A Burdened Family

Chapter 3

We gave Dad a proper hunter's funeral. We built him a pyre of wood, wrapping his body and laying it in the wood. Then we lit the entire thing on fire, allowing the embers and ash to lick away at the body until there was nothing left but ash and dust. It was a long and drawn out process, we had to watch until everything was burnt away, but at the same time, I found something therapeutic about it.

Maybe that makes me psychotic.

Sam and I stood close to each other as we watched Dad burn. We never touched though, save for my left foot and his right laying one over the other. He cried sloppy tears, though the rest of his face remained calm. He wasn't fighting the emotion.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry and relieve myself of all the pent up anger and sadness, but it seemed my tear ducts had run dry.

Dean's face was stiff as a board. His eyes danced with betrayal and sadness, but he somehow kept any tears from spilling onto his cheeks. He had gone into survival mode, locking in all of his emotions, and locking out anything else. Dean didn't come within two feet of either of us through the entire funeral.

"Before he... before he..." Sam choked on the sentence, eventually giving up. "Did he say anything to you? About anything?"

"I'm sorry." I put a little more weight on my left foot so he could feel it.

"No." Dean said after a moment. His green eyes stared harshly into the flames, like he could blame them for Dad's passing. "Nothing."

A tear finally escaped Dean's eye, and I looked away.

"Bye, Dad." I whispered. "Thank you."

"Watch the fire, will you?" Dean turned quickly away. "I need a drink."

"No, Dean." I snapped harshly enough to stop him where he stood. "Don't leave. I'm sorry."

Dean didn't turn back around, but he didn't leave either. He stood there until the fire burned out. His back to Dad's burning remains. His back to Sam and I. His back to his family.

It wasn't a secret anymore what had happened. It was pretty obvious that Dad had traded his life for Dean's. Sam was more sad than angry, but Dean was angry. Not necessarily at me, but he was angry. I just happened to be the easiest outlet for his anger.

He didn't ignore me, or yell at me, or even make passive aggressive comments to me. He just looked at me differently. There was an unreadable emotion on his face, and to this day, I can't describe it.

Actually, I can.

Heartbreak.

***

We spent the next week at Bobby's. Sam worked his way through every book in Bobby's house, along with every one of Dad's phones. Dean buried himself under the car, determined to revive Baby. I offered to help, but he quickly turned me down. I spent that week doing anything the boys asked me to. I knew they loved me, but I just felt so guilty.

"Come on." Sam rapped his knuckles on my door. "We're heading out. Found a lead on Dad's phone."

"Shotgun." I called, hopping out of my seat and following behind Sam.

I missed Baby, she was my home.

"I take it back, Sam." I stared in horror at the van Sam approached. "I'll take the back."

"It's not that bad."

"Has Dean seen this monstrosity, yet?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but stopped himself.

Right on cue, Dean walked out. He froze at the sight of the soccer mom car, muttering something incoherent under his breath. We drove off in silence.

"This is humiliating." Dean grumbled as we pulled up to an old roadhouse, slamming the door as he unloaded. "I feel like a friggin' soccer mom!"

"It's the only car Bobby had running." Sam justified.

"Hello?" I walked up to the building, peering in the windows. "Anybody here?"

"Sam, did you bring the-"

"Yeah." Sam cut Dean off, tossing him the lock-pick.

Dean worked on the door for maybe half a second before it easily swung open. It was literally just a bar, an empty one. There were no people, and there were very few lights.

That's a lie.

There was some dude passed out on top of a pool table.

"I don't think that's Ellen." I quipped, but didn't get any laughs.

"No shit." Dean answered, not at all amused. "Let's split. Sam, break right. Lucy, wake the drunk guy. I'm heading to the back."

Sam followed orders, but I decided against it. There was a fully stocked bar literally 20 feet away, and I was feeling pretty damn low. I wanted a drink.

I grabbed a bottle of gin off the shelves, sinking down to the floor behind the bar. I took a glass out from under the bar and filled it up, quickly pouring it's contents down my throat.

I wasn't satisfied.

I quietly put the glass into a small sink, tipping the bottle back, allowing the bittersweet syrupy liquid to rush past my lips, burning the inside of my mouth. Burning my throat. Burning my stomach.

It still wasn't enough.

I couldn't hear. I couldn't see. I couldn't think. I couldn't feel the tears dry up in my eyes, I couldn't feel as my body laid itself flat out on the ground, letting the bottle sit vertically between my lips. I didn't realize that I took more than I could handle, and my lungs screamed for air. I didn't realize the commotion going on just a few feet away from me. I didn't notice that even as I stopped drinking, liquid rushed down my throat, stopping my breath and silently choking me.