Supernatural: The Full First Season

You are Beautiful; Never Forget

We're in the next dingy motel. I got my own motel room for once, hoping Dean will come over for the evening. I step out of the shower and dry off, dressing in a pair of old sweatpants and a camisole for bed.

I step from the bathroom, a cloud of warm steam following me. Dean's sitting on the end of my bed.

I jump slightly, hand fluttering over my heart to steady it's pounding rhythm. Dean looks up at me. Vibrant green eyes run over me from head to toe and back. He stands up.

I clear my throat and smirk, "Hey, Dean. What's up?"

Dean makes no attempt at hiding the fact that he's staring at my breasts. He swallows and takes a step closer, "Um, hey, Ellie. Eli and I had a talk about you."

I frown, "'Bout what?"

"He told me about your family . . . and your scars," Dean looks down at the floor, ashamed.

Tears well in my eyes. I look down to keep my thoughts from scattering.

Dean's shoes enter the top of my vision. I look up.

"He explained that your dad was a douche to you in an attempt to make you into the perfect princess. And then one day, your mom turned on you too," he says, calmly.

He steps closer. The next thing I know, his chest is brushing against mine through the thin material of my cami.

As I breathe in, my breasts press against his chest. "So now you know," I whisper.

"Tell me why you cut. Tell me everything, Ellie," Dean says, grabbing my arms.

I breathe in in an attempt to clear my head. "My dad always wanted the best for me. He wants me to take the crown. So, he started correcting me when I was able to understand him. It was always the same things, 'stand up straight,' 'don't eat like that,' 'don't do that.' When I messed up, he would spank me, when I talked back or said something he didn't like, he would slap me across the face, when I would mess up playing an instrument, he would smack my hands with a ruler. Everything I did wrong, he would hurt me physically and then he would find a comment or jibe to fit. I would got to my mom. She would heal my wounds as I vented to her. Every time I asked her why Daddy hated me so, she would reply with, 'Oh, Elisita, tu papa encanta a tí. He doesn't hate you, and he's not disappointed in you. He's afraid. El quiero a tí estar perfecto y él sabe tú puedes, so he tries to correct you and help you. He just goes about it the wrong way.'

"And I knew, still know, he loves me. Every night, he would tuck me in and say, 'Te amo, Boo.' But one day, mi mama snapped. I was complaining and she exploded. She told me to try learning to be a princess in a year and that I needed to shut up about all the problems I had because she was sick of hearing about it.

"I was eight. And that was the day I realized something. If pain from another can hurt you, then pain from yourself can relieve you. And I picked up cutting. It was a hobby in a way. In another, it was an addiction. It's like smoking. You get addicted. And even after you stop, you'll still feel that tug telling you that you can do it 'just one more time' and 'who will ever know?' and 'no one will even notice.'

"I slit my skin for ever jibe, every comment, every smack, slap, and whack. It was my relief. And I know my mom regrets ever yelling at me. I can feel it. It emanates off her skin. But I never went to her again. That was the last time. And Dean? I cut for 18 years. I stopped cutting when I met you. So that's the truth."

Dean stares for a second, taking in everything I said. And then he leans in. His palm cups my cheek as his fingers card through my damp hair.

"You are beautiful, Elisa. Never forget," his thumb lightly traces over the top of my cheek.