Disclaimer: The Winchesters are not mine.
A/N: Wow. Nine chapters. Never saw it coming this far. Pretty sure I wrote more for this story than I did in my entire quarter of English class. Awkward. Anywho, hope you guys enjoyed reading Riley's adventure. Drop me a review and let me know if you're interested in more. :)
I walked down the stairs in slow, procrastinating steps, not sure what I was going to find at the bottom. Steeling myself, I peeked around the corner to look down the hallway. It was spotless. Letting out a sigh of relief, I walked into the kitchen. It was also spotless, save for our abandoned breakfast.
Snagging a piece of bacon and taking a bite, I turned to look into the living room. My jaw dropped, and the bacon almost fell out. Luckily, I slammed my mouth shut, catching the bacon mid-fall. Ain't nobody got bacon to waste.
The living room looked like a war zone. It almost looked like someone had been dragged along the mantle above the stove and had knocked everything off it, because the mantle was suspiciously clean and freshly dusted while everything else wasn't.
Plus, anything that had been decorating the mantle was now strewn on the floor—from the badly built birdhouses that hallmarked each of us kids taking a seventh grade Woodworking class to the little cardboard frames you get when you play on a sports teams—with the team picture on the bottom and the individual picture in the upper corner.
Those were perhaps the most numerous items across the floor. Jake had ones from basketball and football. Aaron and Neal had ones from track and baseball. I had several from soccer, which was the only sport I ever excelled at. Either way, they were everywhere on the floor along with a few actual picture frames that had fallen, too. I scowled at the corresponding blank spaces on the wall above the mantle.
Vampires. So frigging messy.
"So, what now?" I asked, surveying the pandemonium in the living room. Along with the immediate clutter, the furniture was slightly off kilter as well. I walked around, leaning down to collect the four wooden picture frames that had fallen. Thankfully all of them were undamaged except one. And, of course, it would be the only baby picture of me that we had. Typical Riley luck.
I poked around the small collection of splintered wood frame and shattered glass, easing the photo out from the remnants. The photo itself seemed fine, and I couldn't help but smile slightly at how cute I had been. It's hard to frown when a cheerful baby is staring up at you—regardless of it being in a picture or not.
A tiny flash of color on the bent corner of the photo caught my eye, and I flipped it over to investigate. There was an inscription, scrawled in faded blue ink, and I lost my smile.
Throughout the years, my parents had repeatedly looked over the photo wistfully and sighed, citing that it was their favorite picture of me when I was little. Each time they did, I would just roll my eyes, but secretly, I liked it too. My smile in that picture seemed to light up the room. As baby pictures go, it was pretty dang good, and I had never cared that it was the only one we had.
My mother had said that by the time I was born, the boys had broken her camera on three separate occasions, so she never really had the chance to take pictures of me as a baby. She noted that by the time she had replaced it, I was already out of the baby stage. I had never questioned her story, but now I knew better.
That was the only baby picture they had of me…because I hadn't been with them when I was a baby.
As I read the inscription on the back of the photo, a bitter feeling coalesced in my chest, but I pushed it down. The Stewarts were my family. I had already made that decision, and dwelling on their deception wouldn't help anything. You get over it, and you move on, I reminded myself.
Sam stooped, politely pushing the couch back into place with a single hand before picking up his backpack and bag of clothes. I raised my eyebrows, completely impressed with his sheer strength. He turned to me, looking thoughtful about my random question. That was Sam, though, thoughtful and precise. "Dean and I will find another job. You'll go back to your normal life." He hesitated a beat before continuing. "Speaking of normal, what are you going to tell your parents?"
I fingered the corner of my picture, biting my lip. "The truth, probably." Sam—and Dean, in the kitchen—froze, looking positively alarmed for a moment, and a little giggle bubbled out of my chest. "I'm kidding," I said with a smile.
They relaxed, but still looked a little wary, and I sobered, holding up the picture for them to see and then flipping it over to show them the back. My Sweet Ella, was written in beautiful cursive letters—the handwriting too fancy and legible to be from either of my parents.
I was unable to stop my mouth from twitching into a small frown, but I hid it as I stuffed my hands in my pocket and studied the mess. Then I sighed, realizing that I had a long day of cleaning ahead of me. Which reminded me of something. But first, I had to answer Sam's question. "I'll tell my parents that I accidently broke the picture frame with a soccer ball and found this. There's no way this is their handwriting. I'll just tell them that I put two and two together."
Sam's forehead creased, and he looked skeptical. "You knocked the picture off the wall…with a soccer ball?"
I shrugged, glancing around and playing it ultra-casual. "Ehhh, ummm, well…it's something that may or may not have happen before. Kind of. Once-ish. Okay, maybe twice." He snorted and turned away, slinging his jacket over his arm. I tried to hide my covetous glance by looking at Dean instead. He had been suspiciously quiet up to this point.
"Ella, huh?" He said, surveying me thoughtfully before shaking his head. "I just don't see you as an Ella."
I dropped my eyes for a second, nodding slowly. Then I looked at him squarely, having come to terms with this entire week of weirdness. "I'm not. I'm one hundred percent Riley Stewart—incapacitator of vampires, queen of bacon and sass." They both smiled at that, and I matched them with a grin. Then, after a beat, I added, "I'll be okay, guys. Really."
Dean took a step towards me and dropped a hand on my shoulder. "Yeah, I know you will, kiddo." I stared up at him and him down at me. You get over it, and you move on, I recited mentally, replaying his words. The skin around Dean's eyes crinkled slightly as if he knew what I was thinking, and he gave a little smile. Two of a kind, we were.
I pulled away, already prepared with my next question. "Hey, so should I be worried about anyone finding random bodies on our property? Do I need to keep people from digging in certain spots or anything?" Sam fixed me with a completely exasperated look, and I held up my hands in placation. "Oh, right. Try to be normal, yeah. I'll work on that." I turned away, dropping the subject in favor of another. "Hey, you guys want some pancakes or bacon for the road? Got plenty left, and I have to hide the evidence."
They opted to take the extra pancakes, just to humor me, I think. And Dean opted to take some of the bacon, humoring no one but himself. I put it all in Ziploc bags and walked them to the door, handing the bags off to Sam as he went out to the car. Dean lingered for a second, and I jumped on the opportunity to do something I had been meaning to this entire time.
"Thanks," I said quietly. "For saving my life. For…" Cleaning up the bodies? Killing the vampires? I didn't know what to say, but I think Dean understood anyway.
"No need to thank us. It's our job. Saving people, hunting things." He looked out the door at Sam, thoughtfully, with a hint of pride.
I shook my head, not letting him off that easily. "Even if nobody else knows what you do—I know. So thanks. Just…thanks."
He gave his trademark little smirk and then handed me a scrap of paper. "This is Sam's number. If you ever run into…anything…call us." He looked back out over the driveway and then back to me sharply. "I mean it, Riley."
I nodded quickly. "I know. I may be reckless and a little crazy, but I'm not stupid. I'll call."
"Good," he said quietly. Then he hefted his bag and turned towards the car. "See you around, kiddo."
"See you," I echoed, watching as he walked out to the car and tossed his bag in the back. I waved, and they both waved back. The engine rumbled to life, and Dean revved it lightly. I grinned, giving him a thumbs up, and they backed out of the driveway.
I watched them drive off for as long as I could before they went out of sight. "Nice knowing you, Sam and Dean—" I dropped off, at an abrupt loss.
Sam and Dean who, exactly? I didn't know.
Not four hours after Sam and Dean had left and I had gone on a major cleaning binge, Jake got home. I was in my room, zoning out with Netflix and the last of the bacon.
"I'm home," Jake yelled obnoxiously, making my heart beat faster and fuzzy emotion flood through me. Dang, I had missed him, even if he was annoying sometimes.
He tromped up the stair lazily, letting his bag hit the wall with every step in typical Jake fashion. I closed my eyes, willing the tears not to come. There was no need to get emotional. I mean, it's not like I was both tired and partially terrified of being alone. Oh wait, joke's on everyone else…because I was.
So when Jake's bag hit the floor in a heavy thump, followed by his loud exclamation, it almost felt like Christmas morning. He was home; I wasn't alone anymore. The world was right again.
"Oh, man. What did you do?" He sounded completely awed. "Mom and Dad are going to kill you." Okay maybe the world was too right. I still had to come up with a valid excuse for that particular problem.
I composed myself carefully, waiting for him to stick his head through my doorway. AFter a second, he did, and I propped my chin on a hand casually. "Would you believe me if I said a tall, attractive man kicked down the door and burst into my room?" I asked curiously.
Jake's eyebrows shot up, and he snorted derisively. "An attractive man, into your room? Not a chance. What really happened?"
I shrugged. "How 'bout I had an adverse emotional reaction to finding out I was adopted, and I kicked down the door as a result."
Jake's face went from "Ha-ha, you are so busted" to "Oh sh**" in a second flat. I tilted my head and studied him, letting absolutely zero emotion into my expression. I had originally thought maybe he was too young to really remember me being adopted, but he had known. The guilt and panic were written all over his face. He'd known, and he still hadn't told me. "Yeah," I said slowly. "That seems to be the more believable one."
"Ri," he said slowly, a rare seriousness taking over both his tone and his facial expression. Jake was almost never serious, not about things other than football and protein shakes. It didn't sit well with me.
"Good night, Jake," I said shortly, turning away and putting my ear buds in. I swiped my finger over the mouse pad and clicked the play button to unpause the movie, but I didn't really pay attention to it. Even though my back was to the door, I could still tell Jake was hovering in the doorway, probably trying to figure out if he should say something.
I didn't know if anything he could say would change how betrayed I felt. The pain was gone; I was done with that. But it still felt weird. Clearly my entire family had conspired not to tell me, and it was very disorientating.
Get over it and move on, I repeated. You are getting over it, and you are moving on.
When my parents got home later that night, I had to repeat my new mantra even more frequently than before.
I told my lies, putting the burden of guilt squarely onto them so they wouldn't question my story.
My mother cried, falling all over herself to explain. My father paced back and forth, pushing his glasses further up his nose when they just kept slipping down. I let them stew and flounder for a while before holding up my hand.
"I'm fine," I said firmly. "I might not understand why you never told me, but it's fine. And I'm sorry for freaking out and breaking the door."
"It's okay, sweetie," Mom sniffled, wiping her eyes with a tissue. "When your father found out he was adopted, he ran away to South Dakota for a week. Didn't you, Roy?"
"Yes, yes," he muttered irritably, pulling off his glasses and wiping them down with the corner of his shirt. "I went to see Mount Rushmore. It was the peak of my rebellion. You needn't keep reminding me, Joyce."
Yep, running away to see national monuments. That was about as hardcore as my parents got.
"We're just glad the most drastic thing you did was break the door," she said, patting me on the arm.
I thought back to the point when I had run Chompy over with my car—twice—and then to when I had stabbed Mrs. Chompy and hurled the lamp at her. Not to mention when I had drugged Junior and kicked him down the stairs.
Mh hmm, I was just going to take the rap for breaking the door and call it even. So I smiled brightly. "You're still my family. Family don't end with blood."
"That's hardly correct grammar, dear," my mother said absently, blowing her nose. "When did you start talking so garishly?"
I gave her a devilish grin, the heaviness in my chest turning light as air at the weird symmetry of it all. "Doesn't make it wrong, though," I said.
And I meant it.
