THIRTEEN
Lisbon, Maryland
January 21st, 2009
Dean stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet house, waiting for sleep to come. He had been lying in bed for over two hours, unable to get his mind to shut off. He turned onto his stomach, hoping a change in position would help. It wasn't that the bed was uncomfortable; it was probably one of the most comfortable beds he'd slept in in a long time. He just couldn't seem to stop thinking about the pictures downstairs and the happy girl who grew up in the very house he was in now, sleeping a few doors away.
Reggie Connors was a hunter like him and Sam, but she hadn't been raised like they had. She had gone to a regular school, probably had had regular friends. Her childhood was nothing like Dean's. Moving from place to place, never staying long enough to put down any roots; leaving people behind each time until, finally, Dean stopped trying. He stopped trying to make a life outside of hunting, outside of the job.
His dad had sacrificed his entire life to search out the things that went bump in the night, so why couldn't Dean? He'd always thought, as they met more and more hunters through the years, that it was just what went with the job. That a life, like Sam had so desperately wanted when he left home at eighteen to go to college, was just not something they could ever have. Now Dean was lying in a bed in a house that seem to contradict all of that. He yanked a pillow over his face as he rolled back onto his back, trying to suffocate the thoughts running around inside his head. A few minutes later, he growled and yanked the pillow off.
Sitting up, Dean rubbed his hands over his close-cropped hair, smoothing it out with his fingers. He looked around the modestly decorated bedroom, picking out the shapes of the furniture within it through the darkness. His duffle bag sat on the floor in front of a small pine dresser and his favorite brown leather jacket hung on the back of a lonely oak chair, recycled from the set in the kitchen downstairs. He turned on the lamp set on the single nightstand before getting out of bed.
Dean caught his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Dark circles were beginning to show under his eyes, making his face look drawn and weary. He pulled on the same pair of jeans he'd been wearing when they'd arrived and stepped out into the dark hallway. Reggie had shown them where the bathroom was, just at the top of the stairs, so Dean quietly made his way in that direction.
Just as he passed the room Sam was sleeping in, a door at the end of the hall opened and Reggie stepped out, raising a flashlight and shining it in Dean's face. He raised his hand, blinded for a moment in the sudden bright light.
"Dean? Is everything okay?" Reggie asked, lowering the flashlight, and taking a hesitant step out of her bedroom.
"Yeah…umm, sorry if I woke you."
"It's okay. I'm a light sleeper. I thought you were Frank. He gets out of bed sometimes and wanders around." Reggie shut off the flashlight, eyeing Dean and making him feel uncomfortable. "Did you need anything?"
"No, I'm good. I was just heading to the bathroom," Dean replied. He swept his eyes around the hallway nervously, trying not to stare at Reggie. She was dressed only in a black Styx t-shirt that barely came to mid-thigh, showing off her toned legs.
"Couldn't sleep, huh?" she asked, giving him a small smile.
"Not really, no," Dean said, smiling back.
"Something on your mind?"
"Yeah, but not something I really want to talk about." He hadn't really needed to use the bathroom, so he stood awkwardly at the top of the stairs, looking anywhere but at Reggie. They were both silent for a few moments. Dean scrambled to think of something to break it. "It must really suck. Frank having Alzheimer's, I mean. Having to take care of him like you do."
"It's not something you really want to see anyone have happen to them, but he's family. I can't put him in some home where he'll rot, alone, and there's no one else to take him full-time." Reggie sighed. "I make do. Some of his old friends help me out, stopping by or taking him for a few days, when I'm working a job." She paused and stepped back into her bedroom.
Dean turned, thinking she was going back to bed, but stopped when Reggie reappeared a moment later, tugging on a white, cotton robe.
"I'm going to head downstairs and make a pot of coffee. You're welcome to join me," she said.
"Thanks. I think I will." Dean followed her down the stairs, smelling the soft floral scent of her shampoo left in her wake. They entered the kitchen and Reggie immediately went to work, pulling out a can of grounds from the freezer and filling the coffee pot with water from the faucet. Dean sat down in one of the three remaining chairs around the table and picked up one of the guns, a Colt .45. He began to clean it, needing the busywork to keep from watching Reggie. Soon, the delicious aroma of coffee swirled around them.
"How do you like your coffee?" she asked, heading for the fridge. "All we have is the milk we keep for cereal. And sugar's in the bowl on the table."
"I take it black, thanks." Dean grinned as he saw Reggie place her cup of coffee, black as well, on the table.
They sat in silence, just sipping their coffee, cleaning and assembling weapons for awhile. It was nice for Dean to be able to sit and work without worrying about what the person across from him was thinking or worrying about that person asking too many questions. Reggie was pleasant company and, as Dean stole quick glances at her, pleasing scenery, too. Soon, their cups were empty and the table cleared of work, making Dean feel suddenly awkward.
Reggie got up from the table, clearing the tools they'd been using. "You want another cup," she offered, already pouring one for herself. Dean smiled and nodded for her to pour him another one too. She remained standing, leaning against the counter next to the sink, looking into her cup pensively.
Dean held his mug tightly in both hands, letting the heat radiate out of the cup, staring at the smooth, onyx liquid inside. "I know I might be intruding by asking this, so please, tell me to mind my own business if you don't want to answer," Reggie began, breaking the silence and causing Dean to freeze in dread. "Bobby mentioned once that you and Sam hunted a werewolf awhile back and I was curious…"
Dean's head snapped up in confused shock. Not exactly what I thought she was going to bring up, he thought with relief. "Yeah, we did," he replied. "What did you want to know?"
"Well…what was it like? The werewolf, I mean?" Reggie eyed him carefully and waited.
Dean thought it over, remembering their time in San Francisco. Remembering Madison, the woman whom they had thought was the intended victim of a werewolf who had turned out to be her creepy neighbor. Sam had fallen for Madison and was crushed when they discovered that she'd unknowingly been turned into a werewolf too. Sam had insisted on being the one to end Madison's life, an immense weight Dean had tried to take for him. It was just another thing they never talked to each other about.
Dean took a deep breath and sat back against the chair. "They're not like in the movies with all the hair and claws and muzzles dripping with saliva. Once in the transformation, they still look mostly human, just with long, nasty teeth and nails. They're crazy strong and fast, too," Dean explained.
Reggie shuddered, her face going slightly pale. "They can be killed with silver, right? That part of the lore is true?"
"Yeah and the change only happens around a full moon. That's basically all the movies got right. They only feed on the hearts of their victims and killing the source of a person's infection won't stop the change. The silver has to penetrate the heart." Dean paused, trying to read the sudden change in Reggie's demeanor. She stood staring out into space, her face a ghostly pale, her shoulders stiff. "Are you okay?" he asked. Suddenly Dean wished he had told her to mind her own business.
"I'm fine," she lied, wiping a tear from her cheek. She smiled weakly at him before quickly looking away.
"No, you're not," Dean said. "What is it?"
He watched Reggie take a deep breath before meeting his questioning gaze. "I guess you'd find out anyway. We don't get to keep too many secrets in our line of work, do we?" She sighed heavily before continuing.
"About four years ago, a friend of mine, another hunter, was working a job in Custer, South Dakota. Thought it was simply just a nest of vampires. The local newspapers reported a series of deaths, mostly campers, that they attributed to wild animal attacks. When he got there, it became quickly apparent that vampires were not to blame. The attacks were much too gruesome.
"When he discovered the creature, it had happened upon a family of four - a mother, father and two kids - camping in the woods. It tore through the parents' tent first, ripping them apart in a matter of seconds. The mother's screaming was what helped him find the campsite. By the time he got there though, it had already moved on to the kids. They'd come out of their own tent to see what was happening. My friend managed to injure the creature before it took off into the woods. He followed after it, meaning to finish it off, but he didn't know it was a werewolf. He had never seen one before so he wasn't prepared. It turned on him and tore him to shreds.
"It was almost three days before a patrolling park ranger found the bodies. They attributed it to just more victims of a vicious animal attack. But we all knew differently, knew it had to be something supernatural. So Frank went out there to look into it himself. He was the one who figured out it was a werewolf; it was the first time he had ever actually seen the carnage in person, but he knew what to look for. By that time, though, it had moved on and the trail went cold," Reggie finished, her voice breaking slightly.
She turned her back on Dean and slammed her coffee cup on the counter. Reggie gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles turning white. Dean waited patiently as she tried to get her emotions under control. After a few minutes, she took a deep breath and released her grip on the counter.
"This hunter, the one that got killed? He was more than a friend, wasn't he?" Reggie nodded, but didn't move. "I'm sorry for your loss," Dean stated sympathetically. He waited, watching Reggie regain composure again.
"Thank you," she finally whispered. Dean watched as she wiped at her face, feeling like he was intruding on something private.
Maybe I should go back to bed, he thought guiltily.
"Sorry for that," Reggie stated, turning to face him again. She grimaced, then tried to smile. "You look like you're ready to bolt out the door," she joked.
"No, I'm fine," Dean lied, chuckling as Reggie cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. "Okay, so maybe I was toying with the idea of running from the room," he relented. Reggie laughed with him. She pushed playfully at his shoulder, the palm of her hand warm through the shoulder of his green t-shirt. He grinned up at her for a moment.
Good lord is she hot, he thought. Can't go there, Dean! Don't go there!
"Can I ask you a question, now?" He watched as hesitation flitted across her face. Finally, she nodded.
"I guess it's only fair. Just don't you start crying or I will run from the room," she teased. Dean chuckled and got up from his chair, crossing the room to lean against the counter; wanting to keep some distance between them for the moment.
"You grew up in this house, right?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, pretty much." She eyed him suspiciously, trying to guess the direction of his questions.
"And you've been a hunter for how long?"
"I grew up in a family of hunters so you could technically say my whole life. But I've only been actively participating in hunts for the last seventeen or so. Since I was about eight."
Dean stared at her, openly gaping now. She's been hunting for most of her life? he thought with shock. It wasn't what he'd expected. The life she lived didn't match the pictures on the walls. "Okay, that's sonot what I was expecting for an answer," Dean muttered.
"Why?" Reggie asked, curious.
"Because of the pictures on the walls in your living room. They're so happy, so…normal. It doesn't match the life Sam and I had, and we've been doing this job since Sam was a baby. We moved from place to place, town to town, never settling long enough to have a life. Our dad was always running us through obstacle courses and training exercises, getting us ready for the real world. The hunt was all he was focused on, all that mattered. I kind of adapted that philosophy, too. I figured that was just a hunters life. The sacrifice that had to be made.
"But then I come here and see all the smiling, happy faces in those pictures and wonder if I was wrong, if we were wrong. That the life that Sam had tried so hard to hang on to, to make for himself in each town we went to even after both dad and I told him not to bother, was possible. That we could have been the smiling, happy people in the pictures." Dean shook his head angrily, trying to push away the resentful thoughts flooding his brain.
How could dad not even try? He could see what Sam wanted, needed, so badly; that normal life. So why couldn't he have at least tried? At least for Sam's sake. I spent all that time trying to make Sammy feel better when dad wouldn't come home because he'd forgotten it was Christmas or Sam's birthday. All the times I would rag on Sam when he would cry because we were leaving another school, telling him to suck it up and act like a man. Dean fumed as he thought about it all.
"Come with me," Reggie snapped, grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him after her. She led him into the living room, stopping in front of the pictures he couldn't get out of his head. "Do you remember what you said earlier? About how pictures can be deceiving?"
"Yeah, but…"
"No, Dean. You were right." She pointed at a picture showing a smiling Reggie, at approximately six years old, her arms wrapped around a large, hairy mutt of a dog. "See that one? Two days before, I watched my grandfather cut the head off a vampire. It was my first vampire. That dog you see? He was torn apart by a banshee a month later.
"Every photo you see on this wall has terrible memories, as well as good ones, attached to it. I may have had a home to grow up in, but I've had to suffer great sacrifices, too." Reggie paused, then grabbed Dean's arm and pulled him to another group of photos, all of which showed other people. Dean spotted what appeared to be a younger Frank in a few of them.
"Most of the people in these photos are dead. Killed on a job, killed because of the life we live. My father was barely ever home. My mother, when she was home, was never here; taking refuge in a bottle of Jim Beam or Jack Daniels when she wasn't working on a job herself. Both of them died before I even made it to high school.
"My grandfather, my mother's father, died five days after he gave me the Plymouth. I never knew my grandmother or either of my father's parents. My mother was an only child and Frank is the only sibling my father had. I have no brothers or sisters either. Family was never that important in my house; the job was. Frank's the only person I have left; it's probably the reason why I can't put him in a home. I'm fighting against the situation in which I grew up.
"At least your dad kept you together. At least he brought you up as a family," Reggie finished. She stared at Dean, watching as he looked at all the photos, hearing her words echo in his head. Dean didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth then closed it again, floundering for words. After a minute, Reggie smiled weakly at him. "It's okay, Dean. I've made my peace with the life I grew up in. I just thought you should hear the stories behind the photos before you started second guessing your entire life. Second guessing how lucky you are."
Dean turned to stare at Reggie, wishing he could think of something to say to her, to contradict her. Finally, it came to him. "I wouldn't go that far, calling me lucky," he grumbled.
"Because you've been to hell?" Her green eyes grew soft when she saw pain register across Dean's face at her question.
"I can't really think of a better example," he spat.
"Why did you go to hell, Dean?" The way she worded the question, Dean saw that she already knew. Bobby? he growled internally, cursing the hunter's big mouth.
"I think you already know, but I'll answer the question anyway. For Sam. The yellow-eyed demon who killed both my parents took him to an isolated town for a kind of death-match between him and these special kids. They all had these freaky powers that developed because of something the demon did to them. Sam died, was murdered by this kid named Jake, so I sold my soul to a crossroads demon to get him back. She gave me one year. When the debt was collected, I was dropped into the pit."
"You sold your soul to bring your brother back even after your father did the very same thing for you?" It wasn't an accusation.
"I couldn't live without Sammy. I wouldn't. There was no other option, no other way." Dean was pacing now. He noticed the sun had begun to rise, the sky outside the bay windows growing lighter as dawn approached.
"I wish I had that," Reggie whispered. It caught Dean by surprise, making him halt.
"You don't, trust me. All my family does is die for one another. It's a sick, twisted cycle that I hope stopped with me." Dean shook his head and flopped onto the couch, closing his eyes and resting his head against its back. He felt Reggie sit down beside him. Here it comes, he thought, waiting for her to ask the next logical question.
"Was the deal worth it?" Dean's eyes flashed open.
Again Reggie surprised him, asking a question he hadn't been expecting her to, but he barely hesitated to answer. "Absolutely." He watched as Reggie nodded, coming to some conclusion in her head. "Aren't you going to ask me what it was like? In hell?"
"No," she stated automatically.
"Why not?" Dean squinted at her, frustrated that he couldn't figure the woman out.
"Because you obviously don't like, or want, to talk about it. I've pressed you on the matter enough already," Reggie replied, matter-of-factly.
"You'd be the first person who didn't want to know."
"Oh, I didn't say I didn't want to know. I just can see it clearly upsets you to think about, so I'm not going to ask you to talk about it."
Dean stared at her, watching as the sunlight inching through the window accentuated the curve of Reggie's jaw, highlighting her lips, sparkling in her eyes. Her hair was pulled away from her face into a loose ponytail, but Dean could see now that the color, which he'd thought was just a mousey brown, was more of a warm, reddish brown.
Get your mind off the track it's headed, Dean, he shouted internally. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice husky as he stared sincerely into her eyes. Reggie blinked, as if trying to clear her head. Upstairs, they heard movement and Reggie glanced up at the ceiling, finally breaking the intense moment.
"Well, I better get breakfast started," Reggie stated, rising to her feet. She smiled at Dean before heading back to the kitchen. He could hear the refrigerator door open, followed by the opening and closing of drawers, and the banging of pans as Reggie went to work. A few minutes later, Sam bounced down the stairs into the first wave of delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen.
"Something smells unbelievable," Sam commented, sniffing the air and grinning. He spotted Dean in the living room and frowned. "Didn't you sleep?"
"I got a little," he lied. Sam eyed him in disbelief.
"Breakfast," Reggie called.
Sam shrugged in resignation and turned to wander into the kitchen. Dean took one more look around the living room, replaying Reggie's words again. I guess I am a little lucky, he thought idly before getting up from the couch and following his nose into the kitchen.