Chapter 3: An Explanation

"What do you want to know?"

Dean leaned against the tacky dresser that was inconveniently shoved against the back wall under a window. Sam furled his eyebrows together and used his fingers to squeeze the bridge of his nose together. I knew he was frustrated. He took a deep breath, sat down at the table with Castille. He put his hands together into one fist on the table and stared at them intently. Without looking up he shrugged his shoulders. A loss for words.

All I wanted to do at that moment was rush over, pull him into my arms and tell him that everything was okay. Everything would be okay. But his stiff demeanor and the present situation was telling me that any movement on my part could and would do more damage then good.

"Start from the beginning." Dean's voice boomed in the silence. The beginning was a good place to start... But which beginning? The beginning of my life? Or the beginning of my immortal life? My life with Sam? I decided the first would be best.

"I was born in 1537,' I was calm, my voice steady. The truth was all I was going to say. The facts. Let them judge me, though I prayed they wouldn't. I cleared my throat and began again, 'I was born in 1537. In England."

"1537?', Dean leaned toward me from his positions, trying to figure out is he heard me right. I nodded, 'That would make you.... 472?' Another shake of my head confirmed his math of my age. He blew out a whistle through his lips and gave a forced laugh. 'You're looking good for 472."

Again, I nodded and continued.

"Yes, I am 472. Physically, I'm 20-21... or so I seem. I never age. I've looked like this since..."

"So what are you? A demon? A witch? 'Cause after what you did to Sammy, seeing you alive, I'm pretty sure that you're a bitc..."

"Dean! That's enough!" Sam didn't even look up to shush his brother. He didn't take his eyes away from his fists when he told me to keep going. Something in his tone of voice told me that Dean wouldn't interrupt me again. The floor was mine.

"I'm not really any of those things. I mean, if you have to classify me, I guess I would say that I'm part demon. I know I'm the only one of my 'kind'. If I even have a kind.' I turned to sit on the corner of the bed closest to the door. 'There's no name for what I am. I can describe it, but there's no title." The looks of confusion I got told me I needed to be clearer.

"I was born in 1537. I was the daughter of a Lord and Lady in England. My mother died when I was a child and I was raised by my governess. I was raised to be a perfect courtier. Curtsy's, smiles, loyal, obedient.... It was all practice so that someday, I could be sold off in marriage someday.' I giggled. All three men in the room turned and looked at me. 'That was entirely the problem."

"I was 17 when my father decided I was old enough to be betrothed. He chose a rich noble from France. I had never met him or seen him, but my father claimed he was a perfect choice for me. Thanks to my governess and my.... wild tendencies, my father was convinced that I was not suitable to be a bride until I was 20. Thankfully, my betrothed had no problem with it. I was very thankful. I had 3 years to enjoy my freedom. I was lucky. Most fathers back then would have never done such a thing for their daughters."

"He arrived from France two years later. I was never told anything about him, and from my child stories, I expected a young and handsome noble man who'd be kind and love me as his wife. Instead, he was old. Older than my father. And he was fat.' I shivered, remembering the moment I first saw the duke. 'I was horrified."

"We took him to our estate. He stayed in rooms near ours, so my betrothed and I could get to know one another. Despite the location of our rooms, I never saw him. But I heard things about him from the gossip of the ladies at court. He had been married 6 times, all his wives had died. He had no heir and the rumor had it that he was rough with his wives. It was almost certain that he beat them on a regular basis. He smelled and ate poorly, but the worse thing about him was his behavior. He pinched me several times as well as my ladies. He touched himself in public and did not censor his conversation at all. I begged my father to not make me marry him. I begged him to chose another. He simply slapped me on the face and told me it was for the best."

"On one of my last days of freedom, I took a walk into the small shire near our estate. I loved the little village. It was nearly dusk, and the air was getting cool. I walked in the dark, trying to be invisible for the last time. I walked through town and into the church's graveyard. I sat at the bench below a willow tree, next to my mother's grave. I sobbed. I cried and cried and cried. I don't remember how long it was but it seemed like forever, like the tears would never stop.' As I spoke, a new tear escaped my eye. I wiped it away, remembering that night. 'Once I was nearly calm, the fog started around me. It was summer, so fog was rare. I dismissed it. Thinking it was nothing."

"As the mist circled around me, I got a little scared. I knew in this village I was safe, but here, in the dark, I wasn't certain. I forced myself to believe I was safe. I told myself that I was and after repeating it to myself, I began to believe it. I dried my eyes and was about to walk away when a small cracking noise came from behind me. I stopped, frozen like a statue. I knew someone was behind me. I don't know how but I just knew. I also had a feeling, that whoever it was, was about to change me forever...."