Charlene and Sam continued to talk into the wee hours of the morning. Sam regaled her with tales of the many times he and Dean had saved the world, the Big Bads they'd faced, the people they'd left dead and bloodied along the way. Charlene sat at rapt attention, one fist pressed up against her mouth, another squeezing Sam's hand at particularly traumatizing events, including the losses of his mother, Jess, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, Adam, Kevin, and Charlie.
Sam had never been asked to tell the whole story, and he struggled with the chronology. He didn't know what was important, and what was trivial. He just kept talking and talking, and couldn't seem to stop. Didn't want to stop. He knew he was being reckless, but this conversation was the first time he'd ever been able to be completely open. Near the end, he started talking about his father, and his life on the road. He spent what felt like an hour just… complaining, really. That this life wasn't his choice, that it was foisted upon him. He had never wanted it, but now that it was his, he didn't think he'd want it any other way.
He smiled. "Saving people."
"Hunting things," she replied.
In unison, "the family business."
Up until that point, Charlene had said very little. She welcomed the info dump. She was convinced now that Sam was being straight with her, but was also now very, very sure that this boy was defective merchandise. There was no way someone could live that life and come out unscathed.
In a way, it was a relief. When he interrupted her game of Galaga, all she saw was a gangly guy with great arms and puppy dog eyes, adorably awkward but painfully… normal. Her dad moved her away as a kid to give her some semblance of normal. She went to a normal university, made normal friends, dated normal people. She got a normal job doing normal things, and throughout it all she was constantly filled with a deep dissatisfaction. She'd read to escape, listened to music, wrote, tried to consume and create and trick herself into thinking there was magic in the world; she just needed to look harder to find it.
"You know, I didn't have to come to Kansas," she said, finally. She looked Sam in the eye with intensity. My mom, well, she's a goner no matter what."
"But you love her, right?" Sam said, trying to be comforting. "She's family."
"Not really. I mean, she was sick. She was a terrible mother, a danger to be around. That's why my dad took me away, why I never visited. She'd sometimes send me letters, but a lot of time they wouldn't make any sense at all. She'd refer to things we'd supposedly done together that never happened, to people that never existed. She'd say she missed me and would apologize for not being a better mother, but every once in awhile she wrote and was angry with me for leaving, telling me I was a terrible daughter."
Sam eyed her with a sad, questioning look. "Then why did you come back?"
Charlene exhaled through her nose. She let go of Sam's hand and stood, then walked over to one of the shelves and pulled out a book, clearly well-worn, flagged with bookmarks. She opened it up and began to read aloud.
"I told myself, 'All I want is a normal life'. But was that true? I wasn't so sure. Because there was a part of me that enjoyed hating school, and the drama of not going, the potential consequences whatever they were. I was intrigued by the unknown. I was even slightly thrilled that my mother was such a mess. Had I become addicted to crisis? I traced my finger along the windowsill. 'Want something normal, want something normal, want something normal', I told myself."
She let her hand holding the book drop to her side and rested her other hand on the small of her back. She looked toward the ceiling, and then said, seemingly to no one, "I am a very dull person."
Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say.
"I mean it, Sam," she said, still looking up. "I wanted my life to have meaning, drama. I wanted an arc, a hero's journey. I wanted to be more than..." she gestured with her book hand from her head to her feet and back again, "...this. So I came back. I came back to feel something, even if it meant feeling bad." She took the book in both hands and shook it, looking at Sam, "bad is better than nothing!"
Sam stood and walked around the futon and up to Charlene, and gently took the book from her hands. He bit his lower lip softly and said, "if it helps, I want you to know that I don't think you're normal at all."
She reached out to snatch the book back but Sam held it behind him. "Yeah?" she said, trying to side step to compensate for Sam's long arms. "Well, I'm not angel, I am not a demon, shit, I'm not even a goddamned werewolf." She poked Sam in the stomach with her index finger, and he reflexively brought his hands around to protect himself. Charlene took the opportunity to snatch the book back and held it close to her chest. "I am a romantic with delusions of having a life with meaning," she said, almost angrily. "I started to give up, thinking that it just wasn't how life worked, and then you showed up." She took a step back, opened the book again to a new page and read.
"I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn't deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you're alive."
Sam blinked twice and then practically dove into Charlene, locking her a tight embrace as he kissed her. The book clattered to the floor at their feet, though neither of them seemed to notice. Their mouths moved hungrily, desperately, as if by kissing one another in this way they could somehow find the answer to an impossible question. They were triaging one another's pain and insecurity, a delicate darting of the tongues to soothe wounded souls, and a tug of the lower lip to remind one another to breathe. This was not normal. This was exceptional.
Sam began to guide the two of them to the hall and back toward Charlene's bedroom. He started to desperately take his shirt off, breaking his kiss only long enough to tug it over his head and let it drop to the ground. Charlene's little brain earrings swung back and forth furiously as she reciprocated Sam's intensity, her hands firmly rooted in Sam's glossy chestnut hair. Sam eventually guided her into the dark bedroom and flailed around for a light switch. After a few seconds, he was successful. Sam froze stiff the second the room lit up. He slowly pulled his face from Charlene's leaving her gasping.
Books. The room was filled with hundreds and hundreds of books. There were floor to ceiling shelves crammed with books. The open closet doors revealed more shelves with more books. Books were stacked from the floor waist-high. He stepped back, startled, and knocked over a whole tower, which startled him again causing him to practically jump into Charlene's arms.
"But, what... " Sam was struggling to take it all in. "Where… where is your bed?"
Charlene smiled. "I sleep on the futon," she said with a mischievous grin. "I told you nothing ever happened in here."
"But I thought, out there… that was your 'journey'?"
"My journey started in 1996, when I moved to Seattle. I'm still on it, you're a part of it now, too. I'd say this room represents 2007 onward. That stack you just knocked over? That's from the last six months, since I've moved back." She knelt down and started restacking the books, and Sam knelt down to join her. He picked up books and handed them to her as she needed them, and he made sure to note the titles. House of Leaves, The Poisonwood Bible, The Stranger, The Complete Works of Kierkegaard, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, Gravity's Rainbow, The Rum Diary, on and on and on. When she was done they stood together, Sam looking vulnerable in nothing but his jeans, Charlene smug though somewhat distant.
Sam took a step toward her, placing a gentle hand on the carefully stacked tomes and another on Charlene's shoulder. "Charlene," he said softly, "this is definitely not normal."
She wrinkled her nose and smiled.
Sam smiled right back. "It is also the hottest thing I've ever seen."