I apologize for the long stretch of absence, but I intentionally took some time off from FF to kick back and relax while the beginning of the school year sunk its fangs in me. Anyone else smell Halloween and that cheap Party City costume scent?
Sorry about the last cliffhanger and I do hope that you enjoy this chapter.
FORTY-FOUR: Aloud I Pray for Calmer Seas
I was twenty when I lost my virginity to a madman. It had been one of those unintentional endings to a date when things become a little too heated in the bed of his truck. We were parked beside a small pond in Montana, listening to the album 'Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd. It wasn't the special moment most girls dream for their first time. He was nineteen, almost twenty, and I was also his first partner and our mingled nervousness barricaded out our ability to fully enjoy ourselves.
That was almost five years ago.
I was twenty-four when I killed the same madman. It had been one of those unintentional endings where he tried to kill me because my father married a demon, and out popped me; an aberrant hunter demon. I don't think his intention to kill me ever revolved around his job as a hunter, but more of a personal obsession that exiled out all sanity and reason. I killed him beside a crocodile-infested lake in Louisiana, under the light of a full moon.
That was almost two hours ago.
Dean was taken to St. Michael's Hospital which was small but largely staffed. He was extremely unwilling to be admitted, claiming he was fine and had actually never felt stronger, but I wouldn't have it any other way. The paramedics, although confirming Dean had severe blood loss, couldn't find the actual wound that did the damage. They asked me why I had said animal bite on the phone and I told them we were being chased down by some crazy people and panicked, telling them the first thing that came to mind at the time. Dean was given a blood transfusion very shortly after our arrival.
As far as I knew, the other Order members hadn't been discovered yet, not even the one killed in the car crash. One of the doctors mentioned how the local police were going to be summoned to question me on these 'crazy people.' I knew we had to be gone before that happened; Dean's and my names still hadn't been cleared for the death of Karen Giles back in Baltimore. At the moment, Dean and I were rattled and scared Mr. and Mrs. Whittle who had had their camping trip disrupted by psychos.
Before the ambulance arrived, I managed to clean myself up and grab a random men's T-shirt from the bureau. The man who owned the cabin must have been extremely overweight because the stained blue shirt fell almost past my knees, the short sleeves reaching my elbows.
Dean was propped in an upright sitting position on his hospital bed, disgruntled and exhausted. His tray of cafeteria food I had gotten lay uneaten before him. I was sitting right beside him on a plastic chair, my chin resting on my knuckles. It was still completely black outside. The hospital was quiet apart from the heart monitors I could hear in other patients' rooms down the hall.
"The doctors wanted to do a few more tests for brain trauma," I informed him.
"Brain tra—Kat, I'm good to go now. You know I friggin' hate hospitals. I hate sittin' here in this cold ass room in a freakin' blue dress that a woman prolly gave birth in a few hours ago."
"Your heart stopped beating for a long time."
"And woke up feelin' ready to run a marathon."
I looked at him, at the IV's in his forearm. The fingers on his right hand had been miraculously healed; all of his wounds had healed and I knew it was because of my blood inside him.
I didn't forget what Dean had done before he technically died for over a minute. Forcing his blood into my mouth to drown out the poison in my system, doing it against my will and making me nearly end his life; how badly I wanted to make my anger known to him. But he was alive and so was I, and that truly was an answered prayer, so at the moment all I could allow myself to do was send my thanks heavenward and deal with what was on my plate now. I also didn't think I could go through with an argument at the moment and much less did my body have the strength to endure anger without going insane.
I could practically smell Dean's uncertainty around the topic, his hesitance to bring it up and precariousness if I was going to first. Leaving him in doubt was about the best revenge I could get at the moment.
"How did you get out of there?" I asked, finding strength for my voice. "Before I was dragged into the school, you were being pinned down by two Order members after stabbing one of them."
He breathed out, as if this was the last thing he wanted to talk about. "You're not gonna believe it."
"I'll bite."
Wrong choice of words.
Dean's eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he shook his head. "I was lyin' there, tryin' to break free and I was pretty sure they were about to gank me. Right after I hear a window crash and a gunshot, this . . ."
He hesitated.
"Dean?"
"This—huge white . . . dog comes out of nowhere and takes a chomp outta one of the guys holdin' me down. Was 'nough for me to get to my feet and start throwin' punches. It must have been the distraction of the fight—" He shifted, rubbing his brow as his eyes flickered to mine uncertainly. "I saw Angel—carryin' you into the Jeep, got one of his buddies to drive you somewhere, and—I remember seein' that shotgun in the hall. By the time I managed to snag the thing, the dog almost rips Angel's arm off. Angel shot it in the head and he was off down the road. I did what I had to do with the others. The dog—it fuckin' killed one of those sonsofbitches." He swallowed thickly. "Then I was off runnin' after Angel. I meant to find the first house and find a car, but then I saw you walkin' towards me. Now I'm here."
I didn't let there be a silence. "I can believe that."
I wasn't sure why I didn't mention that I had met the dog. But if it was shot in the head, how did it still manage to get to me?
"Well, glad you do. I thought I was hallucinatin' the whole damn thing. I mean, I don't remember turnin' into Pocahontas and callin' in my animal familiars." He paused. "Crazy, right?"
"Crazy," I agreed.
My answer didn't give him any peace.
"How are you holdin' up?" he asked after a beat.
"I'm holding."
"How tightly?"
"Dean," I breathed out and my tone made his eyebrows drop into a frown. "Probably not a lot better than how you're doing right now. We can bounce around with the 'I'm fine's' for as long as we want, but right now I need . . ." I hesitated, stopping myself before I said something that would shut him out. I shifted a little, murmuring,"I need to call Sam and Jack," as I got to my feet.
Dean's hard eyes were on mine.
"Eat your Lucky Charms," I said, patting my hand on his. His fingers grasped air as I retracted my arm.
Dean glanced disdainfully down at his breakfast tray before I left the room, his eyes following me.
As I sat in the deserted lobby, I looked around without seeing anything. I was aware of everything my eyes were perceiving, I could hear every tiny sound that occurred throughout the whole building, but my brain seemed unable or unwilling to decipher any of it. My mind still thought there was hot humid air on my skin. It was convincing my tongue that I could still taste my blood, and my ears were still stuck in the exact moment my heel made Angel's chest cave in with that crack. I had waited until his heart had stopped for good and then, like a child, I had somehow been unable to stop myself from kicking dirt in his face.
Everything had been oddly the exact opposite from the night I had landed in a coma. I killed one of the same men who had toppled me over that hill in a car crash, Angel had ended up being the one in the water, and I brought Dean into the hospital. The whole thing made a chasm of hollow sickness burn my insides along with a bizarre desire to laugh.
Out of everything that happened, the sound that was repeating in my mind was that crack Angel's chest made when I forced my heel into it, symbolizing the final decision I had made of ending a life. Crack, crack; bouncing against the walls of my skull until I was sure I was hearing it with my own ears.
My brain struggled to block out the stench of their blood, the jeers they made as they set me on Dean like a starving tiger, the last throaty, raspy breaths Angel had made before I killed him. I had thrown him to the crocodiles after popping his heart like a grape.
The phone call to my father was agonizing. I refused to tell him anything except that we were both okay and where we were; I couldn't relive the experience so freshly after it happening, especially over the phone. We agreed to meet at a diner I knew not to be too far from here and he estimated their arrival from thirty to forty-five minutes.
Dean was already dressed back in his normal attire when I returned and more than happy to slip past the secretary and into the night once more. We took a bus to the isolated restaurant where only one car was parked.
There were no patrons in the absurdly small diner. It was only illuminated by unsettling and blinding UV lights. The contrast of the darkness outside and intense light inside made me feel as if I was being boxed in, or put on a zoo display. Dean and I chose the darkest corner by the window and ordered two coffees. I didn't drink mine; the last thing I wanted was to be awake and aware, be able to overthink the recent events. I was uncomfortable, felt out of my body, continuously scratching my arms as if my soul was itchy.
I was watching dawn and all her glory just greet the sky in vibrant hues of orange and red, resorting the distant hills to violet silhouettes. The scene made my stomach turn over. I hated the feeling when I'm up all night enough to greet morning; it felt like I was seeing earth from the wrong angle.
The sun resembled a golden molten coin, dripping its rays over the line of the horizon. The light stabbed my eyes and I had to look away.
"You should eat somethin'," Dean murmured, as though he really didn't think much of this suggestion or really expected me to listen to him. "Yeah, scratch that."
I looped my finger through the handle of my mug. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Are you?"
I could feel him trying to meet my eye.
For a moment, I watched the waitress in the pink diner outfit wipe a spot on the counter she had already cleaned three times over. Her eyebrows were heavily penciled but I guessed her to be actually attractive if she took off the five tons of makeup. Her breath poisoned the air with the pungent scent of cigarettes. She was glancing every now and then at us, or more so at Dean. Ridiculously, out of all times, I felt a stab of possessiveness.
So many emotions battled for dominance. Dread, sorrow, anger, concern, panic. Topping it off was the lingering image of Angel with his toothless, bloody smile and fleshless face I saw every time I blinked. I waited for the feeling of triumph to greet me warmly, pat me on the back and congratulate me for winning the battle. What I felt was sick, the kind of sick that rotted in both my stomach and head. My brain felt as if it had been stapled multiple times to the walls of my skull.
A literal shiver coursed through me, but it felt more like a sweep of loneliness, like my body was desperately signaling its isolation.
I looked at Dean directly in the eyes, remembering that I wasn't alone.
The side of my head found his shoulder, and my heart found warmth. There were little icicles I didn't know to be there until they melted from my chest. I breathed in, breathed Dean in, closed my eyes, and then opened them to a sunrise that didn't look so bad anymore.
"I killed Angel today."
The veins on the back of Dean's hand popped out as he gripped his fingers between mine on the table. He moved his chin to rest on the top of my head, and I felt his jaw clench.
"You did what you had to do, Kat. To be honest I'm findin' it a little hard to feel sorry for him."
I watched a truck zoom past the window and down the lonely freeway, relaxing myself fully against Dean.
"Dean—"
"Kat," he warned, brushing away the imaginary coldness from the top of my hand with his thumb. He brushed back my hair to make room for his lips which planted on my hairline. "Just forget about everythin' until Sam and Jack get here."
It was easy for my body to obey his command, but all I did was watch the sunrise. It brought forth a vague burning tingle to my skin once the beams finally hit us in our corner. I could feel red patches begin to spread along my neck and arms.
Sam and Jack arrived three minutes before they said they would, storming in through the entrance and catching sight of us immediately. I opened my mouth but the wind was knocked out of me as my father literally picked me up from the chair and hugged me. It took me a moment, but I eventually relaxed in his oak-scented embrace.
"It's alright, baby girl," he said in a whisper. His sudden touch startled a heap of emotions from inside, as if every one was demanding to be released at once. I breathed in and exhaled quietly, herding them back into place. My father here was the first thing that made me feel as if I had really left Angel and the others behind, that it was really over.
When he withdrew and his hazel eyes met mine, I suddenly realized how much I missed my old eye color. I looked over at Sam.
"Hi Sa—"
He hugged me, too, just as tight as my father and saying, "Jesus, Kat . . . I . . ." He withdrew to look at Dean, his hands still on my shoulders. "D-Dean." He looked as if he was in conflict on whether to embrace his brother, or punch him. He compromised with, "Are you alright?"
"I'm—"
Dean was interrupted by Jack who completely unsuspectingly crushed him into a full blown hug. "You are a fuckin' idiot, Dean," he hissed, looking as though he too was torn between continuing the hug and choking him. "Head swollen like a balloon, filled with nothin' but air, hear me?"
"I . . . yeah," said Dean, too taken aback to say anything else or respond my father's abrupt display of angry affection. I smiled a little at his expression, but the corners of my lips ached as if they weren't used to the action.
"Both of you," my father added, looking at me with his expression set. "Heroic idiots. But right now that's all I have time to accuse you for; we've got to scat."
"Bree?" I said, glancing at the waitress who was doing very little to hide her interest in our little group.
"The full moon had her pretty tied up," Sam said. "She has to find another person to, uh, you know. Right now she's wandering around looking like the Wolf Man's second cousin. We're all meeting at Bobby's."
Sam's lips were pursed.
I didn't know why I was disappointed that she wasn't here.
"Let's just get on the road, get to Bobby's where we can finally get some rest," said Sam.
Rest. Yeah, I could use some of that stuff.
I hated this fucking town.
.
Glass and and honey-colored substance were spilled all over the kitchen floor. I flinched more on the inside than I did outwardly, keeping still as the cool liquid touched my bare toes. I crouched down, picking up a shard of the broken bottle just as someone appeared in the doorway between kitchen and living room. It was Sam, coming to inspect the crash.
"Kat?" he said, looking tentative.
"Dropped a beer," I said. "Tell Bobby I'll clean it up."
"I can help," he offered uncertainly.
"No, it's fine. I'll be in there in a minute." My eyes found a newspaper clutched feebly in his hand. I nodded at it before starting to collect a generous amount of shattered glass in my left palm. "Did you find out what that Crystal girl Dean mentioned had to do with Angel?"
He glanced down at the newspaper as if forgetting he held it, and then frowned at the spilled drink. He crouched beside me.
"Bobby said her name was familiar," said Sam, seeming a little distracted with studying my face, as though he expected me to fall unconscious on the floor. "I—yeah, okay. Stupid to ask if you're alright. But if you—you know, need anything, want to talk . . ."
"Maybe," I said, but I only said it to avoid the line 'I'm okay'. I didn't want to make it appear as though I didn't want him around, but I wished I could have grabbed at least a minute by myself.
I could sense that Sam caught onto my feeble lie.
"Are you sure you don't want to get some rest before talking about Angel again? You haven't slept in two days and this—well, you aren't gonna like what you hear."
"Hit me."
"What?"
"The Crystal girl; how is Angel related to her?"
He paused, stood up and walked to the counter where he ripped off a generous amount of paper towels. He knelt beside me again and placed it over the spilled beer. I watched the paper soak up the liquid, absently running my thumb over a sharp edge of broken glass.
"Thank you," I said, getting to my feet and throwing away the glass pieces.
Sam only nodded vaguely, folding a corner of the clipping under his fingers. "Way back when Bobby was researching on the Order right after your first incident with Angel- . . ." He hesitated, also getting to his feet and then pressed on. "Uh, he went through his criminal records." He flipped a few pages of the newspaper, holding it at an odd angle as if trying to block the front page from me. "Back in '04, Angel took a trip to Chicago, and—and beat up two sisters in a back alleyway. One of them was Crystal. Dean mentioned she bartended back at that town in Colorado and gave him the coordinates. Said she seemed vile toward the Order."
I paused in the action of picking up the dripping paper towel, narrowing my eyes at the mess that still remained. "I was still with him then."
I remembered when Angel was making a trip to Illinois with a few of his friends, saying he snagged a hunting case. In reality he was going down there to . . . beat down two girls.
"Why?" I said aloud.
"He was held in court, but they didn't have enough evidence against him, so he was stated not guilty. The subject was barely touched after that."
I realized the heat that was stirring in the back of my throat was actually vomit. I swallowed hard and massaged my knuckles into my forehead.
"Do you want a glass of water?" he asked me.
I lifted my face from the comforting dark of my hands. The crack of Angel's chest I could still hear was filling up my heart with the flame of unadulterated satisfaction. I wanted to go back to that moment and do it again, but slower, and maybe rip his eyeballs from his skull, snap his fingers from his hands, enjoy it even more. There was a literal burn in my chest that brought heat to my cheeks.
I touched that creature, thought I loved him, slept in the same bed, yet the truth was even when I was with him he was a psychopath. And every day he wore a sweet smile, every day he tricked me because I never once grasped a clue of what he was.
My brain was a violent whir of uncomprehending thought and emotion, leaving me unable to tell what it was that I really needed. Whether it be to cry, wait it out, find the deepest part of my being and bury everything a hundred feet under, I was incapable of telling.
"How come I didn't notice?" I said quietly.
"He would've lied about the whole thing, and it's not like this would've made world news . . ."
I looked up at Sam and he was staring down at me, looking helpless and desperate to make things better. I felt so horrible for not feeling okay.
"I mean when I was with Angel for three years. Why didn't I even catch a hint of his insanity? I was in a relationship with him when he beat two women. Why didn't I—why didn't I notice anyth—"
"Kat." Sam squeezed my shoulder. His touch was as gentle as his eyes, but I grimaced as though he had shouted. "How were you supposed to know? Really, how were you? I trust you enough that I know he didn't give any clue to what he was really like. You can't expect of yourself to have any idea of what he was."
I continued to look up at him. Uncertainly, I placed my hand on his forearm and squeezed my thanks. He smiled weakly, as if he wasn't sure it was the right facial expression.
"I don't think I need to tell you," he started again, "Dean's worried about you. We all are. So . . . it's kinda mandatory that I ask how you're holding up. And 'holed up in a hell pit' is an acceptable answer. Just don't say you're fine."
I chuckled weakly in spite of myself. "No. No hell pit. Just . . . just shaken, is all." I considered. "Give me time an' I'll be shining like a new penny."
Sam still looked uncertain and I couldn't blame him.
"Thanks for asking," I said.
His eyes flickered to my right eyebrow, where I knew the new thin scar lay just on the arch.
"Did . . . uh, Angel do that?" he asked.
I touched it with the tip of my middle finger. He had turned my own talon on me to remind me of the previous night forever should he have died like he did. I would think of it exactly as he wished me to, only I would wear it as symbolism that I was the one to make it through the battle. That I was the one to crush his chest, and he was the one that became crocodile chow.
The only scars I had were the ones I had done to myself, but now I had one to wear as a trophy to prove my accomplishment. Poisoned accomplishment, but all else the same.
"Yeah," I said finally, still looking into Sam's eyes.
Only Bobby and Jack were talking when Sam and I returned to the living room. The sun was no longer in the sky, but there was still plenty of light outside. The entire room was toned with sleepy periwinkle, which was obliterated as Jack flicked on a light. Dean had his eyes vaguely on Sam and me as we sat down, accepting the beer I mutely handed him.
I drank to do something with my hands, still running my fingers over my hair as if expecting to find it wet with lake water. Dean sat beside me on the couch, hunched over with elbows on his knees, intertwined fingers resting on his mouth. His eyes would flicker just above mine, as though he could not handle direct eye-contact.
I sunk further into the couch, wiping the tired from my eyes. I was exhausted to the point I thought I might actually lose consciousness come any second.
"Now that we're done passin' 'round the talkin' stick," said Bobby, but he cut himself short. It was no doubt to the hurried footsteps outside the house. Everyone looked at each other.
"Probably Bree," said Sam, getting to his feet. "I'll get—"
We heard the door bang open, and a few seconds later there was a woman standing in the archway of the kitchen and living room. She was medium height with shoulder-length, straight dark brown hair. Her skin was like creamed coffee, and I guessed her to be Middle Eastern. Her huge eyes were serpent-yellow and it was actually surprising that her pupils were not snake-like slits. Both were fixed on me with apparent uncertainty. It wasn't the eyes that made me recognize her, but the scent of geraniums and white flowers.
"Bree—" I said.
"The TV," she huffed, as if she had been running. She angrily gestured at the television when I did not immediately act on her words. "C'mon! The news channel!"
It was Jack who followed her orders, picking up the remote and flipping through the channels.
"Sabrina Whitefern, I'm guessin'," said Bobby.
"Uh . . ." She barely glanced at him. "Yeah. Nice to meet you."
It was the friendliest introduction of Bree I had seen yet.
"Why are you out of breath?" Sam asked.
"Because that goddamn Bug finally huffed its last breath down in Wyoming," she snapped impatiently.
"Whoa, wait. You ran here? All the way from Wyoming?" demanded Dean.
"That is completely beside the—" She pointed anxiously at the screen when the news channel came on.
Everyone's lips were zipped shut when the TV immediately showed unmistakably a picture of Dean and myself.
It was evidently just in the middle of the report, because the anchorwoman was saying, "—last seen at a small diner in Dry Prong, Louisiana after the apparent homicides of four men. Three bodies have just been identified as Lesley Dillan, Trevor Morris, and Tuck Chance. All of them found in the parking lot of MLK High School with a severity of animal bites, but several bullet wounds confirms that this was the cause of man."
A camera showed the crashed Jeep I had only vacated hours ago. My legs lost all feeling and my heart found rage, searing and blinding, touching me to my fingertips and grinding on my insides.
"A few miles up the road from the wreck that killed Trevor Morris, the remains of another victim were found floating at the top of Whitmore Lake. Unfortunately, the crocodiles who frequently infest the area made the victim identifiable. Experts are still working on confirming an identity.
The duo who apparently killed the four men claimed themselves to be Harold and Ivy Whittle. They checked in at the hospital at 3:33 this morning. Later it was confirmed by authorities that the two are Dean Winchester and Katarina Thornton, who a few weeks ago were deemed the murderers of Karen Giles in Baltimore, Maryland. Also last January, Winchester was convicted of torturing and killing three girls back in St. Louis. Whether or not Thornton was involved is still unknown. The waitress who claimed to see them shortly after her first shift began described Winchester and Thornton to be 'shifty and suspicious' and confirmed them to be with two other men, one approximately early to late fifties, and the other mid-twenties. While their whereabouts are still unknown, police are scouring all over the country—"
There was a zwink as Dean picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV, and pressed the power button.
.
For the next two days, Kat and Dean were not to leave the house. They did an hourly check on the news, reading the newspapers, the web or anything that may indicate if the police were hot on their trail.
It wasn't long before Dean was going stir crazy, only breathing fresh air when he worked on the Impala in the safety of the backyard. They had towed it all the way from that God forsaken town on donut tires, having to change them every seventy miles.
Dean could more or less handle being labeled as a serial killer (again), but what was really grinding his gears was the smile he could see Angel giving him if he found out he and Kat were being blamed for his death. After the shit they went through, the months of torment he held over them, he was still haunting them in death. Metaphorically, at least.
He didn't know how Kat was doing because he didn't see her much. More often than not she was holed up in her bedroom upstairs, apparently now obsessed with reading everything and anything to do with the Order. What with killing Angel and the rest of his cronies, they were left without doubt that it wasn't only the authorities looking out for them. Kat's intention was to understand them better, but she mainly did this in isolation.
It was driving him crazy.
Was she okay or not? Would she tell the truth if he asked? Did she want to kill him? Was everything absolutely fine and she merely needed time to recover from the nightmare? He was praying for the latter, but he thought that in the small time she spent downstairs that she would at least hold a conversation with him. Oh, she would talk to him, look at him, even smile at him, but she looked like she was being held at gunpoint while doing so. He would have preferred her to ignore him altogether.
Strangely enough, she was spending a lot of time with Bree who, also strangely, hadn't made a single snarky comment to anyone since her arrival. In the daytime, she would be training with Kat, at night she would sleep outside. Dean couldn't help but feel as if they had gotten a new guard dog.
Sam had noticed Dean's edginess about Kat and constantly remarked 'She just needs time.' Dean was sick of time, sick of waiting. Waiting for her to get better, waiting to talk to her, waiting for her to hurl a punch at him, waiting for her.
They hadn't even talked about what happened in the cabin. He barely had any memory of feeling her wrist on his lips, but he did recall a peculiar vibrant flavor flooding his taste buds, which he could only guess was her blood. It wasn't like that metallic taste you discover as a child when putting a penny in your mouth. He had no idea how she had known her blood would heal him and couldn't make up his mind how he felt about it.
The funny thing was was that he woke up two days ago ready to admit himself into the Olympics. He found his sleep to be more solid, his energy higher when the sun was concealed with clouds, and he could literally feel every string of nerves in his muscles fiercely awake and active. He might have been nose deaf prior to the incident; one breakfast a foul stench hit him like a gunshot, but further into investigation, he found that the milk in the fridge had merely gone bad. He could use his ears and nose like eyes, and his hearing gave an astute sense of his surroundings.
His new senses and strength were only like a rock in the sea, though; with each passing day they just dissolved a little more.
On the third day after the 'Angel incident', as they now called it, he was examining a large dent in the back left fender of the Impala. One of the Order member douchebags had thrown him against it during his fight for survival. He paused with his fingers running along the inside bump, giving it a marginal amount of pressure. It bent back quite normally. Dean raised his eyebrows.
He looked up as the back door opened, a little surprised and wary to see that it was Jack. Dean stood up, wiping his oily hands on a dirty dishtowel. Jack held two beers in the fingers of his left hand. He tossed one mutely to Dean who caught it.
"You've been out here awhile," said Jack.
"Thanks."
He used the bottle opener attached to his key chain to crack the cap off, glancing at the older hunter over the beer bottle as he sipped the beverage. He was sure this wasn't the only reason Jack had come out here, but he remained quiet.
Jack raised the drink to his lips, paused, his eyes flickering up to Dean's, and then took a sip. He vaguely indicated the Impala with his drink.
"I was with your father when he bought this beauty."
Dean glanced at it. "Huh. I didn't know that."
"Yeah. Funny story, actually. He almost bought a '64 VW Van, I think it was. Stupid piece of hippy crap. Luckily, he got talked outta it. It was supposed to be your parents' vehicle."
"So you knew my mom?"
Jack smiled a little, taking another sip of beer. "Yeah."
Dean expected an elaboration, but Jack was only staring at his vague reflection in the Impala's hood. He appeared in deep thought, frowning.
A cool breeze rolled across Dean's face, but it brought him no chill. There was not a trace of blue in the menacing sky above, and despite the soft breeze, the air was eerily still. The trees didn't seem to make any noise in the wind. There was a definite feeling of Halloween around the corner, but the calmness didn't feel serene. The air smelled of damp wood and still the only sound was the small wind, as if all wildlife had died.
"Can I talk to you about somethin', Dean?" said Jack, just as Dean felt a raindrop land on the tip of his nose.
Dean measured him carefully for a moment, stalling for just a moment by drinking his beer. He quirked up an eyebrow in question, inviting him to proceed.
"I know that Kat must've given you her blood to make sure you survived," he started, and Dean's heart dropped. He ran his tongue over his chapped lips, tasting his blood. The pause was filled with the following breeze, the bitterness nipping at their faces.
"What gave it away?" Dean said finally.
"You're still alive."
Dean nodded.
"I know why you wouldn't wanna tell me. Mean, don't make a frequent thing of it. Both of you did what you had to to do. I just—for the past few months I have seen you two do nothin' but either bicker and spit or throw each other puppy dog eyes. I see where you two are now, I see how she's doin, and I'm on the edge of my toes, desperate to make sure you two are okay. And before you ask, I'm fine with you two—whatever that may be. It's not like I want a weekly vivid diagram," he grimaced and Dean felt a little hot around the collar, "but all you've done is gone back and forth, and I get the confusion. Was exactly the same for me and Kestrel."
Dean narrowed his eyes, not sure he was getting the point he was making. As if sniffing out Dean's confusion, Jack said, "What I'm getting at is that you two had been playin' catch and go for a few months, and what happened with Angel . . . Kat's not much better at handlin' feelings than you are. Maybe a little better," he added. "It would have made her realize what she almost lost. Maybe what you . . . y'know, mean to her. That would be a lot for her to handle all of a sudden."
It was clear to Dean that Jack was feeling just as awkward saying this as Dean was hearing it. Jack's sigh released as a dance of white mist before his lips. He took several more light swigs of beer, leaning back on the Impala beside Dean. The gray atmosphere seemed to suck all the green from Jack's eyes, leaving them a mirrored reflection of the clouds above.
"I remember when Kes told me she was pregnant and we were both, y'know, uncertain of how the kid of a human and Cor would turn out. The day Kat was born—you were there but I don't expect you to remember—we thought something must have gone wrong with the pregnancy because she wasn't crying. What kinda baby doesn't cry seconds after being born?" He laughed softly. "But she was fine, awake an' aware, starin' up at me with eyes far beyond her age. I knew at that moment that she wasn't and was never meant to be human. She was a bundle of blinding energy and it—it scared me." He licked his lips. "I loved her so much it that it was a literal ache in my chest, hurting even more than the terror of knowing what she would eventually face in life. I was selfish; just wanted to hide her from the world, love her, adore her, conceal the terrible events in her life I knew would happen. I almost lost her because of that." Another brief pause. "I went along with John for a lot of reasons. He was my friend, for one. My very good friend. But I also thought that if I was out fighting demons, I could understand them more, understand Kat. I still wonder at night if I made the right choices."
Dean's mind was a million pages of blank ideas of what to say, yet Jack didn't seem to be looking for a response.
"The thing is . . . she has so much love in her heart." He looked pained. "She loves everybody, she loved Angel and saw where it landed her. I think—the idea of fully truly opening up, of letting out that love . . . terrifies her to death. Kat's never had anyone like you, Dean. You were raised with her, a best friend, brother, role model, and now you're . . . yeah." He coughed, raising his eyebrows. "You know her better than anyone, maybe more than me. You threaten every barricade she has and she knows that. You're even worse when it comes to your feelings, and that doesn't help. So—look, what I'm really saying is get your heads out of your asses and talk to each other, reassure one another that there isn't any need for barricades. 'Cause you're gonna need each other, Dean. You, Sam, and Kat; the three Moody Stooges. I'm not gonna be 'round forever so . . . you can't afford to lose what you have now. What happened with Angel really rattled her, probably you too, so stop bein' idiots and figure your shit out."
His eyes flickered up to Dean's again. Dean frowned; he didn't understand his comment on not being around much longer. But Jack pressed on.
"I just hope you're addressing what you may face in the future in terms of that she's going to live a lot longer than you. The blood lust is one thing, but she's going to watch every day as you get a little older. In the beginning, doesn't seem like a big deal. I want you to think hard over the whole situation so you can be fair to one another. We both know that Kat is a lot more than just a girl, more than human, but when it comes to you, Dean . . . she's just like any other young woman in love."
Jack smiled wearily at him one last time. For some reason, he looked oddly young to Dean at the moment—apart from the heavy wrinkles around his eyes which suggested he had spent each day of his life worrying what the next one would bring him. He took another short sip of his drink before patting Dean softly on the shoulder, walking back toward the house just as thunder rumbled above. Dean's eyes followed him until the screen door shut, leaving him wondering just what kind of sense of humor God had.
.
It wasn't until late evening when the sun no longer offered him any vision did Dean stop working on the Impala. He was tired, chilly, hungry, and ready to accept whatever Bobby had made for dinner that night. His fingers had angry red blisters which were soothed as he held his steaming mug of black coffee. He accepted his bowl of stir fried vegetables with little thought of how they appealed to him. He sauntered his way upstairs toward his and Sam's room, ready to eat until his stomach was satisfied before passing out. In fact, he was so exhausted that he almost didn't notice Kat standing in an odd position in the bathroom doorway.
"What the hell—!?" she said in a scathed whisper, apparently not seeing him yet. Her hair was wet and all she wore was a long white towel, lifting up her foot to examine the bottom of it. She was bleeding, the obvious perpetrator a broken teacup and saucer that lay before her. The creamed substance was colliding with the dots of blood that were falling heavily from Kat's foot. A shard of glass was wedged under her big toe.
She looked at him, still clutching her injured foot. Dean raised his eyebrows in question.
"You alright?" he asked.
"Someone left some goddamn tea outside of the bathroom door and I stepped on the cup."
He frowned as he shrugged vaguely. "Wasn't me."
Dean watched the dark blood drip onto the floorboards as she hovered her foot a few inches above the ground, one hand on the wall and the other supporting the towel on her body. He blinked, rubbing his burning eyes. He sensed her gaze almost waver from his as he met it, but she kept a solid stare. He swallowed lightly, frowning and biting his lip briefly.
He thought of what Jack had talked to him about and wondered where him and Kat would be soon if they didn't talk. He quite honestly, at the moment, didn't want to. Mainly because he wasn't sure his body offered him the amount of energy to carry on a serious conversation, but Dean recognized an opportunity when he saw it.
"Can I . . ." He cleared his throat, nodding at the bathroom. "Lemme look at it."
She looked oddly embarrassed. "It should start healing—" She paused, rubbing the toes of her injured foot against her left ankle. Her eyes leveled with his, breast rising a little as she breathed out quietly. "Alright."
The door was left slightly ajar behind them and Dean set his food and coffee on the bathroom counter. Kat sat on the edge of the toilet, propping her foot on her knee, finger caressing gentle circles around the wound.
Dean cleared his throat as he knelt before her, giving another small swallow as he glanced briefly up at her eyes. He rolled up his sleeves, placing one hand under her ankle, but she flinched.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "Your fingers are cold . . ."
"Uh, sorry."
He rubbed his hands together to create friction before returning them to her foot, glancing up for approval. He held her calf gently as he lifted her leg a foot or so off the ground. He stared at the bottom of it for an abnormally long time, unaware of his fingers gently smoothing over the still wet and recently shaved skin of her leg. She didn't seem off-put by the fact she was clearly under dressed and waited for him to be done with his inspection without saying anything. The little shard of glass was about as big as half his thumb nail, not at all deep in her skin. He ran a finger up the sole of her foot and he sensed a shudder of ticklishness from her. He licked his lips and then looked back up at her.
"Alright if I take it out?"
She nodded.
He did so, grimacing a little as he flicked the bloody china piece into the trashcan. He used a rolled up bunch of toilet paper to dab at the wound, but it had already stopped bleeding. He could feel Kat watching him.
"Skins' already closed," he murmured, throwing away the bloodstained paper.
He was quite aware that this was their first time alone since the diner, but he was too numb with exhaustion to think much on it.
"Speedy healing just comes with the Cor Comedenti package. It'll be fine."
Dean recognized this as an invitation to retract his hands, but he didn't want to. He narrowed his eyes at the ground, breathing in the hot steam that still lightly hung in the air. It smelled like her; fresh pine, all around him, beautifully stifling. He studied Kat's blood that was smeared over his fingers.
"How'd you know what to do back in that cabin?" he asked, looking back up at her. She stared down at him, vacillation hardening her features. For a moment or two they didn't do much but look at each other. He waited for denial or refusal to talk.
All she said was, "Let me get dressed."
He sat there, teeth grazing his bottom lip hard enough for it to swell. His fingers slid an inch down the bone of her ankle before he released her, nodding once.
As Dean waited outside of Kat's bedroom, he listened to a tune wafting into the hallway from downstairs.
"Hey Jude, don't make it bad; Take a sad song and make it better; Remember to let her into your heart; Then you can start to make it better."
"Hey Jude, don't be afraid; You were made to go out and get her; The minute you let her under your skin; Then you begin to make it better."
Nostalgia visited him in hot-cold waves, vague images of his mother lulling him to sleep with her favorite song. Trying to grip a solid memory of her was a bit like trying to climb a rotten ladder; every time he thought he had solid footing, the step snapped beneath him. Strangely, though, he could recall the exact tone she would sing to him in; a soft thread of tender harmony, always just above a whisper, always calm, serene, meant to soothe. He pictured her rocking him in a cradle whenever he heard the song, and whether the imagery was real or not, it brought him comfort along with a wonderful ache that weighed more than solid silver.
It was only a couple minutes before Kat emerged, wearing a brown leather jacket and drying hair tossed about her shoulders and back.
"Want to take a walk?" she said.
Outside the sky was seemingly a black abyss of nothingness and there was something relieving about not being able to see the dark clouds Dean knew to be there. The air smelled of rain even if it was no longer sprinkling, but thunder was still rumbling in the unknown distance.
They walked side-by-side, no more than a foot apart, their shoes crunching on leaves and breath misting thickly before their lips. He couldn't deem the silence uncomfortable, though; he was focused too heavily on what he was going to say first and he had a feeling it was the same for Kat. She was hugging herself as if she were cold.
Both of their feet unintentionally led them into the backyard where the army of cars surrounded them. Simultaneously, they both stopped before the Impala as if they had agreed on it. Dean leaned back on the hood, hands in jacket pockets and lifting his eyes up to hers. He cleared his throat, but neither his brain or tongue had any words prepared.
It was Kat who broke the monumental silence. "I thought you would have brought up what happened before now."
There was a beat before he responded. "You coulda' popped up the conversation anytime you wanted to, y'know. Better than keepin' me in suspense."
"You could have, too."
His sigh was a full cloud of mist and his eyes followed it until it completely dissipated into the cold air. "Well we're talkin' now."
They measured one another with their gazes.
"You asked how I knew what to do," she said finally. "I have a theory, but that's about it."
"I'm all ears."
She breathed in and then out, like it took all the willpower she had to revisit the nightmare.
"Angel and the others were strong enough to overpower me—on the full moon. Their blood didn't smell normal, like a mixture of human and demon." She considered. "Something about it just reminded me of my own blood. So, my theory being . . . that the reasoning for Angel's and the others' strength was that they were somehow ingesting Cor blood."
Dean felt as though his guts had been snipped at with scissors. "What, like . . . drinking it?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "You shot Angel and he didn't even bandage himself up. I knew that if they were receiving healing abilities from the blood, if I gave you some of mine—it would save you."
The Impala's surface was like a giant block of ice when he rested his palms flat against it.
Kat looked up at the sky just as another breeze hit them, tightening her folded arms and nudging a pebble with her toe. She shivered.
Dean was maybe three feet away from her, but he felt miles away, like he was just turning another useless corner in an unsolvable maze. He knew the info of Angel and the others should have conceived a bigger impact on him, but nothing surprised him anymore. Especially since it was Angel they were talking about, and drinking demon blood seemed a 'Angel' thing to do in terms of insanity. Yoked up on demon blood—before any of this he would have considered it sick, but if he considered Kat's blood disgusting, it would mean he thought that she herself was disgusting and he didn't. And after all, it saved him.
"Dean."
Her abrupt alteration of tone startled him, like a crack in a mirror. He looked at her, narrowing his eyes.
"I almost killed you."
He almost missed her words because thunder roared above at the precise moment her lips parted to speak. His tongue flicked angrily against his teeth.
"Almost. I'm still livin' and breathin' up a storm, so you must've done somethin' right. Right?"
"What do you think I would have done with myself if you died back in that cabin . . . if I was the one to do it because you slit your forearm open?"
"'Cause the idea of watchin' you choke on your own blood was such a sparkling comparison? I wasn't exactly walkin' the isle of multiple choices back there. We're both alive so quit livin' back to that moment. Don't pretend for a second that you wouldn't have done the same thing, Kat." His tongue burned as he spoke the words, staring her fiercely in the eyes, challenging her to deny his outburst.
He could still see well enough in the dark to see that her eyes were not on him, but trained on the ground, frowning.
"Now, I did what I had to do and you know that," he continued harshly, as if hoping his words would stab reason into her. "I don't regret it, not a bit. 'Cause it kept you alive, 'cause we take care of each other. That's what we do!"
Her eyes eased contact with his again. She seemed more sad than angry at his words.
"I can't do what you want me to do, Dean."
"What do you think I want you to do?"
"I can't take this pressure you're giving me to be 'okay'."
"So what are you, Kat? Seriously. If you're not alright, forget the tough guy act and tell me." He wanted to scream when her eyes vacated his again. He held out his arms, expression set, lips a hard line, and eyes blazing. "You wanna hit me? Hit me. Give me some kinda indication of what's goin' on in there 'cause I'm at a total loss." He moved forward, catching her gaze again and arms still spread. "Hit me."
Her eyes flashed to his, alarmed at the plead his voice had been resorted to. "Dean—"
"I'm serious, Kat. If you're—"
"I'm not going to hit you."
"Then cry, whine, do somethin'. If you're not okay, then you gotta," he released a helpless laugh, dropping his arms to his sides, "you gotta tell me how to make it better."
"Don't be a hypocrite," she said sharply, and Dean was surprised at the anger in her tone. He blinked, as if the sudden ferocity in her gaze was a flame burning too closely. "I'm not the only one here who goes down on lockdown mode."
"What, so now you're gonna dish a 'taste of your own medicine' kinda crap? Don't make this about me," he told her, feeling a growl resurface from the back of his throat. "We're not talkin' 'bout my problems."
Kat was quiet as she studied him, the fire in her eyes giving a menacing flicker. She breathed in, opening her gaze to the sky once more, eventually looking back at him.
"I'm sorry for giving you shit over what you did in that cabin," she said. "Yeah, I'm fuckin' pissed that you took away my choice, but I—yeah, I know I would've done the same. I just . . ." Her smile looked like it stung. "Goddammit, Dean. There's—no way I would've been able to- . . . if you died back there, I couldn't. I couldn't live without you, couldn't live with myself knowing I did that."
Dean continued to watch her, letting out a short chuckle.
"Funny 'cause that's the same reason I did what I did in the first place," he said.
She nodded.
"What Angel said to me before he died—he said that eventually the same thing would happen to you . . . that I would eventually kill you. I just wasn't expecting that to happen so soon after he said that so it made me . . . I dunno." She struggled. "Draining you to the point of unconsciousness—it made me wonder how right he was."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, nearly cutting over her, waiting until her eyes had returned to his to continue. "Don't even think about pullin' the 'woe is me, I'm a demon' BS. We already covered this."
"That's what I am."
"An' I'm an Aquarius."
"You're the runner up for Smartass of the Year award, you know that? You asked me what I'm feeling. I hate what I am, I hate how it affects everyone around me. But—what else is there to do but deal with it, right?" From her expression, it looked like the words put a foul aftertaste in her mouth. "So that's what I do, no matter how hard I pretend that the sun doesn't burn my skin, or that I tell myself that I need water to get rid of the dryness in my throat. It's like this huge," she almost laughed out the words, "never ending race to be human. Halfway through I see that I've been exhausting myself for something that just can't happen. But it's because of what I am that we have the authorities and the Order on our asses. You almost died. By Angel, by his men, by me."
"It happened because Angel was a psychopath!" Dean snarled.
The following fall breeze seemed to mute her, leaving her expression dark. Her cheeks were shallowed out, her burning eyes set straight ahead. The air mirrored her stillness to an unnatural effect; it was total silence, as if some extraterrestrial being had sucked the earth of all sound through a vacuum.
Dean stared at her, the angry pump of his heart resorting to a painfully slow flutter, yet filled with a kind of gentle adrenaline.
"Kat." Dean's voice split the silence, and he was surprised that her eyes didn't crack as they flickered onto him. "I don't care if you were born to Bigfoot; you're only as human as you wanna be. Angel was human and he was worse than most of the demon sonsofbitches we deal with. I know you, sometimes I feel like better than you know you. And I'm sayin' that you're not gonna slip. I fuckin' refuse to lose you again, so I don't care if I have to drag you along kickin' and screamin'; you're gonna be alright."
Terrified and aggravated by her silence, his mind traveled vaguely back to his conversation with Jack. "I need to know you're here with me. I mean . . . we're in this together, right? Keep each other from goin' dark side?"
Her expression was still straight, considerate, frustrated. She looked out into the dark distance again, evidently under heavy consideration over his words. Dean kept waiting for her to speak, hoping she would speak, hoping they could end this horrible race of precariousness and endless hurt.
Finally, there was conclusion in her eyes where uncertainty still fazed in and out, but she looked at him seriously in the eye.
"I'm with you," she said quietly. "Always, Dean. Wherever you, Sam, Dad, and this damned Impala are, I'm there."
The weather seemed ten times warmer at her words, but it was coming from within him. He didn't need her to say anything more. He nodded.
"Don't talk 'bout my baby like that."
Her quiet hum of laughter was weak, but not necessarily forced, so Dean considered that a win.
"She's been through a lot," she said.
Kat moved beside him, absently trailing the back of her fingers across the hood. Dean saw the past invade her eyes, the weight of her previous decisions and actions revisit her. It was funny to him that he could summon a perfect memory of him taking Kat's eleven-year-old self to the side of the highway where they would shoot beer bottles off fences. Funny because when he compared those simple times to now, see how she had grown, how they had all grown, the choices they faced, literal and metaphorical demons they had conquered, they still all somehow managed to remain a family. And that, in Dean's opinion, was the biggest and best accomplishment any of them could have made from all this.
"Sorry you had to be the one to do it," Dean said after what felt several eons.
"I'm not." She looked at him. "It's not even because I knew I had to be the one to do it; I wanted to. I knew it was me who was gonna have to kill him—probably ever since I found out he ordered me over that hill. Good riddance, piece of shit," she added in a dark murmur. She cleared her throat, leaning back on the hood right beside him. "At least now I know it doesn't take being human to be a good person."
They met eyes for a long time.
Dean felt a raindrop on his cheek the precise moment Kat's fingers nudged his, the two opposite temperatures battling for dominance over his nerves. With tender hesitance, she eventually combed her fingers through the spaces of his, squeezing very gently. Within her grasp, he sensed her thanks he knew she could not word. He glanced down at their hands and then back up at her.
Dean squeezed back.
Her warmth cut through the bitterness of the night, bringing forth an army of goosebumps to crawl their way up his forearms so sharply it hurt. She pulled at his arm and softened him into a hug, arms crossed against his back, the side of her face against his shoulder. It wasn't insanely tight, but there was a sense of desperation to be close, to comfort one another—and it was only when she did it did Dean realize he had been desperate for the closeness, as if he was counting on it to happen. He held her closely just as the light rain started to fall around them, squeezing his eyes unnecessarily tight.
'I love you, Dean, I love you. Wake up. I love you, I love you,' he could still remember her whispering against his face when he had been hanging from the thin thread between life and death.
So do I. The thought shot heavenward almost as a downright plea, but there was something indescribably freeing about admitting it to himself. He let out a bit of that desperation into the hug, abandoning all pretense as his arms tightened around her, like he was clinging to the one safe rock in the midst of a raging ocean storm. God help me, Kat, so do I.
Even if there were still unanswered questions and the police and Order were after their heads, he was experiencing a serenity he did not thoroughly understand. But it felt good, it conceived literal warmth, and there was nothing to do but feel it, however long it may last.
Their noses bumped as she retracted. Her hot breath brushed his lips with a tickle, and he could make out every single line of amber that built up her iris. Incredibly, each one seemed to be pulsating as if time with a heartbeat. Her gaze was just as warm as her skin.
The light sprinkle was curling her hair into loose waves which were feather-soft at touch. She looked up at him with a barely-there smile, her forefinger smoothing up his unshaven jawline. His thumb danced a circle across her lower lip, licking his own and swallowing. Kat took his hand with both of hers, closing her eyes tightly as she pressed her lips to his knuckles, kissing him firmly and staying there for a good five seconds. He studied her as she did so. She blinked her eyes up at him and he moved his hand to the side of her neck. He saw the reflection of white lightning in her eyes briefly before he leaned in and kissed her. A little piece of control slipped blissfully away from him as he pressed Kat against the front of the Impala, neither of them flinching at the deafening crack of lightning above their heads.
Hold her, get a taste of safety, devour the flavor of bittersweetness that was right now, swim in smoother seas; it was all he wanted. He wanted Kat. It took him an eternity or two to realize it, and it really was such a simple thing. He had shared flings with so many women, and yet the person so far that made him the happiest was someone who had been with him since the beginning.
A demon and a hunter? Dean could only imagine his father's reaction—he even got a little smile thinking of it.
He sneaked his impatient hands to her waist, ignoring the coldness of the sprinkle and wind, not feeling it, not regarding it. It was warm and safe, the air filled with suffocating golden light. Angel was no longer here and had no means of reaching them ever again. What was to come would come, and he would greet it with welcoming arms, but it wasn't this night. He could feel the wheels turning, leading them away from the wreckage. Nothing was stopping him from holding onto Kat as close as humanly possible.
