1408

Sun-bleached numbers darkened death's door. In a preliminary sense, the lock that rusted metal on metal acted as a black void. Ancient hinges forewarned that yes, grief stayed there - no matter the time. Across the country young children buried time capsules. In ten, twenty, thirty years the prizes of the past would be pulled open and re-invent lives, if only for a brief period.

Not all things were meant to be revisited, though. The storage acted much alike to the aforementioned comparison. Inside, a glance into youth and… misunderstanding of what life truly held.

Allie arrived on her father's doorstep, practically pushed up the creaking porch stairs by Dean. The basis? A concussion. Not an incorrect assessment. Her brain shook violently in her skull once the shifter connected it with the pipe. All in all, rest was healthy. Anything extra and the injury could exacerbate, something that none of them needed.

Once Bobby answered, the boys were off. That was two weeks ago.

Now they stood together, staring at a waving door. Blue paint retreated in petite patches, worn down from the weather in Ohio. No key. So, Bobby pulled out a large pair of bolt cutters from the Ford Ranger and finally leaned forward. The sizable claws latched and with a dense noise the Harrison fell onto pavement, clinking shortly.

Silence followed.

Although Bobby wanted to urge her, he kept quiet - bringing the cutters back to his side and letting them fall casually. Upon expressing the idea with her a few days ago, he hadn't actually expected a confirmation. Frankly, he expected her to wave off the notion and continue eating her eggs while reading hypothesis studies in the kitchen. Some part of her yearned for knowledge, he saw it in small doses. Most evidently in the literature that she focused on.

"Take y'er time, kid."

Though she hadn't spoken, he filled the quiet. Grief, however dormant, was still a beast.

Brief eyes were exchanged. Heaven restores in light. For some reason, a proverb came to mind. 26:11.

As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.

Idle hands made use of their fingers and the door flung upwards, a show of unfamiliar access.

Sunlight breathed into the dark space, coating the inner walls yellow and beaming warmth against cardboard boxes. Dust collected there. It collected everywhere.

The pad of her index finger drew a long line into a scratched side table. The style wood could be viewed in practically any granny-suite across the country. The gray sea of time parted, original stain showing through.

Those same hands dipped into the box that rested atop the table and dug out the quickest item.

TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL: SEASON 5.

The box was innocuous. More yellow. Glowing yellow. And, in fact, the cover had once sat idly in their equally as inoffensive home. For an item that could be confused with simply… nothing, it held the greatest burden of rotting, vile pain. The boiling gurgled through her chest and into her throat. The intimately close pressure to run came, just like it had before. Allie rode on the high of running for nearly two years, or so…

Wynonna Judd's voice came, only to falter out and transition into the symphony of her mother's sweet lullabies. Leslie Smith. Mother, friend, grateful devotee.

For as long as I shall live

I will testify to love

PSALM 151. A personal favorite of the Smith household. Rather, Leslie. For a woman that proved so wild twenty-three years prior, her turning to HIM had revolutionized things. Every story Allie ever knew of her late mother began with "A good woman." Well, what did being a good woman get her? "Good" left them destitute for much of Allie's young life, struggling, poor. The lights shut off, hot water or groceries for this week? But they arrived at church steps every Sunday and sang the absolving words. As a child she didn't understand.

I'll be a witness in the silences

When the words are not enough

Even until the end. Clippers buzzed her mothers hair off while thick clumps of long, brown strands fell into her hands and on the ground. The whole time her mother sang the testifying words. Devotion was the real fucking cancer. Loyalty to invisible forces kept her mother from taking chemo until the last few months, weaned her away from radiation treatment, swayed in the opposite direction of taking her fucking medication three times a day with ice and liquified meals.

"The Lord plans for us all, Alice baby."

"He is watching, he knows of my ails."

"It's okay, baby. It's okay."

Leslie wasn't negative, or abusive. Her mother was good. Despite their hardships… her mom always tried. Working two or three jobs, keeping food on the table no matter how difficult things became, listening when needed. Their Christmases were a time of rejoicing. The whole house was decorated in pretty lights and nutcrackers. Somehow their struggles never showed on the outside. Her mother woke up with a beautiful smile every day, hugged the neighbors, and never ignored a person in need.

With every breath I take

I will give thanks to God above

The lord works in mysterious ways. Allie needed to stop herself from saying the words out loud in biting sarcasm. Deep in her own thoughts, she whispered out - not even turning to look at her father.

"Bobby, what was my mom like?" See, everyone else knew the Leslie Smith that existed as a single mother. Bobby encountered the Leslie Smith that went to bars, flirted, lived …

Bobby stood behind, cognisant of his own role. Things could be quiet, that was alright. He simply acted as moral support in it all. The role of a guardian meant watching life unfold for his kin, blood related or not, and life had a habit of being a goddamn SOB at times.

Her voice sounded so much smaller than usual. The Singer patriarch couldn't recall a time since meeting Allie where she had been exceptionally quiet. His daughter ran on high altitudes of snark, wit, action, and recklessness.

It may have surprised many but Robert actually did remember the night well. Hell of a woman. Curls to the nines, long and layered. She drank beer - bought him one. In his younger years Bobby wasn't much of a man to spend short nights with women and walk off. Not his preference. Moments in that vein felt like an offense to Karen. No ring, no wife, but Robert remained married for many years after her death.

"Beautiful," Enough, in combination with her personality, that Bobby took extra long to leave the next morning. "Funny, easygoing." His eyes fell on the back of Allie's head while he spoke.

Booted feet stepped forward and Bobby placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, hoping to offer some semblance of comfort and anchoring in her rising tide. "Practically made me talk to 'er," He grinned at that. "Just like you." Allie didn't take no for an answer. Stubborn as all hell, originally he attributed that to himself. Really the trait grew from both sides of the family tree.

A kind hand on the shoulder caused her thumb to brush over the top of the season box set. "She used to love this stupid show." If anyone would understand her distaste for religion, it was Bobby. "I did too." Before the world stopped turning. At one point, a believer pulsed within her. The scripture, the hymns, the morals. "She sang this song… all the time. I mean - doing dishes, vacuuming, cooking, to me… when I was going to sleep." Memories swarmed behind her eyelids. Six years, but the pain felt worse.

"I can't even remember what she looks like sometimes." Allie struggled out, voice shaking while her eyes fluttered closed and she attempted to self-soothe. The approaching of negative feelings was uncomfortable, usually staved off with sarcasm and walls so high that North Korea couldn't fucking threaten them. She acted as her own country, individual from everything around her and completely outside of her body. Time made the truth worse, not better.

Harsh truths.

Her mother would never come to her wedding.

Her mother would never sing again.

Her mother would never laugh with her during Saturday morning cartoons.

Her mother, "A good woman.", would never hear how much Allie missed her, loved her, wished they could go to just one more movie together, eat at IHOP on Sunday before church, walk along the beach and collect shells! Leslie was the antithesis of loss, and how life could have been different if she just… just…survived.

Why couldn't she have everything? Bobby, Dean, Sam, her mom? It didn't feel fair that coexisting was impossible.

"It feels worse, Bobby. It's worse now." Rather than sob, she simply stared and confessed the words quietly.

Robert Singer nodded while his heart broke a hundred times in a few short minutes. That mourning, that want… he knew it well. But the past was the past. They had no choice but to move forward and continue on, even if people they loved were left behind.

"Allie, she's with you." And he didn't mean that in any sort of Godly, preachy way. "Pieces of you are the people that you loved, and loved you, kid." His arm moved to wrap around her other shoulder and give her a slight squeeze. "I know it ain't what you want to 'ear. I know you want 'er back," He sighed and glanced around the tiny storage unit.

"So I'm gonna be honest with ya - you always will. Eventually though, the painful stuff'll become fond. You'll look at a photo, remember small things about 'er. Every time it'll be like relearnin' a person. Reunderstandin' 'em." It hurt to tell her the truth, especially at a time of need - but the surface level sympathies of homemade tuna casseroles and "I'm sorry's," Would never cut it. "Death doesn't stop for anyone. If it did, we wouldn't know 'ow t'a appreciate." Appreciate what? He left that open ended for her.

For as long as I shall live

I will testify love

The bruxing finale fell over her and Allie sucked in a long, tense breath before nodding whilst he finished his loving offering. As hunters, death roamed at their feet and reached out tirelessly for them. Not only that, but it took people - ones that they could not save. But those cases had a… gap! They were them, and her mom was her mom! It was different.

The box set was placed down on the table, hand fishing down to retrieve something else. Only a few months ago the action would have felt… impossible. The old version of herself would have procrastinated such an action, rather than sit in the unbearable weight of hollow dreams.

The smell of old plastic came. Barely there. It swam at the very tip of her nose. Out from the depths of cardboard came an old scrapbook. Collaged photos and quotes lined the front. An 11th grade project. All about family, friendship, connections. Her social studies teacher, Mrs. Teller, gave Allie a B - then re-graded it once her mother died. 17. Looking back, the youth in comparison to the tragedy was glaringly sad.

Opening the project, Allie was greeted by her own face. Huge smile, large eyes - too big for her features. Her cheeks were chubby in a way that showed inaccurate innocence, though now it felt better in comparison to who she had become. Long blonde hair fell in wild curls that sat perfectly, regardless of little gel. Before she started straightening them and damaging the shit out of them, now they sat different - more like waves, loose curls at most.

Just the same as she thought while looking at Sam's picture. She looked happy. Tara, an old friend from high school, was standing alongside her. They never found their way back to that place after Ryan. At that time, Tara was her best friend. Long nights were spent awake talking about the Backstreet Boys and playing M.A.S.H until their fingers hurt from how hard they were pushing down on their pencils.

The picture was slid out of the package carefully and presented to Bobby. Red, the school colors, were decked out across the lockers in the background. "Just in case someone needs proof from you that I've always been this cute." She smiled. The moment felt… surprisingly good. Sure, deep melancholy still sat in her stomach - but Bobby gave her something that she never had. A father. A voice of… reason amidst doubt. Overwhelming doubt.

Wrinkled hands reached out and took the photo in hand. The girl before him looked nearly unrecognizable. He expected Allie to have been an angsty teen, but all he saw was a girl excited for the future and ready to take on the world. By that, he meant that his daughter looked like a normal suburban civilian. That was a girl before pain, sorrow, loneliness. He knew now exactly why she came for him. The girl between his fingers didn't need anything, not really. Other than the bare necessities and maybe a bottle of vodka stolen from a parents liquor cabinet, only to be annihilated in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.

The girl in front of him, however, wanted a family. Not just that - wanted answers. Robert had been a surrogate father for a long time, but rarely actually got along with John. The crappin' part of the whole thing were John's excuses for his own negligence towards the boys. Excuses that pertained to both of them! They both lost a significant other from supernatural entities, both hunted, were both… unique in their personalities.

But Bobby wouldn't go a goddamn fucking day if his boys needed somethin'. Sure he acted like a grump, feigned that they bothered him. Well, they did sometimes - but no more than any other parent had to deal with, excluding hunting in general. Who took the boys in when John needed to leave for extended periods? Him. Who taught Dean to throw a ball, to fish? Him. Who secretly gave Sam an SAT pep talk? Him.

They were his boys, and Allie was his girl. So he had experience, and gained more everyday. Fact was - he wanted more family too. The bitch of the deal was sayin' no to Karen, only to realize that fatherhood was in his veins after all.

"Don't need proof for that! You'd kill anyone if they asked." He joked, his face deadpan and voice monotone for the dry delivery.

Allie's hands trailed at the table further, tapping. Bobby sensed the subconscious change in her demeanor and decided in an instant that their little outing was over. They could come and go, no need to drag her into the mud of her mind while she was concussed and most-likely growing tired.

"So… lunch?"