Chapter VII - Questioning
Dad and Uncle Dean located the Gordon Walker's car on the perimeter of a shipyard. They prepared their machetes and stepped out of the Impala. I leaned back into my seat with a book in my hand.
It was hard to tell if I was angry or relieved that I wasn't going to be a part of this. I used to be able to handle myself in the heat of battle—even though Dad is still convinced that I'm some weak, little girl. But, after the whole face-off with yellow-eyes, I began to question myself and my abilities. I mean, I couldn't even shoot a gun to kill the thing that caused my family so much pain.
My first instinct was to call Lily Jackson, my best friend. She learned about this messed up part of the world when her uncle was framed for murder when it really was a murderous shape shifter. After that, I was able to unload—for lack of a better term—all this crap on her and she has been able to help me out thus far. It probably helped that her late father was a psychiatrist.
But, as my fingers hovered over the "talk" button, her name highlighted on my phone, I didn't want to explain everything to her. I haven't talked to her since before Grandpa showing up in Manning, Colorado with a lead about yellow-eyes and the Colt. I would have to explain all of this to her and I didn't have the want nor the energy to do such a thing.
So, instead, I read. I read a different lifetime, wishing I could transport myself into the book. This one probably had a happy ending where the guy and the girl end up together and they stop all the crap that came flying their way. Too bad real life wasn't like that.
A few minutes later, a phone began to ring in the front seat. I recognized it as Dad's ringtone, since Uncle Dean had the chorus of "She Shook Me All Night Long" for his. I scrambled across the seat to grab it. The lit caller ID read "Lee" and my blood ran cold.
I literally threw it away from me.
Once it stopped ringing, I waited five minutes for the signal that he had a new voicemail. I typed in his code (Mom's birthday, of course) and listened to the voicemail that bitch left.
"Mr. Winchester, this is Linda Lee again reminding you of your appointment that you have rescheduled many times. If you do not make it to this next appointment I have no choice but to—" I slammed the phone shut. I did not want to hear any more of it.
Dad and Uncle Dean came back a while later. Uncle Dean had blood splattered on his face, but I knew it wasn't his.
The two of them were silent as we drove away from the peer. That's when I noticed that Walker was following us in his red car.
"Uh…what's going on?" I asked, turning towards Dad and Uncle Dean.
"He owes us a drink," Uncle Dean simply said.
-SPN- -SPN- -SPN-
"Another one bites the dust," Walker said proudly as he held his shot glass full of whiskey up. Uncle Dean held his up and they clanked them together, crying "Here, here." They both tipped back at the shots and Dad and I simply watched them as if they were a cheesy sitcom.
From what I gathered from their small talk—well, the hunter's equivalent to small talk where they discuss monsters instead of the weather—Uncle Dean chopped the head off a vampire who was trying to kill the other hunter using a saw. Which explained the odd blood splatters on his face.
"Dean," Walker chuckled, and then full on laughed for a moment, "you gave that fang one helluva haircut."
It was comments like that that led me to that conclusion.
"Thank you," bashful even though he was loving every praise given. Dad and I just kept glancing over at each other as if we were having a conversation with our facial expressions. Normally it is him and Uncle Dean having the silent discussions. But, from what I can tell, their little late night talk by the Impala didn't do as much healing of their brotherly relationship as I had hoped. After getting over being pissed at them for leaving me with Bobby, it seemed that Dad and I were on better terms—which was a good thing.
"It was beautiful," Walker continued. He was either a kiss ass or a happy drunk.
Or both.
"Well…" Uncle Dean shrugged, as if that were explanation enough. "You two okay over there?" He sipped at his third beer of the night. Dad's first was left untouched, as was my Coke. The hunter offered to sneak me a beer, but I declined. Even if I absolutely wanted it, there was no way on God's green earth that Dad would allow it.
"Yeah, fine," Dad said. I kept my mouth shut. That pretty much explained what was going on "over here."
"Come on, Lizzie, Sammy, lighten up."
"He's the only one who gets to call me that," Dad growled.
"No one gets to call me that," I muttered.
"Okay," said Walker, completely unfazed. "No offense to you guys." Thinking that was apology enough, he went on to say, "Like father, like daughter, huh?"
Uncle Dean nodded. "Yeah, it's scary how much these two are alike. Both rebellious, both don't like to follow orders. Now, if only we could do something about Liz's love for show tunes."
I wanted to punch him in the face.
"Come on; let's celebrate a job well done."
They killed one vampire. Who knows how many are left out there.
"Yeah, well, decapitations aren't my idea of a good time, I guess." I don't think he's liking the comments either.
"Oh, come on man, it wasn't like it was human. You need to have a little more fun on the job."
"See, that's what I've been trying to tell 'em," Uncle Dean agreed. "You could learn a thing or two from this guy."
"Yeah, I could," Dad said. He sighed deeply. "Look I don't want us raining down on your parade, so we're going back to the motel."
Uncle Dean rolled his temples as if the idea gave him a headache. "You sure?"
"Yeah," Dad said.
"Hey Sammy," Uncle Dean said, tossing the keys to the Impala into Dad's hands. "Remind me to beat that buzz kill outta yah later."
Without another word, the two of us left the bar.
"Can you believe them?" Dad asked as he drove to the motel. Since I was sure it was a rhetorical question, I didn't answer. "Dean is acting like it's the freaking Fourth of July when he just killed something. Now, I know we have a few beers after a hunt, but that's usually to numb the pain, not celebrate."
I pulled my jacket tighter around me. The night went from cold to even colder. I could barely feel my fingers.
"You'd think it's a good thing that he's happy," I commented. "Too bad he's happy about the wrong thing."
Dad nodded in understanding. "I just wish…that things would go back to the way they were before this shit went down."
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," I said, "but I have a feeling that isn't going to happen. Not for a long, long time."
The rest of the drive to the motel was in silence. The two of us just stared out at the deserted road. My head was, however, a million miles away, wandering through time and space. I wondered what Dad meant by "before this shit went down." How far back was he talking? Before running into yellow-eyes in that cabin? Before Grandpa showed up? Before Mom died? Before Uncle Dean snuck into our apartment on Halloween?
Before I was even born?
Don't think like that, I told myself, forcing to bring my mind back to the present. Dad said time and time again that he doesn't regret having you. So, why do I feel like I am questioning it? Why do I feel like I am such a burden on Dad and Uncle Dean?
Because I am.
Once we got back to the motel, Dad told me to talk the first shower. He said that there was a call he had to make. I didn't press him for answers. He's got a lot on his plate right now and he doesn't need my teenage pestering right now. Besides, I was too tired to care.
The hot water felt good on my skin and I could just stand there for hours. But I knew that Dad (and eventually Uncle Dean, once he stumbles here) would want hot water. So, I reluctantly turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, shivering.
I put on an old pair of sweatpants and a wholly sweatshirt and wrapped my long hair into the towel. I stepped out of the steamy bathroom. Dad sat on his bed, holding his cell phone to his chin, completely lost in thought. I felt like I was invading his territory or something.
"Why didn't you tell me that social worker called?" Dad inquired in a casual voice. He kept his back to me, but it felt as menacing as if he were shouting in my face.
"It sorta slipped my mind with the whole hunter drinking game going on," I said, not meaning to sound sarcastic, but that is kind of how I get when I'm on the defensive. Sarcasm is my native tongue, after all.
"You know, I need to know this, Liz. It's important."
"Look, we'll just stay on the road. It won't be any inconvenience to us."
"I told her that we live at Bobby's," Dad said. "She'll start to get suspicious if we're, you know, not there."
"She's already suspicious," I cried. "At this point she'll do anything to get me away from you."
"Exactly, which is why we need to somehow get her off our backs."
I didn't say anything. There was nothing else to say. Dad abruptly stood up, announced that he was grabbing a soda and left the motel room. I flopped down onto the couch, the towel unraveling from my hair. I stared up at the ceiling as if it were the most entertaining thing ever.
That's when I saw a man loom over me, bearing his razor sharp fangs.
The last time I saw fangs like that, I was nearly strangled to death.
Call it post-traumatic stress disorder or some other psychiatrist mumbo-jumbo, but my body seized and I began to panic—two things a hunter in a dire situation should never do. He dragged me onto the ground and my mind knew that I needed to fight, but my body wasn't cooperating.
The vampire grabbed my sweatshirt in his fists and slammed my body against the wall. I know I should feel pain, but I just felt numb.
I don't remember my dad walking in. I just saw him in the center of the room wrestling with a couple of vampires himself. One of them grabbed the phone and slammed it into his head. He fell to the ground with a heavy thump.
Once, twice, three times I was slammed into the wall before I was out cold.
