thinks only of Lydia. Of that young and vibrant girl lying in there, and how she does not deserve to die like this: so slowly and painfully and needlessly.
He lifts his head slightly, hands over his mouth, and he makes a split second decision that he's sure he'll regret sooner rather than later, but can't bring himself to care right now. ''Do you know anything else about her?'' His voice is even. It seems to jolt Ruby and Julia.
''I - yes.'' Julia glances at Ruby. ''But I'd rather wait to tell her - ''
''Good.'' Dean stands. ''You tell her whatever meaningless little details you've got - her mother's first name, her favourite color, but you do not tell her what you just told me.''
Julia's lips tighten. ''Excuse me?''
''You're not going to tell her that she's getting worse,'' he says simply. ''You're going to tell her something small, something that makes her feel better, and then you're going to give me whatever you've got to stabilize her and you are not going to tell her she's dying.''
Ruby says, ''Dean,'' in this quiet little voice, like she's shocked, as if this is the worst thing he's ever done, which, you know, yeah fucking right. Off the top of his head, he can name about eight worse things he's done.
''What?'' He sends her a glare. ''Like you haven't ever lied to the people you claim to love?''
She looks hurt. He can't bring himself to care, heart racing, face heating up. ''And I learned from those mistakes,'' she says, wounded. ''I paid for those mistakes. You, of all people...'' She scoffs, looking vaguely disgusted with him and his life choices. ''This is her life,'' she points out. ''It's her body. She deserves to know what's happening to her. She deserves the truth.''
''She deserves to be able to wake up in the morning,'' his voice rises with every word, ''without worrying about dying of supernatural induced dementia!''
''Men and their penchant for protecting the womenfolk,'' Ruby sneers. ''You assholes. Let me ask you a question, Dean: Has keeping things from people ever worked out for you before?''
''I won't tell her.''
Dean and Ruby both look at Julia. Dean is surprised. Ruby looks like she wants to rip out their spines with her teeth. ''What.''
Julia shrugs, but smiles this strange sort of small smile, like she knows something they don't. ''Lydia is seventeen,'' she says. ''A minor. Dean is, for all intents and purposes, her guardian. I won't tell her. Not if Dean asks me not to.''
Ruby looks like she wants to argue, but instead she just crosses her arms and huffs, looking slightly homicidal and very annoyed, but mostly disappointed. Disappointed in Dean. He almost wants to laugh at that. What else is new? The sun rises in the east, sets in the west, NBC's ratings suck, and someone is disappointed in Dean Winchester. ''Thank you,'' he breathes.
''Don't thank me,'' Julia says. ''You have no idea what's coming your way.'' And then she turns and flounces away to go check on Lydia.
There is a moment of silence between Dean and Ruby and then Ruby growls and calls after Julia, ''You always have been far too dramatic! This was always your problem, Jules!''
.
.
.
Of course, Dean isn't exactly expecting what happens next.
He expects Julia to tell Lydia where she's from or if she has any other allergies aside from seafood (found that out in the worst way possible) but no. Instead, when Lydia wakes up, her anxious eyes peering around Julia to where Dean is standing, Julia looks right at the girl and says, ''Did you know that there is a reason why you were placed with Dean?''
From outside the room, there is a triumphant, ''Ha!'' from Ruby. ''I fucking knew it! You owe me dinner, Winchester!''
''What does that mean?'' Lydia croaks out, waving Dean away when he tries to help her up.
''It's not an accident you two found each other in Purgatory,'' Julia says, watching Lydia drag herself to her feet. ''You were banished to Purgatory,'' she glances at Dean, ''for reasons I don't know,'' back to Lydia, ''but you two stumbling across each other was more than just some coincidence.'' She throws a look over her shoulder at Dean. It's oddly smug. ''She was placed with you, Dean.''
''By who?'' Lydia asks, rubbing the back of her neck.
''Somebody good.''
''But you don't know who?''
''No.''
''And you don't know why?''
''...No.''
Lydia's eyes cloud over with fire and she turns on Dean with clenched teeth, jabbing her finger into his chest. ''I told you this was a waste of time,'' she bites. ''We have better things to do. I have better things to do.''
''He's meant to keep you safe,'' Julia hums. ''And you, my darling,'' she steps over to Lydia and places her hands on the girl's pale cheeks. Lydia looks uncomfortable at the touch, but still throws a hand out to keep Dean in place. ''You are so much more than some girl. You,'' Julia looks at Dean with a look on her face that is indescribable, ''are a gift.''
Dean stills.
Lydia swallows. She is the first one to break the silence, pulling away from Julia roughly with a roll of her eyes. ''Great,'' she sneers. ''It's nice to know that I'm basically the property of some angsty old white dude 'cause he needs a pick me up. That makes me feel super awesome about myself.''
''That's actually not what's happening here,'' Julia is completely deadpan. ''But I understand where you're coming from.''
''I think you're spending far too much time with Dean,'' Ruby calls to Lydia. ''You just used the words dude and awesome without being ironic.''
''I'm sorry,'' Dean cuts in. ''Old? I'm thirty five.''
''Almost thirty six,'' Lydia corrects.
''Oh, right. I forgot that once you hit thirty six your life is over and you should just lie down in a coffin and wait to die.''
''Well, I'm always happy to remind you.''
Julia just laughs. ''Just wait until you find out why you're with him, honey,'' she tells Lydia. ''Then tell me if you're lacking girl power.''
Lydia glowers. ''But you're not going to tell me why, are you?'' When she gets no answer, she huffs and flips her hair dramatically. ''Fan-fucking-tastic. What a wonderfully pointless waste of my time. Thanks for nothing.'' She sticks her nose up in the air. ''I don't like you,'' she informs Julia coldly.
''Lydia!''
''She's cryptic,'' is Lydia's defense. ''I hate cryptic. It's rude.'' She crosses her arms decisively and turns her glare to Dean. ''Can we go?''
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''What an anticlimactic day,'' Ruby says, instead of blurting out the truth, which Dean was terrified she would do. Lydia is pissed off and practically vibrating with about thirty different conflicting emotions, there is some sort of amulet that's supposed to ''help'' weighing Dean's pocket down, and Julia is way too fucking calm and serene to be around right now. ''No offense, Jules,'' Ruby adds on with a lazy yawn. She beckons Lydia over to her and Lydia - who really wants to leave apparently - slowly strolls over to her, looking apprehensive as she does so. ''Come on, kiddo,'' Ruby says. ''I'll buy you a beer.''
''No, you will not,'' Dean grumbles. ''She's seventeen.''
''Right, and I'm sure you waited until you were twenty one to have your first sip of alcohol.''
Dean's lips pinch together. ''It doesn't matter what I did. It matters what she does.''
''Ugh, fine. Then I'll buy her some gumbo. Give me your wallet.''
He scowls at her. And gives her his wallet.
After Ruby has led an unnervingly quiet Lydia from the shop, Dean turns back to Julia and opens his mouth to -
''No.''
He clamps his jaw shut and stares, surprised. ''What?''
''You think I was bullshitting you,'' she says. ''I wasn't. It may be hard to believe but she really was a gift.''
He snorts. ''Yeah, sure.''
She grins. ''It's so hard to believe, isn't it? That you would deserve something as precious as her.'' She moves closer to him and something about the way she moves, the way she just slinks forwards, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He shivers when she touches his hand, fingers dancing over the lines of his palm. ''You underestimate yourself, Dean,'' she murmurs. ''You deserve only good things.''
He looks down at her, trying to decide if the look in her eyes is teasing or genuine. He keeps his voice even and his expression blank. ''So, someone brain wiped a sixteen year old kid, erased her from her friends and family and gave her to me as a gift? That's eighteen different levels of creepy.''
''Oh, no,'' she waves that off. ''That's entirely unrelated. Just trust me when I say that you two were meant to find each other. You always have been.''
He doesn't know what that means. ''There are a lot of things you're not telling me.'' It's not a question.
''There are a lot of things I can't tell you.''
''Can't or won't?''
''Bit of both, honestly.''
He grunts, frustrated. Barely fazes her. His mouth works silently for a minute, mind desperately grasping at straws, before he blurts out, ''Why her?''
Julia chews on her lip and looks far too innocent for it to be genuine. ''You two have a bond,'' she says. ''A connection. You always have. Even before you knew her, you loved her and she loved you. It's something rare. She is something rare. You're supposed to be together. You were supposed to find each other again.''
''...Again?''
She laughs. Her laughter is loud and musical and mesmerizing. She's terrifying and there is no way in hell that she is human, but she is also enthralling. Captivating. He thinks he can understand why Ruby fell so hard for her, assuming he is right about that particular theory. ''You'll find out.''
He shakes his head. ''Lydia was right. You are cryptic, and it is rude.''
''In the meantime,'' she reaches up to touch his cheek, a soft caress that he doesn't mean to lean into but does anyway. ''Hold onto her,'' she advises. ''For as long as you can.'' Something about the way she says for as long as you can makes his stomach churn. ''You deserve happiness,'' she says firmly. She leans up on her tip toes and still has to pull him down so that she can brush her lips across his cheek. Before she draws back and melts away from him, she whispers in his ear, ''Your mother thinks so, too.''
His blood runs cold.
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.
He had a daughter once, he thinks, as he helps Lydia Martin over a fallen tree, holding onto her hand tight so she won't fall.
His daughter was a monster, yes, and she was trying to kill him, but she was still his daughter. She was still made from him. He tries his best to forget about that, about her. He hasn't yet managed to succeed. Her name was Emma. That's one of the things he remembers best about his daughter because the second she told him he was her father, all his shock riddled brain managed to think was he wouldn't have picked that name.
I would've named her Mary, he remembers thinking, later that night, when he threw the match onto his daughter's body and watched her burn.
He didn't love Emma when she died, but if Sam had been five minutes late getting to him, Dean probably would have taken the bullet for her. He wonders what that says about him. That she was a monster who was trying to kill him, and he still thinks of her as his daughter, and he knows he would have died for her, if he had the chance. If he had five more minutes. He wonders what his father would say about that. (He wonders what his father would say about a lot of things.)
And he cannot remember the sound of her voice when she said please don't let him hurt me or how tall she was, but he remembers she was beautiful.
Once upon a time, he thinks, loping off the head of a feral werewolf that had locked onto Lydia's scent, he also had a son.
He has not forgotten anything about Ben - he could draw you a picture of his face, tell you all of his favourite songs, what his best subject was in school, the name of his best friend, the girl he had a crush on, his school principal, what sports he followed, what scared him, what made him laugh, how bad of a patient he was when he was sick, how much of a little brat he could be - but he sincerely hopes that Ben has forgotten everything about him. He hopes Ben will never remember anything about the man who is only alive because he had to help Ben Braeden with his homework.
He loved Ben when he made the choice to take himself out of that equation, and he regrets a lot of things about what happened with Lisa and Ben - he regrets getting them involved, getting them hurt, staying even after he had been pulled back in - but he can't bring himself to regret knowing and loving that boy (or his mother, really, but that's a story for another day).
Dean Winchester is a lot of things. A hunter, a charmer, a con man, an asshole, a disappointing son, a brother who tries his best, a man who can't seem to win one. Everyone knows these things. But what they don't know - what he hopes they can't see - is that he's also a father who has lost two children and as much as he tries to push that away, to ignore that, to tell himself that Ben and Emma were never really his, but sometimes he can't help but feel those losses. Whether he likes it or not, he is a parent without a child now.
And that is something that is hard to ignore.
In the filth of Purgatory, Dean turns around to face the girl on the ground, wearing his jacket, her eyes big and round, her skin pale, and he gives her a smile that shows his teeth before offering her his hand. Compared to the dirt and grime he's covered in, he's sure the white teeth, and really just the smile in general, must be odd. He figures he looks deranged at best, with serial killer rounding second.
The girl, still new to all of this and understandably petrified, takes his hand anyway.
Lydia Martin, he thinks, when her fingers curl into his, is going to be trouble.
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pick up the phone and answer me at last
today i will step out of your past
- the notwist; pick up the phone
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end part three
AN: Just a quick note: I will be going on summer vacation in the beginning of July and I will be gone for one month, so that long space between updates that will be happening is not because I've abandoned this story, it will just be because I'm on vacation with limited internet access.
