REVIVE ▸ d. winchester [2] ✔

Chapter 44

Jackie spent a surprisingly short amount of time showering herself, scrubbing away the sweat and the dirt and the stuffy smell of the jail from her skin. She did, however, take her time standing in the bathroom, air drying her hair as she found her fingertips running across the soft skin of her stomach.

It had been a few days since she had noticed the change. While the injuries she had sustained before her time with Azrael had previously been healed with no inclination of ever having happened, in the weeks she had been on the run, the damage seemed to have been reversing. Surprisingly there was no physical pain as the scars began reappearing, simply changing her smooth skin to darker, distinct scar tissue. Where the blade of Azrael's sword had cut through her so many months ago, a faint line was growing along her abdomen. With each day, it seemed to grow larger.

The same could be said for her entire body. Small scrapes and bruises seemed to be appearing out of nowhere, but each of them told a story of how the girl had recieved them. Each and every one of them reappeared, all but one, and this puzzled Jackie.

No black marks were apparent on her neck, carefully lining her hairline as she expected it to. The tattoo-like scar that Azrael used to claim the girl never showed, but Jackie wasn't disappointed. She could accept the other scars, but not that one.

Tearing her eyes away from her scars, Jackie quickly threw the grey shirt Dean had leant her over her head. While the shirt was certainly too large for her- reaching past the ends of the running shorts she had been wearing- she was grateful for the feeling of soft cotton and the welcoming scent the shirt brought her.

Soon enough, Jackie found herself sitting upon her bed, legs folded underneath her. With her backpack's contents spilled out in front of her, she was once again reminded of the importance of her doing laundry, and soon. Even Zeke, who had somehow found his own spot on the bed amongst the cluttered mess, appeared to agree. While she didn't have much clothing to begin with, it seemed that every article she owned had been permanently creased from their confinement in the bag. Laundry, she decided, had become her next priority. The mundane task was very much so welcomed.

Jackie was soon distracted, however, by the black chest sitting atop her desk, right where Dean had left it. It didn't take more than a few moments for her to clear off her bed, making a disshevled pile of laundry on her floor, and to place the chest on her bed. Unlatching the metal locks, her hands eagerly lifted up the lid, its hinges creaking slightly.

Inside, she finds an array of familiar objects. On top, her father's hunting journal. The distinct handwriting shot out at her as she flipped through the pages, her eyes reading a mix of both english and german. She even recognized some of her grandfather's writing, the family history having been recorded thoroughly in the pages. While she had yet to give her own accounts in the journal, the blank pages at the end were tempting. She certainly had her own story to tell, as the last remaining Kaiser.

Setting the journal aside, she continues to pull out a handful of silver blades, knives, and even a pistol, one she recognized to have been a family heirloom. Her father's grandfather's, she remembered being told. The gun had likely not been shot in decades, and despite a half dozen bullets sitting with the pistol in the chest, she doubted it would be shot again any time soon.

Underneath the gun, tucked between a pair of old spine-bound books, she finds a familiar piece of paper. It was perhaps the newest object in the chest, but the edges were already tearing. Jackie knew what the single page read before she even picked it up, but unlike the last time she held the paper in her hands, she felt no wave of sadness or remorse wash over her.

Instead, as she unfolded it and let the black ink flow off the page and into her heart. A small, gratified smile quickly grew upon her lips. Her father was never an emotional man, choosing to show his approval and his care through his work and support rather than with his words. Yet as she read the writing with a new persepective- one that followed the final destruction of the man who had torn her father's life apart- she found the words much more comforting than she ever would have imagined.