ROMANS 14:8
For if we live, we live to the LORD; and if we die, we die to the LORD. Therefore, whether we live or die, we are the LORD'S.
Weeks passed. More hunts. The usual. Middle America crashed by in a murky haze of saving innocents and small town bacon double cheeseburgers. Diners frozen in time, lost to a blend of once beloved midwestern aesthetics and dusty wallpaper.
The food was never exceptional. Slathered in grease, cheese, beer. Repeat. Sunsets became mornings and she woke. Day in, day out.
The mundane never lived up to expectations. Somewhere along the line of normalcy Allie desired freedom. The prophecy was fulfilled once Bobby entered her life. Now, though, staring down the barrel of a gun and shooting a man in the craning moonlight — well, change. Inner change.
People were bad. A decent minority, at least. He was bad. The Benders killed people, ate them, perpetually played a rather devious version of hide and seek — old habits blazed forward and in them, destruction. Blood sank out of his throat and tainted fall leaves below, all while she stared, and the vengeance became the gristle of her meat. Revenge sat inside and steered the wheel, her body a puppet of the beaten, the damned.
Dry cotton folded onto the bed. One sleeve attached to the next and then flipped in the middle.
"It's not like that," Allie was quick to sigh, maintaining focus on the task. Laundry day. The slices on her hands had closed, dots of scars ran along the wounds from Dean's stitching expertise. No doubt, a palm reader would quit after witnessing such dire visions.
"He's trying to help, he just doesn't know how."
The topic of Dean's approach to Sam's nightmares came into conversation, mainly due to the fact that the older Winchester had fled to the nearby bar, a noticeable shift as of recent. More drinking. Not that there had ever been a time where she knew Dean Winchester without a bit of liquid courage at least a few times a week.
Sam stood on the other side of the room, arms crossed over his chest. No one knew what to do with him, that much was clear. Since Max…
Things already tilted off center when they went home to Lawrence, then Dean's reaction to the only other person they'd found with similar circumstances…
"By drinking enough to kill a mountain lion?" His own recently washed articles of clothing sat atop the dresser, neatly kept. "And jokes?" Sam's sarcasm punched the words, pitching them across the room at her.
His reaction, although understandable, caused her eyes to dart over at him and the folding to cease. The room's walls acted as a confining hold. The trouble with two codependent brothers? Being a middle woman, acting in constant confidence.
"Ah," Allie conceded. Their prior argument fell and she nodded. "So, this is about the drinking — not him bugging on you to sleep." Projection at its finest. Psychology 101 taught her such outcomes within three weeks. For two guys that had so much in common, they sure knew how to spread dirt on each other.
"No, this is about him trying to watch me like a hawk — when he's around." Sam defended, eager to present his point. Dean's inability to let the jokes fall to the wayside and provide actual conversation didn't assist. Hell, Sam could practically feel the need for understanding clawing into his brainstem. The two of them barely experienced journeys towards family values. The last was months ago.
"Sam," Allie warned, disliking the road their conversation was taking. Sympathy only ran so deep. Both of the brothers had a communication issue. Which, in truth, was rich coming from her. Takes one to know one.
"You're backtracking now." She sighed once again and turned to face him, letting her feet move across the room before her arm reached out to rest against the dresser.
"If you want to talk about Dean's drinking, don't deny it. We can talk about it, but we aren't going to skirt around what you're really upset about." Which was probably the bipolarness of it all. Sam clearly didn't enjoy that Dean seemed to care one minute (albeit through humor), but then left the next. The lack of control, and the consistency of surface level connection despite how much time they spent together.
He stopped momentarily, jaw ticking as his hands became metaphorically dipped in red paint. "It's…" Although Sam had been the one to start the conversation, now he felt oddly exposed. Generally his discussions with her when Dean wasn't present were… they didn't reach so deep, grab at those confined parts of him that his brother so rarely desired to approach.
"I can't get anything out of him." Sam met her sigh and took a step closer, mimicking Allie's posture against the old furniture. "I don't even know what I want out of him."
Slim fingers ran through long locks of blonde hair. "You mean, like how he probably doesn't know what will help you feel better?" The fact was, they grew up their whole lives with pretty much each other. Until Stanford, Dean said that they acted on their own. John came and went, often leaving them alone on the road for days or weeks at a time. No wonder Sam thrashed on the inside, he simply had no idea of where to turn — since Dean always seemed to have a lot of the answers, even if he made them up along the way.
Sam stopped. Hazel eyes took her in. The… emotional intelligence. Her voice was… a tinge softer than usual, like she wanted him to understand without harming him. Allie was so rarely delicate that the change caught him off guard. "...yeah," the agreement left considerate lips ahead of hitting his mind. Two sides of the same coin, and he never even thought of it.
"You can't get along all the time, Sam." She presented. "And I know that it's not easy, but he's trying." They both were. Well, all three of them. But they were still different people with different motivations and understandings of the world. "And you…" Blue eyes brushed over him in a sweep. "You do need to start getting some sleep." His insomnia only appeared to get worse. Leaving motel beds with sweat stains that he often pulled off before Dean woke, 3:00am 7-Eleven coffee runs while her eyes twitched in false sleep.
"You don't get it. He doesn't fuss over you the same way. He..." But the statement died on his tongue before it began and Sam eyes drifted ashamedly down to his hands. "Doesn't understand." That loss, that pain. The visions protruded out of his skull like a war drum. Didn't matter. She was far worse of an outcome. The mirage of being touched, sweet and reverent. One would think that the nightmares would be the worst. Flames ashing at Palo Alto. Grief made all dreams nightmares, even the good ones. The sear was harsher with the good ones, in fact. Because she was there, rolling her light fingertips up his arm, giving a sassy comment or two, touching his lonesome thighs. Waking up from the past... the cold roared once again, and he found himself no longer in the presence of humanized absolution.
But Allie did. The meaning came without him needing to elaborate and she nodded. "Sam... if he did... would that take your pain away?" The same could not be said for her. Droves flocked amongst her at the time, all in desperation. Where did the understanding heal her? Certainly not in her heart, or her sleep. "Or do you wish it didn't happen at all, and you could be like him?"
And it was not as though Dean was without loss. Mary Winchester started their harsh lives. What Allie knew of it, anyway. But there was a variance between 4 and 22. The same could be said for 17. Not all grief attributed itself to mournful death, however. Although Allie experienced something at 22, that joined the two of them to the same age, it wasn't necessarily the same experience.
The air between them stilled at the weight of her honest question and Sam, lost on how to react, felt the anvil land on broad shoulders.
"Allie I..." A gulp and Sam grew tense, chest flexing involuntarily. "Miss her." Would Dean's sympathy help? Maybe with the load. He rubbed a cupped palm over his face and the tears welled at hazel eyes, taking the might from him and sinking it away below the foundation of the motel - as if his grave lived there for feeling such a thing, so worn out.
He crossed the room and sat at the edge of his own bed, elbows propped on his knees to hold his face. Self-soothing evaded him, too used up from months and months of pushing. "I loved her," he croaked. And now Jess would forever live in his mind, in photos, in dirt. Undeserved. The innocent smell of vanilla from the kitchen was the last welcoming piece of her that he experienced, before the blood of her youth dripped to his cheek.
The sight - familiar. It took a brief moment in time for her feet to kick in, small terror entering as the lost part of herself took hold. Sunlight reigned on forgotten internal crevices and Allie took minor steps to join his side, despite the physical touch that would ensue.
"What do you say to her? When you talk?" And he definitely did. She knew, because she did too. To her mom.
A slender arm wrapped around his shoulders, rubbing at the space of his tricep and bicep.
"That I should have... I should have..." Sam attempted, though the croaks heightened and the walls suffocated to his sides, and pushed into his lungs. He knew. He saw it. Watched her pinned and burning. All relegated to...
Avoided.
And so, it was his fault. Jessica's body charred - because of him. The scent of broiled flesh filled California - because of him.
Sam's arms engulfed her stomach, lacing to her back before he buried his forehead into her and began to cry. Guttural sobs came and shook his body, trembling it under the intense weight of longing and erosion. He'd never leave the life, it was fruitless to ever try. All of his selfishness to be human, left her gone.
Stunned, Allie stood. "Sam..." The blonde spoke out softly, voice met with the sound of his sorrow. Perhaps the typical reaction would be to place a kind hand and offer condolences. But in all her time, those same assurances did... nothing.
A newly healed palm stroked at his hair, holding him perched against her belly. "Shh..." Allie cooed out, much like how her own mother soothed her first road burned knee after falling off her bike and swiping it across the unforgiving pavement. The sound - affectionate, calming. The flex of strong, but exhausted arms tightening itched below frightened skin - only to be staved off and extinguished by the gentle run of Sam's hands as they crawled up her back, finding peace at empathetic shoulders and staying there.
"I'm here for you, Sam. I'm here. It's okay."
The first touch in a long time without harsh, lustful, or near death, undertones.
The next day they headed out on the road. The trio stopped at a bar only to see Meg there, a woman that Sam had met while separated from them during the scarecrow hunt. They spoke in a friendly manner but later on, Sam voiced concerns about her. Could a coincidence be just that, a coincidence? Or did all things have an explanation?
Sam set out to keep watch over Meg that evening while Dean and Allie took part in their own investigation. It turned out that happy accidents were nonexistent in a hunter's life because that night, they found themselves tied and bound to structural poles in an abandoned warehouse.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit of a cunt?" Allie retorted while Meg taunted them. "You should look into a personality adjustment."
Meg Masters raised an eyebrow at Allie's crude language, her lips twitching into a sadistic smirk. "Oh, sweetheart," she sneered, sauntering closer to the blonde hunter with a predatory grace that made Dean instinctively tense up beside her. "I think you're the one who needs some personality adjusting," Meg let the teasing remark slip off of her tongue, the tip protruding out between them. "You see, I like chaos and destruction." She positioned a leg beside Allie's knee, sinking down onto the other woman's lap.
Allie rolled her eyes. "Did you just use my own retort back at me? That's lame." Blue eyes flashed up, smile simpering while the uncharacteristically heavy weight for such a small body pressed down onto her thighs. "Sorry, I already went through my experimental phase. College." She hissed.
Meg's eyes flashed with anger at the other blonde's dismissal. "Oh, you think you could make an exception for me?" She purred, leaning closer until their breaths mingled hotly before she lunged forward and bit down on the blonde hunter's neck.
Allie bit her lip to avoid screaming. "Fuck you! — Bitch!" She seethed and leaned her head back on the beam. "You — !" The objection was sliced off, interrupted by Meg announcing how capturing the Winchesters wasn't about them, it was about setting a trap for John. Alice? Nothing but an outsider caught in the middle of high tide.
A growl sounded from deep in Dean's throat, wrists struggling against his restraints while forest irises watched helplessly as Meg feasted on Allie's neck. Rage surged through him, climbing upon a hill of hate. One sliver of loose thread, that's all that counted. A single thread torn could work to his advantage. "Let her go!" He snarled, straining against his own bindings with renewed force. "You don't touch her— She has nothing to do with this! "
Sam's heart beat wildly in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him as he watched helplessly from his own restraints. He hated feeling so damn powerless; it was against everything he stood for as a hunter. His eyes flickered between Dean and Allie, worry etched deeply on his features. She couldn't be hurt again... not after all they had been through together. "Dean," he said urgently, trying to keep his voice calm despite the panic bubbling beneath the surface.
Meg pulled away from Allie's neck with a satisfied groan, licking the blood off her lips before turning to face Dean. "Oh, but she's so… tasty," she purred, her eyes slid to an unholy black. "You see, Winchester," she continued, sauntering closer until they were mere inches apart. "I serve someone much stronger than you could ever hope to be." Her hand reached out and trailed one long fingernail down his cheek, leaving a thin line of Allie's crimson in its wake.
Dean let out a deep grunt, refusing to flinch as the bitch taunted him. "Let her go," he repeated through gritted teeth, struggling against the bindings holding him tightly in place. His eyes flickered towards Sam for a brief moment before returning to Meg, assessing their situation quickly, conveying a nonverbal plan.
Sam waited for Meg to approach him again before suddenly headbutting her.
Meg fell to the ground and Sam quickly destroyed the altar she had created, causing the Daevas she was controlling to toss her body out of a nearby window.
He raced to Allie's side first and checked her neck. "It's not too bad. We'll clean you up soon." Deft fingers untied her and Dean. Yet again, Allie got hurt because of them. Of their issues. This time, though? Not so much a symptom of the average hunt, rather a by-product of being an ally.
They left to find John. Meg hadn't lied. He was in town. They found him in a small apartment. Allie hung back while they all shared a sweet reunion. She felt awkward and out of place. After all, she had never met John. She was simply a young woman who joined his sons. An outsider looking in.
The reunion was cut short by the Daevas appearing once again. Allie was thrown against a wall, her thigh cut up from its claws. She let out a blood-curdling scream while searing hot pain ripped through her pectineus and watched as the men were attacked. The moment was brief but painful. Sam lit up the shadows with a flare and they ran. They all ran like hell while beaten and bruised and bloodied.
As quickly as they found John— he left; determining their reunion made them too vulnerable.
At the motel, Allie limped into the bathroom and slowly peeled off her jeans. She bit down on a towel to avoid screaming out in pain from the denim tugging at gaping, deep rips in her porcelain flesh, which was now marred in partially dried blood. "Shit..."
Sam rushed to Allie's side as soon as they released their bags, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of her gruesome thigh. "Allie!" He cried out, quickly assessing the severity of her injuries before helping her onto one of the beds. "It's okay," he soothed, grabbing a first aid kit from their bag and rummaging through it frantically for antiseptic and bandages. "We'll take care of it," and her neck. The exact situation he worried of — her involvement leading to negative circumstances.
She let out a soft breath while trying to relax as Sam hurried her over to the bed. The second time being in her underwear within a short period. Allie swallowed hard and her eyes flickered over to Dean. The cuts were long, running from her mid-thigh right up to the top of her inner thigh in a thick curve. The top was right next to her... sensitive bits. "It's fine," She breathed out and closed her eyes. "I just need a little kiss on my boo-boo," she joked before wincing.
Dean noticed the way Allie's eyes flickered toward him, a mixture of pain and vulnerability in their depths that made something inside him twist uncomfortably. Bobby would have his ass for her getting hurt again. Despite his best efforts to protect her, it appeared more and more common that she got injured. Nearly every time now. They all did! The problem, though, was Allie didn't need to live the life. Their life.
He approached tentatively and came to take perch at her side.
"Here," he said gruffly, reaching out to gently press a kiss against the worst of her cuts before pulling back. "Sorry." The offering meant no aid now. Why, on God's earth, did he agree to let her join their trampling across North America? Regret began to settle in. Guilt.
Without thinking, he spoke in an authoritative tone. "Allie, in the morning we're taking you back to Bobby's," no more of this. Their status quo held no merit any longer. Their father was not Allie's concern, and the rest of their journey needed to be a family matter.
Assuming Dean's stance to be temporary, Allie sighed. Business as usual. She'd go to her father's, heal, then hop back on the road. The constant red rover game grew slightly tiresome, but she did enjoy spending ample time with the Singer patriarch, and her wounds would take a decent length of time to patch up. "Okay," glancing down at the slices, Allie examined the depth visually. "About… three weeks? Probably." The declaration was unprompted, bred from a multitude of past conversations.
Dean ran a hand over his face, turning to face the adjacent motel wall. Fight incoming. He was already bracing for it.
"No, Alls, we're not picking you up in three weeks." Unable to meet Sam's questioning gaze from his words, Dean placed his tongue between his upper and lower teeth, biting down as the next proclamation came into his throat.
"You're done."
Sam, albeit shocked from his older brother's insistence, silently nodded along in agreement. It seemed that they were both on the same page in regard to Allie's safety. There wasn't much for him to offer, really. Dean's input was enough.
"What?!" Allie propped herself up, twitching in pain from her injuries, but feigning nonchalance at the surface. "No, I'm fine! It's a few cuts!" Defiance ramped up in her tone at rapid speeds, slamming out at her mentor in a freight train of insubordination.
"Stop arguing with me!" Dean barked, voice raised and commanding. "Stop! You're going home! You're done!" Now seated and confident in what needed to be done, he took on his rightful role as a mentor and trainer. No more Mr. Niceguy. No more best friend.
"Dean, It's fi-" Allie pushed back with the same words as before, only to hear him crank it up a notch higher.
"ENOUGH, ALLS! They aren't cuts! You are not coming. You're going back to Bobby's, and you're staying there. This isn't a discussion! It's not a democracy, it's not up to your interpretation. You're going home," and this time he wouldn't back down. Most of the time Allie had a way of weaseling her little grips under his skin, attaching and getting her way. That was over.
Swallowing densely, Allie stared up at him. I didn't do anything wrong. The thought reamed through her, holding her mind hostage and caused minor bleeding within an abandonment-fearing chest. She huffed. "Sam?"
Sam sighed, turning away to avoid her pointed gaze. Not his fight. He shook his head, hoping to high heaven that the imminent wrath ended quickly. Something told him that their motel room was about to become world war 4.
Panic settled in. What went wrong? She'd been loyal, stuck around, offered… what kindness she could, given all of the circumstances. Fuck him! Taking out his own disappointment over the situation on her, the separation from John. They were a team! What, now all of their journey suddenly meant nothing? Fine then! Fine!
"So, that's it? I'm useless now?" Angered, ill-justified words spiraled out of her.
Dean's body ticked. A restless air of tension fell between the walls. Sure, he knew it would piss her off, knew that Allie'd fight back — still. Her true anger never sat well within him. Sometimes it sucked to be the fucking boss. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to!" Allie shot back, unkind to his tone and general bossy attitude. "You don't decide for me. I decide."
Dean shook his head, unwavering from his initial position. His heart found meaning in keeping her safe, and that was that. Although, his barking did calm down for a much calmer demeanor and overall authority. "No. You don't. I drive. I teach. I say." He paused and leaned against the creaky table of their motel room, one leg wobbling from its lack of a screw.
"Look — you can hunt with Bobby. I'm not trying to piss you off." He initially thought of apologizing, but no sense in that. He wasn't sorry. "We're still gonna see you, but you can't come with us anymore. And I'm not talking about it anymore. You'll argue with me in circles. No point." A part of him did feel bad, the part that cared deeply for Allie's own feelings, and deep down he already knew he'd miss her. He always did.
"Get some sleep, Al. Big day tomorrow." Long drive ahead.
"But your injurie-" Allie started once again, eyes roaming over his and Sam's many wounds. The whole situation caused all of them to bleed, not only her. Yet she was cut for a final time.
"Sam and I will take care of it. We can patch each other up," Dean stopped her, burying his own disappointment over the path they would soon face. The road apart. He should have known a goddamn year and a half ago! Good things never stayed for long; that was the Winchester way. If only he knew at the time — losing a best friend hurt worse than a six month love interest, or brief stint in a juvenile home.
But, there was a time before her, there would be a time after. Dean wanted to make sure it meant her still being alive, rather than dead.