Chapter Text
On your fourteenth birthday, John Winchester dropped his boys off for an extended stay at Hotel Singer, and you were pissed.
Not because of Sam. You were glad to have Sam there for your birthday, especially because he’d brought you a couple books he’d managed to get ahold of, one of which was The Outsiders. When you’d read it last year in school, you’d told him you really liked it.
Dean, however, was another story.
For three years you’d been worse than oil and water, as Dad so often liked to say. He’d tease you relentlessly, sometimes hanging in your doorway and asking if you still played with those little dolls, and you’d throw a pillow at him and tell him to get out. The few times they’d been back over the years, he seemed to be bigger every time. Taller, his voice deeper, even growing some stubble along his jaw, and it made it that much harder to look him in the eyes. Because you hated him.
One time last year, he’d seen you reading some girly romance novel and nearly keeled over laughing. He asked if it was like a porno, and you turned beet red and threw the book at him hard enough to give him a faint black eye. Dad had asked if he deserved it, and you said yes.
John hadn’t noticed when he picked them up. You were glad you didn’t have to face that.
And you would tease him too, except that he didn’t seem to care about anything. Nothing fazed him. Nothing except for Sam, and you never made fun of Sam, because he was him and also that would be a whole lot like making fun of yourself. And he just kept carrying himself like he thought he was the coolest, with his leather jacket, talking about how John had his sawed off shotgun in the impala, and he’d gotten to use it on his last few hunts.
You’d rolled your eyes at him. For your thirteenth birthday last year, Dad had taken you out to shoot the shotgun- finally- and a few other bigger ones he said would be good to know your way around. But he’d never let you hunt with him. Said that, if he could help it, you wouldn’t ever have to.
But you wanted to. And you hated that Dean got to go all the time. At sixteen, sometimes he’d pop in to say hi when they stopped by, but leave with John to go finish a job without Sam. And Sam didn’t seem to like it- he never talked about it, but you assumed if you asked, he’d say that he hated hunting anyway, he just hated being babied even more.
But on your birthday, you were determined that this year would be the year you did it. You’d get Dad to take you to an easy one, some salt and burn that would be in and out, and you’d see a real ghost and help real people. He’d probably keep trying to convince you to focus on other things- to make friends your own age, go to a party or something, anything except reading his damn occult books.
You didn’t want those things, though. You wanted to help people. And you were the weird kid in school anyway- it was too late for that friend business. You were starting high school, and everyone already had their friends figured out, and besides, you couldn’t stand most of them. Most of the girls your age would just wanna talk about boys, and you wanted to talk about demons and hell and how far you’d been able to read in latin before looking up a translation. And the boys your age- well, they were worse than Dean. They’d laugh at the stupidest stuff, say the worst things, and were too awkward for much else.
Sam gave you the books he’d collected as soon as they got in. Dean was behind him, his shoulders relaxed and brow raised.
“Happy birthday, Little Singer,” he drawled, and you felt your cheeks get hot. “I’d’ve brought you something, but your little boyfriend found all the decent gifts before me.”
You rolled your eyes and went right back to hating him.
“Dean,” John said, his tone edgy, and he motioned for him to follow him and Dad to the kitchen.
That was another thing you despised about Dean. Dad and John always included him in stuff now. And you knew he hadn’t even memorized an exorcism in latin. You barely ever saw him touch a book written in English.
“Sorry about him,” Sam said.
You waved him off, fingering the pages of the books he’d given you.
“Thanks for these,” you said.
“Sure. Dad told me I could only take them if I’d give ‘em to you, so…”
You laughed.
“So these are what you wanted to read.”
“Well, not The Outsiders.”
You hummed, examining the copy before putting the books down beside you.
“I wish they’d let me go with them,” you grumbled, glancing over your shoulder towards the kitchen. “It’s like they think I can’t do it.”
“Dad says its dangerous,” Sam tried.
“Dean was hunting at my age,” you said. “I can do whatever he could at that point.”
“Yeah,” Sam grunted, his eyelids heavy.
“Have you gone with them?” You asked, scanning his face.
“I- well- not on purpose,” Sam said. “But a few times, yeah.”
You felt your face go cold and your heart sunk. Dad always told you John Winchester was too willing to bring those boys into dangerous places, and that he had half a mind to say they ought to just stay with you both all the time, but in that moment all you wanted was to slam down the books Sam had given you and lock yourself in your room because the world was so unfair and you hated Dean. You didn’t want to hate Sam. So you pushed your anger off onto his brother.
Sam must’ve noticed your mood shift. You tightened your jaw over and over, grinding your teeth together so hard it almost hurt. You stared down at the books he gave you, thinking hard about all the things you’d never been allowed to do. You’d been able to do them. You’d been perfectly proficient in shooting, hell- even in hand-to-hand. Dad hadn’t been too keen on teaching you much, but he insisted you at least know basic self defense. But you kept practicing, punching at that beam in the basement wrapped in old pillows, whenever you got the chance to be down there. And that was another thing- you were sick of being kept at arms length about stuff happening in your own home. Maybe it wasn’t yours, sure, but you lived there. And it made you so angry your hands started to shake. You squeezed them into fists to try and stop it.
“It’s not-“ Sam tried, his voice cracking from the effort. “I don’t even like it. I don’t even wanna do it.”
“Well then don’t,” you half-yelled, your frustration venting out in an aggravated sigh. You stood just as Dad, John, and Dean emerged from the kitchen, John and Dad laughing at something while Dean wore that stupid, mysterious, too-cool, smug face that made you so angry and also made your heart fill in your chest. And that just made you angrier.
You turned to the stairs and stormed towards them, your steps heavier than necessary, just to try and get something out of you, to let something out.
“Hey, Kiddo, where’re you goin’-“
“To my room,” you grunted, not bothering to look down as they all probably watched. You had half a mind to follow John when he left, find whatever monster he’d been about to hunt and kill it your damn self.
You heard Dean trying to say something right as you slammed your door. You didn’t care. You weren’t gonna be like all those other girls you’d heard him talk about, who hung on his every word and followed him wherever he’d take them. Sam had told you it was true, too. So perfect Dean Winchester got to hunt with his dad, hang out with girls, and do basically whatever he wanted while you were stuck on lockdown most of the time, barely earning any trust from good grades or good shots.
The anger was bubbling in you so rapidly and terribly that hot tears stung at your eyes. You paced back and force in your room for a moment, shaking your hands and trying to cool yourself off. But you wanted to punch something. Wanted to throw something hard enough to break.
You heard the front door close downstairs and glanced out the window to watch as John rolled away in the impala, the black body shining under the hot sky, and Dean wasn’t in it. That satisfied you at least a little bit, that John didn’t let him go on every hunt.
There was a knock on your door, low and careful, and you closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths before you trudged over and opened it.
You looked up at your dad with flat, glossy eyes and pressed your lips together to avoid the attitude he’d claimed you’d been giving him lately.
“Kiddo, what’s-“
“Nothing,” you snapped, your eyes shifting away from his for a second as you swallowed.
“Well, something must’ve happened, because you ran up here like bat outta hell-“
“Nothing happened,” you breathed.
“Sam say something to upset you? ‘Cuz if he did, I can handle that right now-“
“Just stop,” you said, blinking frantically to try and quell the onslaught of tears pushing at your eyes. “Just stop trying to make everything better all the time. Stop babying me.”
“Kiddo, take a breath,” Dad said, holding up a hand to you as though that would calm you down. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I just- I want- It’s my birthday and all I’ve wanted forever is just to go on a hunt with you, and even Sam has gone out, and-“
“Alright,” Dad said, his face morphing from tepid concern to controlled anger. “Sam ain’t have any business goin’ out there, and neither do you. You know where I stand on this. This ain’t a life you want for yourself. And sure, I try to keep you educated and prepared so you can be safe just in case, but once you’re in this life, there’s no gettin’ out of it- and that ain’t what I want for you-“
“Why is that your choice?” You yelled, tears finally breaking the surface. The feel of them skipping down your cheeks irritated you even more, and you wiped them away with a rough fist to your face. “Why can’t I choose my own life for myself?”
“Because you don’t know a damn thing about what’s out there,” Dad yelled back. “These things took your mama from us, could’ve took you if I hadn’t-“ he pressed his lips together hard, his face red. “You think you know what you want, think you know everything, and I get it, ‘cuz I was a damn teenager once too. But not this. I won’t budge on this. You don’t know.”
You tightened your jaw, a few more stray tears slipping from your eyes.
“I could know. And I could choose then-“
“No,” Dad said, his voice echoing in the hall. The house was strangely quiet after that, like even the walls had to hold their breath, like Sam and Dean downstairs had even bit their tongues. “That’s final. I’ll teach ya to shoot, to fight and defend yourself, hell, I’ll even let you have your own guns and read some of my books if it’s what you want, but you’re not goin’ out there huntin’. You’re just not.”
You knew it was a bad idea, but you slammed the door shut on him then. Twisted the old lock closed so he couldn’t barge back in, threw yourself down on your bed, and let yourself cry it out. You’d never be good enough- not like Dean and Sam were to John- to help. To keep dad safe just as much as he wanted to keep you safe. To be a good guy, to be a hero.
—-
It was a few hours later when you decided to risk going downstairs to find something to eat. The sun had set, setting the sky ablaze with pink and orange, a few grey clouds floating through. You hoped nobody would be down there, but odds are, the boys would be in the living room and Dad would be in his study. So you crept down quietly, wanting to get a feel for what the energy was before taking the plunge. You’d rather go to sleep hungry than have to face another argument about all the things you weren’t allowed to do, especially not in front of Dean.
Sam was sitting on the couch facing the TV, his head nodding slightly as he looked down at a book in his lap. You heard muffled voices in the kitchen and sighed, about to turn around and give up before you caught a few of Dean’s words and froze.
“-’s just a salt’n’burn, Bobby. I’ve done hundred of ‘em by now with dad.”
“It’s a little too close to home for my comfort. And I don’t want her hearin’ about this- if I have to tell her no one more time I might lose my damn mind.”
A beat of silence. You felt the tears stinging again.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if-“
“Don’t you start with me too,” Dad said quickly. “Your daddy raised you how he thought he needed to, and I won’t stand here and talk bad about him to his boy, but huntin’ ain’t no place for any of you. Especially not my daughter.”
More quiet. You furrowed your brows, trying to understand why Dean would be trying to defend you, but quickly gave up on the thought as they kept talking.
“We could go deal with it tonight,” Dean said. “Once Sammy and her are asleep. It seems real quick- you got the old obit showing where the guy is buried that’s probably haunting ‘em, so we could just go salt and burn his bones before anyone even notices.”
You swallowed, your ears ringing. Dad would take Dean hunting on your birthday. The betrayal felt like a splash of ice cold water.
“I don't know, Dean. His bones won’t disappear in a few days, and a spirit can’t really hurt nobody too bad. And maybe it isn’t-“
You sat down on the stairs, glancing to Sam in the living room to make sure he hadn’t noticed you, and waited with shaking hands until their conversation faded- thankfully- into dads study. You stood carefully, silently, and crept down the rest of the way and through the hall behind Sam until you were in the kitchen, and you could still hear Dean and Dad talking about weird monsters in the other room.
You looked down at the kitchen table, at the newspaper articles that dad had no doubt collected as intel on the case- not even a couple miles down the road into town- and the obituary Dean had mentioned with the location of the grave. Just a salt and burn, he’d said. Dad had even insisted it wasn’t big enough to have to do something about soon.
You pocketed the obituary, glanced over your shoulder at Sam dozing off into his book to the sound of cartoon reruns, and let out a careful breath. You turned to the cabinet where dad kept the condiments and spices, grabbed the new jar of salt from behind the one he’d been using to cook, and then snagged one of his old lighters from the drawer next to the fridge. You tested it once to make sure it worked, and when it did, you capped it quick and headed back upstairs just as quietly as you came.
You locked the door behind you, grabbed a small duffel, and tossed in the salt and lighter. You’d need to grab the lighter fluid from near the fire pit outside, and one of the sawed-off’s dad hid around the house, loaded with salt rounds. You dropped onto your bed, your eyes drifting to the window, and watched as the sky settled into the night.
You heard Sam go to bed first, the guest room door closing softly. Dad wasn’t too far behind, grumbling in the hall as he walked, stopping briefly outside your room before deciding whatever he was gonna try to say wasn’t worth it. Dean usually stayed up late in the living room before knocking out on the couch lately, so you knew taking the stairs wasn’t an option. He’d clock you in a second, as much as you hated to admit it. And he wouldn’t get it. He never had to fight to be good enough for anyone. Ever since you first met him, he just was.
You unlocked your door and padded out towards the grandfather clock that hadn’t worked in years. You pried open the bottom where you knew dad had stashed some emergency supplies, and pulled out the small sawed-off and a box of salt rounds before replacing the wood. You’d put it back when you got home, ideally before sunrise, and he’d never know. It’s not like you’d need the ammo, anyway. But even if you used one or two rounds, and he ever got suspicious, you’d just shrug and say maybe your memory is going, old man. And he’d tease you about how this is where you’re headed, so mind what you say. And you’d roll your eyes and laugh, and that’d be that.
You slipped back into your room and locked the door again, no one the wiser, and tucked the gun into your small duffel next to the salt and lighter. You carefully crossed the strap over your shoulder and made for the widow, which you had already unlocked and left cracked so you wouldn’t make too much noise. You slid it up slowly, glanced down at the rough roof tiles that were over the small porch, and let out a breath into the warm night.
It was barely even a hunt. All you needed to do was dig up the body, sprinkle in the salt, light it up, and head out. Dad had told you about a hundred cases like it- the easy ones, that always left him relieved and home in time for dinner. Dean had talked about them too. Sam would roll his eyes and ask him to talk about anything besides hunting for once, and usually, Dean would just chuckle and shrug at him.
What’s the matter Sammy? It’s just the family business.
You stepped out onto the roof carefully, squatting low and holding your breath. The roof of the porch to the grass wasn’t terribly far, but you’d never snuck out before, but fuck it, it was your birthday, and you were about to start high school, and you were the weird quiet kid that liked ghost stories and horror movies and read obscure books bound in leather instead of cardboard.
You hopped down as quietly as you could and stood. The night spread out before you, a gentle wind pushing at your hair, and you drew in a deep breath. You imagined that this is what freedom felt like. And it felt good. More than good.
Amazing.
You walked carefully out to the fire pit where dad had been burning some old wood and brush, and probably a few unruly monsters, and grabbed a bottle of the lighter fluid to shove in your pack. You hurried back to the porch, grabbed your old bike from where it was resting against the railing, and rolled it out to the driveway before you pulled out the obituary and checked the address again.
Then you hopped on the bike, pulled into the road, and smiled.
You’d never felt so right. And it was so stupid, sneaking out to hunt a ghost. And nobody would even know. And even better- dad and Dean wouldn’t get to do it.
—-
The cemetery was peaceful. You walked your bike down the dirt path as you searched for the name- Jameson- and dropped it haphazardly against another old gravestone once you found it. The grave had the space for another name, but it was long abandoned, by the looks of it. The guy had died like fifty years ago almost to the date, and the space next to him had never been updated. You figured whoever was supposed to rest next to him eternally had gotten cold feet, or maybe met someone new, and that was reason enough to make a bitter spirit.
You’d read a lot about spirits. About how people refuse to cross over, or whatever actually happened, and their soul rotted away as they hung around for years and years and years. And unfinished business could torment them.
You didn’t know the details of this case aside from what you’d overhead and glanced at in the articles on the kitchen table, but it didn’t matter. The outcome would be the same. Salt and burn.
You grabbed your shovel, your fingers narrow and cold despite the warm night, and stabbed it into the dirt in front of the grave.
“Alright, Mr. Jameson,” you said to the wind, a hand on your hip. “You need to move on, and I have a point to prove. Let’s get this show on the road.”
After about two hours, you estimated that you were almost there. And you were covered in dirt and sweat, your clothes reeked of the earth, and the moon had risen high into the sky. It was hard work, especially by yourself, but every shovel-full of dirt you heaved out of the way felt like another success. You were doing it. You were in it.
When you finally hit the coffin, you let out an exhausted, satisfied sigh. You wiped your brow with the back of your hand, probably smearing a little bit of dirt over your skin, but you didn’t care. You even liked it. It was physical, dirty, and gave you a spark of adrenaline whenever you’d hear an animal crack a branch or a bird rustle in the trees.
And you didn’t realize how much you’d like just being alone, out in the night, with nobody around to bother you.
You jammed the shovel into the opened of the coffin and pried it up with a grunt. You’d never seen a full skeleton still in its coffin before, especially not like this, and you felt a sick sort of excitement as you tossed the shovel out of the hole and hoisted yourself up to get the rest of your supplies.
You sprinkled most of the salt jar into the grave, covering the dude in a blanket of the stuff, before you tossed what was left back in your duffel and started spraying the lighter fluid in next. You weren’t sure what the best amount would be, so you sprayed in what was left of the bottle before tossing that back, too, to throw away in the outside garbage when you got home. You’d need to shower when you got back, too. If dad asked why the hell you were in there so late, you’d just tell him you couldn’t sleep.
Your birthday had officially been over for a few hours, but you’d forgone the cake and candles for moping in your room, but this felt even better. Like one big candle you didn’t have to blow out, just ignite, and you’d really be fourteen.
You turned to grab the lighter, and stopped.
You’d never seen a skeleton in its grave before. You’d also never seen a real ghost.
But there it was- Mr. Jameson, based on the picture attached to the obituary any our pocket- with a sour face and a long fancy coat, an old hat, and a pocket watch in his hand. You blinked, a lump in your throat overwhelming your ability to swallow and breathe, and racked your brain for the best thing to do in this situation.
Well, you knew what that would be. Light the bitch on fire asap, and watch the ghost burn. And he couldn’t hurt you, not really, because he was just a one-off spirit. You could grab the shotgun, send him flying from the sting of the salt for a minute to give you time to drop the lighter, but that would be loud and it was so quiet out- and you were so close to getting home without using any of dads salt rounds. And it would be easier to put them all back then to be missing one, even if you did know what you were going to say for cover.
So you bent down and grabbed the lighter, flicked it open, and-
Shit.
It didn’t light. Not at first.
Mr. Jameson started to yell, the sound like a dry, sucking screech, and you winced as the pain spread through your ears. You flicked the lighter a second time, and a third, and he was getting closer to you and your heart was pounding in your chest and-
Someone came running up and swung at him with an old twisted scrap of metal, their leather jacket catching the moonlight and shining. Their hair was greasy, slicked slightly back, and you flicked the lighter again and the flame sprung up and you sighed, relieved, before you tossed the whole thing in and watched the body erupt in the flame, coffin and all.
When you turned back to whoever had decided to help you, your mouth ran dry.
Dean was staring at you, the scrap metal clutched in one hand, the other hanging limp at his side, half covered by the long sleeve of his leather jacket. And he had that stupid smug look on his face, one brow perked slightly higher than the other, and his eyes were reflecting the clear sky in a way that made your heart feel full again. The heat from the fire behind you made your face feel obscenely hot, so you stepped away from it, your throat tight. You kept your eyes on his, your jaw tight, and waited.
“Busted,” he said, his lips spreading into a goofy grin. And then he laughed. And the sound made your heart swell and your cheeks flush- though that could have been the flames still- and it also made you so angry.
“Did you follow me?” You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest, your shirt cold from the dirt stains.
“Of course I did,” he said, tossing the scrap metal to the side and flicking his chin towards the grave. “Looks like you ganked the guy, though.”
“Of course I did,” you mimicked, moving your hands to your hips. “Why did you follow me.”
He shrugged, “so you didn’t do something stupid.”
You rolled your eyes, and it was your turn to laugh.
“Right. Do something stupid, like forget one of the many, many steps to a salt and burn?”
He smiled again, glancing between you and the shovel on the ground.
“Dig it up yourself?”
“Duh,” you said.
He chuckled.
“Bobby would kill you if he knew you snuck out to hunt,” he said.
“It wasn’t even a hunt,” you said, motioning behind you. “Didn’t have to figure anything out, even. Just had to roast the old guy.”
“Sure,” Dean shrugged. “But he would still kill you.”
You swallowed, your cheeks feeling hot again.
“Are you gonna tell him?” You asked, doing your best to keep your voice steady.
“Depends. What’ll you do for me?” He asked.
“For you?” You grumbled, crossing your arms again, because you didn’t know what to do with them and with the fire lighting you up in the dark, you somehow felt too exposed. “What do you want?”
Dean glanced from you to the fire, which was settling slightly, and back to you. He shrugged again. It pissed you off.
“Guess you’ll owe me one,” he said.
Your frowned, watching him for a moment before sighing and turning to pack your supplies back up.
“You know, it was stupid, coming out here alone,” he said, his voice softer now, slightly different from his usual smug, cowboy tone.
“Well, clearly, I wasn’t alone,” you said.
“You know what I mean,” he added, reaching down to pick up your bag for you. “Even if it was just a salt and burn, it could’ve been more that we didn’t know about-“
“Save the lecture, Dean,” you grumbled, taking your bag and tossing it over your shoulders. “Nothing bad happened.”
“You sure? Because you seemed a bit panicked there, when that lighter wasn’t-“
“But it worked,” you snapped. “I had it under control. And plus, it’s not like he could’ve hurt me. He would’ve just, I don’t know, flown through me or something.”
“Maybe,” Dean said, catching your eyes again. “But you never know. And hunting by yourself is just stupid.”
“Your dad teach you that?” You asked.
“Yeah, he did,” he said. “Safety in numbers and all that.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have to go by myself, if my dad didn’t treat me like some fragile little baby that can’t do anything right-“
“Hey,” Dean said, propping his hands on his hips and frowning at you. “Bobby’s just tryna protect you-“
“No, he’s just trying to decide my life for me-“
“No, really,” Dean said, his voice firm, serious. “He doesn’t want you to get hurt. And I- I get it, sort of, that feeling. I mean, I don’t have a kid or anything, but it’s my job to protect Sammy, and if he pulled something like this, I don’t even know-“
He stopped to take a breath and looked to his shoes. You waited for him, your lips pursed and body tense, before he finally sighed and me your eyes again.
“You owe me one. Big time, Little Singer.”
You grunted and shoulders passed him to your bike. “Fine. And don’t call me that.”
You could feel his smirk burning into your back. When you propped up your bike and turned, he was hauling a rusty old thing from the bushes where he must’ve been watching you. You raised a brow.
“Dad’s old bike?” You asked. “Really?”
“Hey, it’s not like I could just steal a car from the lot. He’d definitely notice that.”
You hummed, looking him up and down, and wondered why he’d bothered to follow you. How he’d even known you’d do this.
“How’d you know?” You asked.
“What? That you’d do something stupid like this?”
You pushed your bike towards him and rolled your eyes.
“The obituary was gone when we got back to the kitchen,” he said with a shrug, tossing his leg over the bike. “Bobby didn’t notice before I picked up the pile, but I did. And after that fight you had upstairs after Sammy and I got here-“
You opened your mouth to say it wasn’t a fight, it was Dad being unfair, but he raised his brows and stopped you short. Maybe because his expression was back to being so stern. Maybe because, in the moonlight, his jaw looked strong, his hair dark, and the reflection not he necklace Sam had given him looked like a little star.
“Just, I got it. You know. Wanting to prove to yourself you could do it.”
You looked away from him, down to a spot of dry dirt on your wrist, and blinked. How could he possibly understand that? He’d been hunting with John forever. He’d never had to prove he was good enough or strong enough. He just was.
“But if you do it again, I’m definitely telling Bobby,” he said, kicking off the ground and pedaling down the path.
You frowned, hurrying after him.
“I guess next time I’ll just have to be more careful and make sure you don’t know.”
“Careful what you wish for,” he laughed, glancing back at you. “Now stay close and hurry up. I wanna sleep at least a little bit before Bobby wakes us up for breakfast.”
You pedaled hard, doing your best to keep up with him- he was taller and stronger than you, and you were already covered in sweat- but the air felt nice in your hair despite the ache in your lungs. The dark sky felt nice on your skin despite the exhaustion seeping into it.
“And hey-“ Dean said, turning back to you one last time, that stupid, goofy smile on his face- “happy birthday.”