I Bet on Losing Dogs

Chapter 3

I would actively say Sam Winchester saved my life. He did. I had been 9 when my parents had chosen the life over me. Hunting can become a drug for some people, and they take it way too far, until it kills them. My parents had died after digging too deep into the world of supernatural, discovering hell and crossroad demons before they died. They had a hunter's funeral - burning the body so the ghost can't come back- and I had nowhere to go. Luckily, my parents had made enough friends that I was sent to live with Jody Mills, a sheriff turned hunter who had been affiliated with the Winchesters. 

I spent a year with her before meeting Sam and Dean, before Jody took on two other girls to foster, and before she realized I was more trouble than it all was worth. Somehow and some way, before I was almost chugged through the foster care system, Sam Winchester came over for dinner and asked if I liked to read. I did, and remembered very well, I told him. His smile was so kind, and his frame was broad and warm when he hugged me goodbye. That night, I remember packing my clothes up and sitting under my window, wishing for nice family to take me when Jody inevitably sent me away. I remember praying hard under the cross nailed above my blinds. 

The next week I was folding my clothes into a dresser in the bunker - a place that Sam and Dean had called home. It was basically a high-tech bomb shelter for hunters in the 50's, but it had been abandoned for years until the Winchesters discovered it. Sam sat on the bed we both decided to push against one of the walls, asking what Dean should make for dinner that night. I can see him in my mind, his legs crossed at the ankles and knees spread loosely, hands clasped between them. He smelled earthy, with a long flow of brown hair in need of a wash. 

"Do you like pizza?" he had asked gently. 

"I'm ten, of course I like pizza" I had responded in the same tone. 

As years had passed, I had mostly helped Sam with research. Dean would expect too much or too little of me, so I hadn't been allowed on hunts. When I was fourteen, I snuck myself in on a "routine" hunt, meaning I hid in the trunk of the Impala for two days and had never had to pee so badly in my life. My rationale was I was small and a distraction. I could get the boys into buildings in broad daylight and do an impressive amount of recon. I had posed as fake therapists, doctors offices, police station assistants - you name it - over the phone to get information, in person would be easier. I don't remember the hunt very well, but I remember gaining an insane piece of information by luckily talking to a teenage waitress who somehow had a close connection to the case. After the bitch fit from the boys had seeped away, I relayed what I had heard from the waitress and the hunt ended that night rather than days later. Dean had gained a level of respect for me, I think, and suddenly I was asked to come on hunts more often. 

-

The last hunt I had went on before landing in Forks was just Dean and me. We were in a good place, having not fought (meaning I didn't fight back) in months. We listened to Thunderstruck on an hour loop while I picked open pistachios in the passenger seat. 

"Don't get any crumbs in my baby" Dean had said in exasperation. 

"These are for you, dude" I snipped back in a giggle as he threw a hand up. 

"I don't even like pistachios" he responded in the same tone, furrowing his brow. I stared back at him, incredulous. 

"Yes you do" 

"I have never liked pistachios ever in my life" He said. "I've been alive for forty-something years, I know what I like and don't like". 

"I think your strictly burgers and beer diet is starting to affect your memory, Dean. You don't like pecans because you think pecan pie is too healthy. You like pistachios because it's an ice cream flavor"