Folks always curse at the dumb kid who opens the door in horror movies…well for once I was that kid.
Sitting on the kitchenette countertop I watched my Dad gather his weapons. Demons had been lurking about in town and with their carefully thought out plan, the demons were being brought down tonight. It had been leaked that they were gathering in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. On finding this out, Dad and Dean were ready to kick some demonic butt. As for me…well I wasn't wearing my wounded puppy dog look for nothing. Dad joined me in the kitchenette, taking a small shot glass outta the highest cabinet that I was underneath. A small shot of alcohol for good luck seemed to be a custom to him.
"I won't get in the way," I begged Dad as he poured whiskey into the glass. "I promise."
"Christina please," started Dad after he gulped down the golden liquid. "Not now."
"But why?," I complained. "Why can't I come?"
"Because it's too dangerous," Dad said, clearly getting irritated by my whining. "I don't want you getting hurt in the crossfire."
That pissed me off. For weeks I had been slaving away at my Latin, failing on pronunciations and spelling half the time, getting bruised and scuffed due to sparring practice and fence vaulting. Target practice was always a dread as I was forever missing the damn tin cans. For Dad to tell me it was too dangerous was the last straw. Wasn't I capable of doing anything right? Apparently not. My hands balled into tight fists.
"Then why the hell are you training me then!" I exclaimed in seething outrage.
Dad paused and turned his dagger like stare to me. Through my anger I had forgotten who I was talking to.
"Don't you dare use that tone of voice with me young lady," he hissed furiously, his dark eyes shining with annoyance. "You are staying here whether you like it or not. No arguments. It is too dangerous for a ten year old…"
"I'm eleven Dad" I corrected him.
"What?"
"I'm eleven," I repeated. "It was my birthday four days ago."
Dad's eyes softened. Okay this was the last straw. He had done it now. Sighing he pinched the bridge of his nose as he shook his head, I simply glared at him.
"You forgot" I stated, trying vainly to stop my voice cracking due to emotion.
"No…no..no…I didn't forget," Dad said, obviously lying through his teeth to try and comfort me. "I've been busy that's all."
I couldn't believe my ears and all I did was shoot watery daggers at him.
"I've noticed" came the whisper from my voice as I slid down from the countertop.
Turning my baseball cap front ways and with the tongue of the hat firmly tugged down so a shadow cast over my misting green eyes, I parked my ass on the motel couch. Dad's gaze was still on me, I could feel it burning inside me. He continued to do so as he salted the window frames and door ways, a task I would mess up. Within a few minutes he was gone. Slowly I went to the window as the Impala pulled out of the parking lot. Passing the door I kicked the thin air angrily, unaware I had disturbed the salt line. Half an hour later, after I had another good cry to myself, there was a knock at the door. Growing up I was told to ignore it and to avoid the windows. Social services would be on Dad's ass if they found out if I was left home alone. Hell, maybe I was better off in foster care. I'd get attention at least. Throwing caution to the wind I answered the door, which would prove to be a very foolish thing to do.