Chapter Twenty-Seven: Am I Me Yet?

Warning: Themes of Self Harm are used extensively in this chapter. Please remember that this is a work of fiction and the opinions expressed by any characters are not necessarily shared by me.

~I hold you
I hold you closer than I ever knew
I could do
But I'm confused
I thought I'd recognize when love was true
But I'm confused

Am I ready for love?
Or maybe just a best friend
Should there be a difference
Do you have instructions?

Maybe I'm stuck on what I see on TV
I grew up on Disney
But this don't feel like Disney

You say I turned out fine
I think I'm still turning out
Who can I turn to now?
When I'm still turning out~

"Marty! Are you okay?"

As soon as Jack had disappeared Isaac had rushed to my side, his hands hovered over my leg as if he was going to make sure it was alright before remembering his spectral condition.

"Yep," I groaned as I pushed myself a little higher, closing my eyes and resting my head back against the pole. "I'm just dandy. No thanks to you."

My head throbbed painfully in my possibly fractured skull and I worried that my spine and ribs would go on strike against this sort of abuse. Worst of all, however, was my thigh; any other pain was pathetic in comparison. I didn't even have to look at it to know that my femur had been snapped clean in half, but if I were to take a glance, then the up-chuck-inducing coloring of the bruises that had already begun to form would be enough to tip me off. When I did take a look a few hours later, my skin had turned all the wrong colors of the rainbow.

"I'm sorry, Marty, seriously. It just happened so fast!" He apologized. I eyed him with a slight pouty frown.

"Well, why didn't you catch me with your whole psychic weirdness?" I asked, wiggling my fingers in the air as I narrowed my eyes at him jokingly. I felt loopy. Did I have a concussion?

"I tried! I tried to catch you or slow you down but it hardly did anything. I don't know what it was he did exactly but whatever it was, it blasted right through me like I was nothing," Isaac said, sounding annoyed. But his eyes betrayed his tone, showing his fear and admiration.

"Okay, whatever. I forgive you for your sins, my guy," I replied, "Now, could you grab me a stick or somethin'?"

"Why do you want a stick?" He asked.

"So you can feel my wrath," I dead-panned, staring him straight in the eyes. Isaac slowly raised an eyebrow and held it until I folded my arms with a huff. "So I'll have something to lean on while I go look for Jack, doofus!"

Isaac folded his arms and leaned back on his heels, shaking his head. "Yeah, no."

"You can't tell me what to do; you're not the boss of me!" I pouted. Isaac barked a laugh, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not bossing you; I'm stating a fact!"

"Oh yeah? What fact is that?"

"Your big leg bone is broke, ya frickin' retard!" Isaac gestured at my broken thigh with gusto, mimicking that 'what are those' meme from eons past. I glanced down at the injury as well, I had to admit - my brother had a point. It hurt so much worse than it had when I'd broken my arm falling out of that tree last week. "You ain't goin' nowhere till that thing mends itself," Isaac added. I had no argument.

"Well, I am."

"Right."

"Stick please."

"Nah."

"Oh, come on! It hardly even hurts anymore!" I lied.

"Naturally."

"Yeah!"

"You wanna test that?"

"No!"

"So, just rest," Isaac insisted, "Your super vamp-o healing will take care of it."

"It's taking too long."

"It's been five minutes."

"Yeah, five minutes too long!" I exclaimed. Isaac frowned, pinching his nose.

"Your leg won't heal if you're running around looking for the freak-a-zoid," He said, exasperated. I felt a flair of heat build in my chest and climb into my throat. Isaac still didn't like Jack. Even after all he'd done for me. Isaac was just afraid of him.

"His name is Jack! And he's not a freak. He's my friend and right now, he needs me."

"I could care less what his name is, Marty. And as for the rest of that, I say bull crap. Because this" -He waved his hand at my leg again as if to underline his statement- "This tells me otherwise!"

"You're just afraid of him," I spat, shaking my head.

"Yeah!" Isaac barked a laugh, throwing his hands out to his sides. "Yeah, I am! You know why?"

"Why?" I crossed my arms and huffed, merely humoring him with my question.

"Because he did this to you and I couldn't do a flippin' thing to stop it!" My brother cried.

"What?" My voice was quiet, hardly a whisper.

"That kid flicked you across the room like an elephant swatting a fly. And when I tried to catch you, it was like I wasn't even there. Marty, you have seen me bring a car, traveling at forty, to a dead-halt in less than a second. It was like that car hit a wall; you saw it. But that wall was hardly a feather in between you and him," Isaac said, there was actual fear shining in his hazel orbs. I sputtered, struggling to find something to say but Isaac wasn't done.

"And that- that blast or wave or whatever, that was only the tip of the iceberg. That was an accident, it was a reflex, like a hiccup or a blink and it broke your femur- A.K.A - The strongest bone in your body! Snapped it like a twig! And, you know what? I'll bet he can do a lot worse without even thinking." He ranted.

"Yeah, but-"

"BUT NOTHING! You can't defend this -defend him- stop pretending he's a saint when he couldn't be further from it!"

"Hold on, I'm confused," I interjected, "Just this morning you said that I could trust these guys. You even said that I could trust Jack! You said that if I did my best to befriend them then I could have a family again. That's what you said!"

"Yeah, I said that," He admitted, "But that was before he tossed you around like a rag-doll and I couldn't stop him!"

"That was an accident! You know that; you admitted it!" I argued.

"Well, what if next time it's not!?" He shouted.

"What do you mean?" I asked slowly, caution painting my words doubtful.

"You know what I mean." Isaac's voice was soft now and somehow that was more frightening than when he had shouted.

"I don't," I lied. My brother knelt down and looked me in the eyes. He was still frustrated with me, but sincerity shown through on his face.

"I don't think that Jack is evil, Marty. He's done too much for you for me to think that. But just because he's good now doesn't mean he can't change."

"What are you saying?" I pressed. Isaac sighed.

"I'm not saying this would happen anytime soon, but just think about what could happen if you make it through these next few years. What if time goes by but neither you nor Jack age and suddenly two-year-old Jack isn't two years old anymore?"

I shook my head slowly, but Isaac wasn't finished.

"What if he decided that your friendship wasn't enough? Can you picture what he might do to you if he wanted to hurt you?

"Would you follow him willingly if he asked? Would you try to fight back if he didn't? Do you think you could stand the slightest chance if he actually tried?" Isaac asked, staring me down. His voice was more compassionate now than angry and it was frustrating because I knew he just wanted to protect me. I couldn't meet his eyes.

"Jack wouldn't do that," I insisted. But my voice was weak and my argument was weaker and we both knew it.

"He wouldn't hurt you now. But how 'bout in ten years? Or even fifty? I couldn't stop him today when it was an accident. So if there is ever a time when it's not, I won't be able to save you from him," He said with earnest.

I knew my brother; he was stubborn and he had a bit of an ego, especially when it came to his psychic abilities. See, in life, my brother had been a powerful telekinetic. His powers had first manifested themselves when he was in middle school. Some jerk named Cid had thrown my brother into a trash-can but when Isaac climbed out, that trash-can threw itself on Cid. My brother never really used his abilities for much more than your typical boys-will-be-boys mischief but in the last five years, I had come across a few more telekinetics. Most of them had to focus with all their might or be fueled by some extreme emotion to lift just a single object. Isaac never had to do that.

About a year and a half after discovering his abilities, he could casually lift multiple objects at once with hardly so much as a thought and he could keep them moving independently of one another with ease. I had only ever seen my older brother actually use his full power once. That was the night he died. Felix had known what Isaac was -what he could do- and he had accounted for it. Isaac had single-handedly killed five of the vampires that attacked my family that night. But there were too many of them to fight off and all it took was just one quiet vamp to take my brother by surprise while he was busy with the others.

My brother was powerful. I knew that and he knew that and in death, his psychic dominance had only grown. In fact, his telekinesis had become potent enough to overpower a demon. So, if Isaac was admitting to being swatted away like a feather in the wind, like nothing, then Jack Kline was truly a force to be reckoned with. I couldn't help but wonder what we might be capable of together.

"You don't-" I cut myself off with a sigh. What could I say?

"Are you ready to face the monster that Jack could become?" My brother challenged.

That question made something in my brain click.

"No," I said with conviction, raising my gaze to meet his, "But I'm gonna be here to make sure that he never turns out like me."

Isaac blinked. His eyes were wide but his face was as impassive as stone. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Then his expression softened and his mouth curved into its usual smirk. When he spoke his tone was awash with pride that he would never admit to having.

"I'll go get you that stick then."

Jack heard the footsteps before he saw the person who belonged to them. Or would it be 'the person the footsteps belonged to'? Jack couldn't be sure; he was always getting confused about those sort of things, or perhaps, confused was getting him. He didn't know.

Whatever the case of the verbiage, it was the soft crunching of powdery snow beneath lithe, dainty feet as they flitted over the ground that perked his attention. They picked their way over dead branches and rebellious roots as they danced through the brush of the otherwise silent woods surrounding him. The footsteps made such little noise, Jack decided that their owner must have been either quite stealthy or they must have weighed only slightly more than a feather. Or perhaps both. Though, Jack suspected it was the latter.

Regardless, he heard them coming while they were yet a far way off; it was impossible for one to be completely silent when traveling through the snow. He listened without looking up as the footsteps drew closer, noticing their uneven-ness. One step lasted longer than the other due to a pronounced limp, this most likely caused by, Jack figured, a recent leg injury. Now, who did Jack know that was underweight and had recently suffered a leg injury?

The Nephilim didn't bother to look up when the footsteps halted only a few feet from where he sat; he knew exactly who was approaching him. That's precisely why he didn't move, he didn't want to have to face her. So, he kept his face hidden, tucked down behind his folded arms which rested on his knees that he kept curled close to his chest. Standing off to his right, the girl cleared her throat softly. Jack didn't acknowledge her. He didn't mind a companionable silence, but she did so he waited for her to speak.

"Found you," Marty's tender voice declared. Just the sweet sound of it made Jack cringe from the sting of the guilt sticking him in the heart like a silver needle.

"I didn't want you to," He spoke, quietly, a tight bitterness residing in his lightly curled upper-lip.

Marty took a few tentative steps forward and stopped again. Jack could hear the rustle of soft fabric as she tugged nervously on the sleeve of his light grey sweatshirt that she had borrowed when she had run out of clothes of her own. The shirt was much too big for her and it rested a little more than half-way to her knees while the sleeves fell almost four inches past the tips of her fingers.

"I know, Jack. That's why I came looking."

Marty was always trying to seem tougher than she looked. She would make her voice louder and rougher so people would pay attention. She never spoke with her real voice; her real voice wasn't like that at all. Marty's real voice was soft like a spring-time breeze, and smooth like velvet or silk, and sweet like nougat candies, and gentle like a bubbling brook just after the winter ice melts away. It had such a beautiful, mild warmth and a sort of melancholy purity that nobody else's did. The way her tongue rolled delicately over his name made Jack shiver, though he didn't know why. All he knew was that he wished he could listen to her talk this way for hours.

But listening to her sweet, delicious voice brought with it a price as well. Her voice was so delicate and so fragile, and so feather-light, and so painfully small. Just like the rest of her. It reminded him of what he'd done, how he'd hurt her. She was so thin and so tiny and so breakable. How could he ever forgive himself for hurting someone like that - like her?

"Please, just go away." Guilt raked at his throat, making his speech dry and hoarse.

"No," Marty said, firmly. It amazed Jack that her tissue-paper voice could somehow sound like steel.

"I wanna be alone," Jack told her, still not looking up.

"Do you?" She asked, shuffling a step closer.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"No," Jack wanted to say, "Please don't go. I don't know how to get through this. I'm afraid of this nasty feeling inside me and I don't want to face it all alone." That's what Jack wanted to say but he couldn't.

"How did you find me?" He asked aloud instead.

"My ghost brother is also a psychic," She informed him.

Jack lifted his head and eyed Marty as she shrugged and moved over to him. She glanced at the bench he sat on and back to him, silently asking his permission to sit. He nodded and she sat down beside him on the porch-swing style bench that hung from the limbs of a wizened old willow instead of a porch.

"So, where are we?" Marty inquired, looking at him. Jack averted his gaze and focused on the small lake in front of him instead. The reeds were tall and bending, framing the water's glassy surface, as millions of stars glittered like diamonds in an obsidian mirror.

"I don't know," Jack answered.

"Does anybody live there?" Marty pointed to the far side of the lake.

"I don't know," He said, again.

Standing there quietly, tucked between a few tall trees, was a small, wood-framed house by the water. It was old and decrepit, the paint was peeling and the windows were frosted with dust from a time long ago when somebody used to call it home. But they were gone now. Jack had walked through it once or twice.

There was a strange feeling about that house, it was something almost hopeful. Children's toys still lay on the floor where they had been left the last time someone had played with them. Beds were made neatly but a few scribbled drawings had been swept flippantly beneath them in the rooms upstairs. On the dining room table, places were aptly set; the forks, knives, spoons, and cups were all arranged skillfully in their places. A few dishes were set out to dry on a rack in the kitchen and a vase full of wilted daisies sat on the counter. There was even a book laying open on the coffee table, a bookmark still tucked into its dry, cracked spine. Despite all this, the house didn't feel abandoned to Jack; to him, the house felt forgotten, like a memory left behind.

"I like this place, it's peaceful," Marty decided. Jack nodded his agreement but that wasn't the reason he came here.

Jack came because it reminded him of another small, wood-paneled house, quietly tucked between a few trees close to the water. That house was far away. That house was where Jack had spent the first moments of his life. That house was where he was supposed to meet his mother. That house was where she was supposed to raise him. This house in front of him wasn't all so different from that one, Jack supposed. After all, it reminded him of his mother and that's all Jack really wanted. Jack was terrified that one day he would forget Kelly Kline. But he knew that as long as he could come here, he would never forget her, even if she had never really stepped foot inside.

"I don't want to hurt you." Jack found himself saying, softly. Marty hummed, it sounded almost like an unfinished laugh.

"I think you might be a little too late for that one, puppy," She said, a slight smile playing on her lips. There was even a tiny twinkle dancing in her eyes.

Jack had never seen his strange friend so unguarded, not even after her nightmare or the phone call with the monster that had killed her family. There was always some part of herself that Marty kept out of reach from others. She had her secrets, the things she just wanted to keep to herself, and Jack could understand that but that quality had always made the girl seem untouchable. Wherever she was she wasn't complete; she didn't quite fit anywhere. It made her seem as though she wasn't quite real.

But not now. The silver light of the moon above them made Martina's soft, pale skin seem to almost glow, like the petals of a perfect white rose. Her jet black hair resembled liquid shadows, flowing around her face and dripping over her shoulders. She looked like something ethereal, even more beautiful than she had in his dream. But she felt more real than anything else in his upside-down life. How that was possible, Jack didn't know.

"I'm so sorry," Jack apologized, closing his eyes. He tried his best to speak sincerely, to somehow let her know that he meant it, "It was an accident."

"It's okay, Jack. I know." That secret smile of hers still played in her eyes and Jack shuddered again as she said his name. She blinked and shifted her gaze away from him and out across the lake before she spoke again. "It was hardly a bruise; I'll be fine. Honestly, I've had worse twisted ankles!" She joked, laughing lightly.

And her laugh sounded like tiny, delicate, wind chimes. And it made Jack itch with a desperate longing to hear it again and again. But he couldn't because he was bad and he had hurt her. He didn't deserve to hear her laugh again.

"I think you should leave me alone." The Nephilim sighed. The girl examined him out of the corner of her eye, shaking her head.

"I don't think I should."

"Why not?" He asked, lifting his eyes to her shining grey ones. Marty shifted her body to face him slightly, a tight, empathetic smile stretching across her face.

"Because you're upset with yourself and you're hurting. I happen to know that people torture themselves and we can be cruel. We make our own demons, and it's when we're alone that they come to chase us with our nightmares," She said gently. Jack shook his head.

"What does that matter? I hurt people. I deserve this." He spoke with conviction and despair.

"No, you don't," Marty said, equally fervent. "And if I have to sit here all night and tell you that then I will."

Jack was surprised when she reached out with her slim, pale, hand and grasped his, lacing their fingers together with a gentle squeeze. Her touch felt like... sparks. No birds sang and no stars shot across the sky, it was silent, but the sparks still spread across his skin. He didn't understand.

"Why would you? I-I hurt you! Why do you still care?" He questioned, scanning her face for any sign of a lie.

Marty sighed deeply, a somber expression falling over her perfect, youthful face. The melancholy ache displayed in her glistening grey orbs seemed much too old to belong to a girl so tiny, so young, and so innocent as she. Her words came slowly and she kept her eyes trained on that house across the lake as she selected each one with purpose.

"Because I don't want you to fall into the same trap I did," She breathed, her aura was one of nostalgia and sorrow, "Because I wish someone had been there to say that to me."

She paused, biting her lip and focusing on the ground. Jack watched her with confusion written in the crease between his brows. She had more to say, he knew that, so he waited for her to finish. When she met his eyes, her grey orbs held a deep, aching, sadness.

"I don't want you to tear apart your skin just to feel something, Jack - just to feel pain because you think you deserve it," Marty said, her tissue-paper voice crimping towards the end.

"I don't understand," He lied.

Jack wondered how she could possibly have known as she held out her hand expectantly.

"It's in your pocket," She declared, knowing yet compassionate all the same.

"There's nothing in my pockets."

"It's in your coat pocket."

Jack glanced from her waiting hand to her kind eyes. She wasn't accusing him. He sighed.

Reaching into his coat's left side pocket, he pinched his fingers on the thin, rectangular object within. Pulling it out, Jack dropped it into her hand. Marty grasped it and skillfully flicked out the pocket knife's glinting silver blade. She stared at it with a sour, disappointed frown but Jack could tell that her disappointment wasn't directed at him.

"How did you know?" Jack asked. This wasn't the first time he had used that knife when he was sad. When he had been caught with a knife the first time, Dean had yelled at him. Since then, he had gotten much better at hiding the knives.

Beside him, Marty flicked the blade shut again and looked up at him, smiling with only a hint of bitterness.

"How do you think?"

"Y-you used to do that?" He inquired, disbelieving. Marty sighed and rolled up the sleeve of his grey sweatshirt that was much too big for her. With the sleeve pushed up to her elbow, she displayed the underside of her forearm for him to see.

"I never stopped," She admitted.

Jack's first thought was that the underside of her arm looked like a roadmap. Her otherwise smooth and perfect skin wasn't smooth or perfect there. It was ridged by thin, raised lines that stretched along her pale skin, crisscrossing over each other again and again with no distinguishable pattern or reason. There were so many scars, too many. Fifty-two to be exact; Jack knew, he counted. They had been carved into her skin by trembling hands, like a reminder that said nothing or a roadmap that led to nowhere. He could sense the memory at the edge of her mind, though he didn't mean to invade her privacy, he closed his eyes peeked behind the curtain of her mind at the vague images, and eavesdropped on the muffled sounds.

Rain. Thunder clapped somewhere far away. He could hear the pouring rain in her memory, it fell from the sky in buckets and [had] cascaded like waterfalls down his - her face. She sobbed but her tears were lost to the water. Her long black hair was drenched and matted, like that of an animal; it kept falling into her eyes and sticking to her face.

Cold. He felt the phantom chill of the spring morning fog; it cut all the way through to her very bones in a way that she had appreciated.

Hard. The gravel-covered cement just off the near-deserted highway was hard and it scratched at the skin of her knees. When she had stood, she would leave behind tiny droplets of blood where she had knelt.

Knife. The weight of the glittering silver blade felt utterly repulsive to him as he experienced holding it in her hand.

Words. He could scarcely hear her broken mumbling over the harsh thunder and the endless rain. But he could feel them on her lips and sense them in her thoughts. The same three words over and over.

'Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.'

Again and again and again.

Pain. Overwhelming all else was the burning, consuming, mind-numbing sense of pain. He looked down at her left arm, or rather, she looked down, but he saw what she had. Her arms seemed thinner now than they did in the memory.

Blood. There was a lot of blood. It flowed like tiny rivers down her arm from the thin slices in her delicate, pale flesh. Marty had raised that knife and she brought it down on her arm again, tearing open another cut and letting more blood poor out and mix with the rain. She kept muttering those three words like a mantra as she sliced open her arm again and again and again. Carving and carving and carving that wretched roadmap to nowhere into her skin. Jack knew what she did; Marty hadn't stopped cutting until she had passed out.

He couldn't watch any longer; he pulled himself out of her memories but the sound of her mumbling echoed in his ears.

'Not...good...enough'

"Why would you cut yourself?" Jack inquired, he simply didn't understand. "You're perfect!"

Marty shook her head, shamefully. A bittersweet smile flickered across her lovely face and a tear slipped down her cheek.

"No, Jack. I'm not." Then she looked him in the eyes and gently squeezed his hand. "So, even if it means staying up all night, I am going to sit here, and I am going to remind you every time I see you forget, that perfection is unattainable."

Jack watched as she fingered the knife. Reeling her arm back, she flung it with all her might and it soared over the water before landing with a quiet plop, sinking below the surface of the lake. She turned back to him.

"It's okay that you're not the person you thought you would be," She said. Jack hung his head.

"You don't have to do that. Not for me."

"But I will. As a wise man once said: "If you cannot see the bright side, I will sit beside you in the dark." He didn't look up but he could hear the slight smile in her tone and the flip of her hair over her shoulder.

"I...I like that. Who said it?" Jack asked, the slightest smile gracing his lips.

"Well, if I told you it would seem less wise," Marty replied. She elbowed him lightly in the ribs, drawing a tiny, breathy chuckle from the Nephilim. It was hard to resist her easy smile and teasing demeanor.

"Do you have any more wisdom for me?" Jack wasn't quite ready for their time together to be over; he wasn't quite ready to go back to the bunker and face his life yet. He just wanted this calm little moment to last just a bit longer.

Marty smiled pleasantly.

"How about this? Sometimes life gives you lemons-"

The smile that had just barely started budding on Jack's face, withered away at her words. He knew what was coming next and he didn't want to hear it. Not again, not now, and most certainly not from her.

"Marty-" He interrupted softly.

"Hm?" She glanced up.

"Please don't tell me to make lemonade. I know what you're gonna say but I put people in the hospital. There's no making that better. So, please..." Jack's voice broke and he shook his head. "Please, just don't."

"I actually wasn't going to tell you to make lemonade," She said, not the slightest bit offended that he had interrupted.

"You-you weren't?" Jack questioned, surprised. What else did one say that began with life and lemons?

"Nah. I hate lemonade! If I was gonna say anything along those lines it would be lemon bars or something. Not lemonade." She stuck her tongue out and scrunched up her face, making an overly dramatic expression of disgust. Her oddness made Jack chuckle; Marty never thought of things conventionally.

"Oh. I'm sorry... What were you going to say?"

Marty wiggled her eyebrows at him and gave a really obnoxious cough while she pretended to fix an invisible tie and pair of glasses. She smiled when Jack, once again, laughed at her antics. Then she spoke.

"See, sometimes life gives you lemons. So, you throw those lemons right back into life's face and say 'Quit dumping your crap on my lawn!' And then the next time life gives you something, it's a chipped bowling ball, a concussion, and an eight thousand dollar medical bill." Marty nodded solemnly when she finished, and Jack just couldn't help but smile. It was weak and it didn't reach his eyes, but it was something.

"Why a chipped bowling ball?" He asked.

"Because it's absolutely useless."

Jack nodded. Then he shrugged.

"I thought you were going to say something philosophical."

"Nope. I'm not a philosophical person; I don't like to think too deeply about things. I just call em' how I see em'." She said, winking at him. Jack decided she was pretty when she winked.

"Well, the way you see things is..." He trailed off, searching for the right word but she beat him to the punch.

"Brilliant? Eye-opening?" Marty suggested, grinning and lifting an eyebrow in a way that was one step short of flirtingly. It was innocent, however, that was her sense of humor as Jack was coming to understand.

"I was going to say something along the lines of 'slightly concerning'." He managed to tease her. She gasped and nudged him playfully with her shoulder before shrugging.

"Eh! I guess that's better than being unrealistically positive!"

"Yeah," Jack agreed, sobering up. Perhaps he wasn't quite done being sad yet. "Everybody always says that there's always a bright side but I know they're lying to me. I hate it when people lie to me."

"Same." The girl beside him nodded. She started kicking her legs back and forth as she sat on the porch swing. Her feet couldn't touch the ground and Jack was reminded again of just how small his friend was.

"Can you do me favor?" He asked her.

"Sure."

Jack hesitated but asked anyway.

"Promise you'll never lie to me?"

Her smile was small and pleasant as she looked out over the lake and nodded.

"I promise."

"Good."

Neither of them spoke for a while. Jack pushed the swing back and forth with his foot. (Which, unlike Marty's, could touch the ground.) Their silence was companionable as they sat back and listened to the sounds of nighttime in Kansas, paying attention to nothing else and simply watching the world go by and by. This was alright, Jack thought. He could stay here forever. Forever wouldn't be so bad if it was just like this. But it never could last.

"You know, it seems like there's something more you want to say," Marty spoke, breaking the comfort of the silence.

"There isn't." It wasn't a lie. Jack didn't know what to say. He knew what he was thinking and he knew what he was feeling. But there were no words for those things.

"Then what do you want to hear?"

Jack glanced at the tiny girl whose eyes sparkled with wisdom far beyond her years. What did he want to hear? He knew the answer.

"Tell me I'm okay?" Jack whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"Those people in Times Square. Tell me it's okay, that they are going to be okay!" He begged, clenching his hands into fists with enough pressure to reduce any normal person's bones to dust. Marty sighed, sadly smiling with a slight shake of her head.

"I wish I could tell you that, but I can't." She looked away to play with her fingers. "Life doesn't give guarantees."

Jack shoved himself to his feet, raking his hands through his hair. He shook his head from side to side as his breath caught in his throat. A terrible thought was washing over him and Marty just watched with an aura of calm empathy.

"But if-if one of them dies then-"

"Then they die, Jack. And that's just how it is. Yes, it's sad, and I know it hurts, and you're right, it's not fair."

"And it's my fault..." He realized in a whisper. He wished Marty hadn't thrown his knife into the lake.

"You're right, it is. I wish I could tell you otherwise... but I promised I wouldn't lie to you," She said.

Jack looked back to her with surprise drawn across his face. He had been expecting her to say he was wrong, that it wasn't his fault. For a moment he waited for her to take it back and tell him that she had only been joking but she didn't. He realized she wasn't going to.

"No..." He shook his head, desperately. "No!

"Jack, listen to me," Martina demanded. The porcelain doll of a girl didn't have to yell to get his attention.

"What?" He whispered.

"If somebody dies today because of what you did, then you are the one responsible for their death. But because of that, it is your responsibility, to them as much as you, to find a way to live with that," She said.

"Why?"

"Because if you don't then two people will die instead of one." Marty sounded absolutely convinced of her words unlike Sam, Dean, and Cas who had always been so wrought with their own guilt that they never knew how to tell him that he was going to be okay. That's what she was telling him. She was saying that he would be okay; he would just have to find his own way to be okay.

Jack shook his head. He wanted to believe her; he just didn't know how to let himself.

"But if-if I hurt them - if I killed them - then I must be a-a monster and- and I should suffer!" Those were the rules. The bad things suffer because they're bad and they hurt people so they need to hurt too. That's how things made sense. Why should it make sense for him to get away with it when nothing else did? The answer was simple. It didn't.

"Don't torture yourself, Jack," She sighed, "If you do then that person's life is wasted. If their loss only brings about more loss then what did they live for?"

"But I've already killed someone, Marty. He was a security guard; he had a family. I killed him." Jack wasn't sure why he had brought that up exactly. He was searching for reasons not to believe the girl's words.

Marty just shrugged, speaking so simply.

"So don't kill anybody else. Accept your mistake and accept your responsibility to learn from it, but don't let it destroy you."

"Why not? I deserve to be punished!" Jack argued. Because that's what monsters deserved. Bad things should be punished. If they hurt people then they deserved to be punished.The girl in front of him rolled her grey eyes.

"No, you don't! You are a good person; you have a pure, kind soul and those are hard to find. Trust me, Jack, if you let your guilt kill you then you are not going to like the person you'll become," She insisted, her voice a solemn warning. But she hadn't hurt anyone. She didn't know what she was talking about.

"How do you know that? You don't understand what this is like!"

Marty laughed but there was no humor in it.

"I wish I didn't! See, this was me five years ago; I was in your position. I was the reason somebody ended up dead, more than one person, actually. So, I made the wrong choice and I killed one more. Me. The I girl I used to be- she had dreams. I don't. I'm just a shell, now. Jack, you've seen it. The only reason I'm still breathing is because I remember how. I'm not alive, not really, not anymore."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I know what this feeling is inside you. It feels like it's eating you alive and you just can't handle it and it would be so much easier to just give up and not feel anything. But I'm here to tell you that the second you stop feeling is the same second you stop living; it's the second you stop being human, and I know that's all you want."

Jack sighed.

"I just want to be good! My mother - she said I could be good and I try! But I-"

"Then. Keep. Trying." The girl commanded. "Make her proud. You have so much life left in your eyes, Jack. Don't you dare give it up."

She said it like she really believed it, so Jack did too.

Marty offered him a small smile and he returned it. He moved back to the porch swing and sat beside her again.

"I-just- I really miss my mother," Jack admitted, gazing out towards the lake house.

"I miss mine too. What was her name?"

"Kelly." Jack smiled as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. Then he shook his head, frowning. "I don't think I'm the person she wanted me to be."

Marty snorted and closed her eyes, tipping her head to rest on the back of the porch swing.

"Well, my mom's name was Ophelia and I know I'm not the person she wanted me to be. But I think Kelly would be proud of you." She opened one eye and winked lazily at him.

"You can't say that; you didn't even know her..."

Marty didn't look up. She just talked with her finger pointed up in the air like she was declaring the law.

"Yeah, but I knew mine. And if our mothers had anything in common then I know that Kelly still loves you just the same as she always did, and I know she is proud of you, no matter what."

Jack scoffed, his lip curling in a bitter scowl.

"She would be proud that her son is evil? A monster? She would be proud that I hurt people?"

"She would be proud that you're trying your best," Marty said with a sigh and a shake of her head.

"Then how come it's not working?!" The half-human boy raked a frustrated hand through his hair. Marty sighed again, only now did she sit up. She seemed to be tiring of this subject quickly; trying to convince Jack that he wasn't a monster was like trying to tell a brick wall that it's a pillow. But he had been told that he was a monster since the day he was born and before. It had been pounded into him.

"Jack, trying your best doesn't mean you won't fail. It just means you tried your best. A lot of people like to think that there's a guarantee, but there's not."

For a second, Jack almost felt like he could believe that.

"So I'm evil anyway..."

But it had been pounded into him for as long as he could remember.

Marty groaned and sat up. Reaching out, she grabbed his face, squishing his cheeks a bit between her hands, and stared him in the eyes.

"Get this through your thick skull, kiddo," She growled, "You. Are. Not. Evil."

Jack tried to look away but she kept hold of his face

"How do you know that? You hardly even know me!" He insisted although it was a little difficult to sound serious with his cheeks being squished.

"I don't need to know you to know you're not evil."

"What do you mean?

Marty finally released him.

"You're not evil because you worry about being so. Evil people, truly evil people, don't worry that they're evil. They just don't care."

"People like Felix... and my father." Jack nodded slowly and maybe, just maybe, he understood what she meant.

"Yeah. People like them."

Marty's cheeks flushed as she felt the Nephilim's gaze resting on her. Jack thought she was pretty special. She was kind and thoughtful but not like anybody else he had ever met. She saw things differently. She found comfort in the things others feared. She loved the things others rejected.

As he watched her now, Jack felt a pang of something painful in his chest. Marty looked up at the stars with a peaceful smile that made the sparks he had felt earlier explode from his chest and fill his whole body with tingling energy. She was perfect in his eyes - like a porcelain doll. So small and fragile. Jack wanted to pull her close and keep her forever.

But he couldn't.

He was too young. She was too young. They were both of them too young. He wasn't ready for her just yet. He was still turning out. He was still a little kid, as was she. Jack wasn't ready to love someone, but he still needed somebody. He needed a best friend.

He couldn't have her.

At least, not in the way he wanted.

But maybe he could have the next best thing.

"Marty?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

~Am I ready for love?
Or maybe just a best friend
Should there be a difference
Do you have instructions?
Maybe I'm stuck on what I see on TV
I grew up on Disney
But this don't feel like Disney

You say I turned out fine
I think I'm still turning
I hope you stick around
We're gonna figure it out
Who can I turn to now?
When I'm still turning out
When I'm still turning out

I'm a little kid, and so are you
Don't you go and grow up before I do
I'm a little kid with so much doubt
Do you want to be there to see how I turn out?

Because I'm still turning out~

Lyrics from: Turning Out by AJR