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The first time Deanna Winchester (named for her grandmother, of course, as neither parent hesitates to mention when someone compliments the name) gets compared to Mary, she's not even old enough to understand the passing joke that’s made. She’s sat on a chair by daddy swinging her legs as she hums off-key songs that daddy likes as she pours every ounce of focus on colouring in all the lines.
“Hey, you never know- maybe the next rugrat might actually be yours rather than a clone.” Daddy’s boss jibes John, and Deanna looks up as John barks but genuine laugh. They both shared a love of the old sci-fi movies and it wasn't the first time he’d made a clone or pod-person joke. Hell, John had made a couple himself, out of earshot of Mary who pointed out the green eyes and the stubborn streak as reminders that it’s not just her in the child. They lacked the brown in the hazel, but those eyes were definitely closer to his than hers.
“Yeah, that apple sure ended up falling close to her momma’s tree, that’s for damn-”
“Wha's ‘next’, Daddy?” Deanna asks with curiosity.
John fights the panic that wants to strip his face of colour as the question cuts through his good humour. Mary would kill him for not waiting to tell her together that she was going to be a big sister. He schools his face, and wipes a greasy hand on his leg before ruffling the shoulder length blonde waves. Deanna giggles as she tries to duck away, as John smoothes the situation with- “He means later. Me and mommy already got our hands full with you, kiddo. How’s that picture coming?”
The distraction works, between attempted perceived dirtying of her hair and the redirect, Deanna scowls as she throws her little body over the picture. “‘Snot done! No peekin’!”
“Alright, alright.” John holds his hands up, chuckling. “Daddy’s gotta get back to work anyway. Keep your secrets.”
A little tongue poles out in concentration as crayons work furiously. John drags a hand down his face as soon as the car is obscuring him from his way too sharp kid, whilst simultaneously patting himself on the back for his quick thinking. He finds himself chuckling at the offhanded joke again, and how much shit it nearly just got him in. Definitely wasn’t him she got that perception from, either. Definitely just like her mom.
***
The next time someone comments on it that really stands out, Deanna’s watching flames tear down the short little life she’d lived so far. The fireman is handing her a bit of paper now Daddy’s got Sammy, giving her a soft smile. “Thought you might want this. You sure do look pretty like your mom, huh?” There’s no response to the attempted reassurance and comfort. Just small fingers grabbing for the paper like it may spontaneously combust too.
Why isn't mommy coming out too?
***
It’s several months and many, many bottles of whiskey later that it’s brought up again. He smelled like he did after the last fight he and mommy had. Sammy was fussing, Deanna wasn’t able to find words to say to make him calm or to let Dad know it would be okay because not okay not okay notokaynotoka-
“Deanna Winchester, you make that baby shut the hell up, I swear...”
She scrambles into the cot with a bottle, trying to get the baby to quieten. Daddy had a mean streak when he smelled like this, and she just wanted mommy to come back and for daddy to be okay and for Sammy to be okay and she didn't understand any of this.
“You might look like her, but you ain’t.” That digs something deep in her belly and her chest but Sammy’s finally calming now the bottle is there and she can’t risk crying, can't risk Sammy crying. John sighs, Deanna thinks Daddy might be crying himself. He does that a lot now, when he smells like the night of his and mom's fights. “You won’t ever be. No? Nothing to say about it?” Daddy’s voice carries a sharp edge of something Deanna’s quickly learning sounds like scared and fire and ceilings. Daddy runs a hand down his face, before standing. “Jesus Christ, John get a grip.” He softens, bends down to be eye level with the child staring almost blankly over the baby's head that she’s pouring all her intense focus into. “Dee, honey? I’m-” he doesn't apologize. Decides that if he doesn't acknowledge that the girl’s silence is scaring the hell out of him, that if he doesn't acknowledge that he just tried to bully a child into talking, then it just didn't happen. Of course, Deanna’s too little to understand any of what’s going on in Daddy's brain, and is just focusing on Samm, and breathing, and definitely not the damp spots on her face that she’s doing her best to hide and scrub away. “-going to bed. We’ll go see that psychic Steve was on about in the morning. Can’t be no weirder than…”
He trails off. If he doesn't acknowledge it, then it didn't happen. But it did, and they’re both burned down ashes in the wind. Like their house would have been.
“Whatever. See if she can figure you out.”
The door to the bathroom slams shut so John can throw up most of what he’s drank before passing out.
***
Almost everyone she meets over the next however long feels the need to make a comment, maybe not immediately but always without fail, about the fact that Deanna’s stubborn streak is the only thing she gets from John. Deanna’s barely six and she’s tired of being compared to a ghost that she can never compare to. Especially as every time, she can see John twitch in some way that implies the comparison upsets him just as much even if she doesn't understand why. Maybe it’s because he doesn't like to be reminded of mommy.
That’s okay, Dee doesn’t like to talk about her either. The memories and one scruffy picture is all she’s got, and she needs to keep it forever. Talking about her hurts, so she doesn't. Normal talking doesn't hurt so much anymore, and daddy seems to relax a bit when she does break her long silences, so she’ll talk about anything else.
She doesn’t mind, really.
***
“Tell me, Dee, what the fuck was going through that head of yours. Now.”
Deanna sits with her head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, stubbornly holding her tongue. The knife sits on the motel coffee table, and blonde waves hacked haphazardly off litter the floor and the bed around her. Nails dig into her palms. She was Nine and sick of the overly friendly strangers - and especially the less friendly strangers - thinking they had the right to touch it without permission. The skeevy motel owner has been the last straw. Deanna suppresses the shudder of the not-so-subtle sniff of his fingers after he’s petted her head. If they didn't need to be here alone for a couple of days, perv may have kept his hands to himself. She’s disgusted by the eyes and hands. The comments when Dad’s not in earshot. Angry that when Dad gets blackout drunk, she catches him fixated on the hair she’s not allowed to have shorter than shoulder-length or longer than the bottom of her shoulder blades. Fed up with having to upkeep it, brush it, tie it up when she does training or bending over school desks lest it fall in her face and bug the crap out of her, drawing her focus away from what she should be doing, stopping her from seeing the full range of her peripheral vision making her vulnerable to eyeshandseyeshan- attack or checking that the room was safe. Tired of being reminded of the perfection that she could never measure up to every time she looks in the mirror.
“Speak.” John spits the order, furious she's -made a decision for herself, stepped out of line, broken her mould- made some kind of harebrained, rash decision that's left a knife in reach of her brother on the nightstand. Sam was asleep, and that is the only reason that she's not being screamed at right now.
“I was gonna put it away when I was done.” She grinds out, refusing to add the implied ‘I’m not stupid’. If John wanted to play that game, she would. They both know the knife’s not what this is about, even if John had gone full bore on her breaking weapon safety. Shotgun in easy reach at all times, but the knife being out the duffel is the issue? Right. And I’m the queen of the Nile. It’s not often Deanna plays stubborn mule to her father, but this wasn't a topic she was willing to roll over and show her belly on. If she’s a target, then Sam, by extension, is not safe. And honestly, she doesn't know if she could survive Dad feeling guilty about something he can’t control, like genetics. Or, worse, if he just didn't care.
“Deanna.” He tries to curtail her with an icy glare, and when she meets his eye with even the merest hint of defiance, he’s crossing the room and striking her. When she flicks her eyes back up without meeting her dad’s own, she catches the glimpse of regret that’s the quickly smothered by the fury. “Try again.”
She won't cry. She won’t give. She won’t break. Not on this. She can’t afford to. Dad should know better than anyone that if you don’t acknowledge it, it just didn't happen. Say it, asshole. The thought stubbornly rises within her, born of pure panic and fear burning icily within her very being. None of it shows as she brings darkly shuttered eyes up to meet his furious face. Nausea churns as she steels herself for the fallout. “No.”
Strike number two stings more than the first, and she knows that Dad’ll be calling her out of school tomorrow ‘sick’. “Are you disobeying orders now? I don’t know where the fuck you picked this attitude up, but it stops yesterday. That’s how you get people killed, or your brother attacked because you can't do what the fuck you’re told.”
The party line. Fall in line, or it's your fault when the shit hits the fan. You can’t be trusted to look after your brother if you can't follow the simplest orders. It’s a low blow, and it hits the core of her as her eyes drop to the hands that she’s pretty sure her nails have drawn blood they’re clenched that tight. But she can’t give this up. Teeth dig into prettiest damn lips I ever did see and the pain distracts from the stinging of her face. The tone that leaves her mouth is a lot closer to despair than she’d care to admit, opting to play dumb rather than defiant. “I don't understand. Weapons are always in reach. Sam was asl-”
The hand grabbing what was left of her hair and pulling her in close speaks the volumes it needed to as it dragged out a pained whimper, doing her best not to wake Sam. God, she hated when Dad drank but all of it had just been too much and he’d come stumbling back earlier than she’d expected, not yet able to clear up her shame or deal with the fall out with a sober John and an awake Sammy to temper the room by just being present. “Your fucking hair, Deanna.”
Mary’s hair. Hair that her dad needed more than she did because she was a splitting image, all Mary no John, to feel anything other than nothing for her, to make sure he could remember that she was his daughter and not just a free babysitter and hunter in training. Soldier. Attack dog.
And now it was out there.
The unspoken thing.
Luckily, John was demonstrating the carefully put together excuse she’d crafted, but that same well-thought out argument shrivelled and died as pain and fear and panic and shame stubborn anger made it fall from her lips much more half-assedly than she thought she would be able to fight for this decision with. “Th-this! I-I-I mean on hunts. Monsters grab sh-”
Something with that argument clicks in John, and her drops her like she suddenly started spontaneously combusting. He wasn't the only one able to hit a nerve, it seemed, but he pointed an angry finger at her. “We’re getting it cut properly. Then you grow it out and keep it how it was, or you won’t like the consequences. You hear me?”
She didn't like the consequences of growing it. “Yes, sir.” But she had a feeling John could cut her deeper than any creep, or well meaning grandma, or monster that was just hungry and fighting for it’s life.
She didn’t slam the door as she went into her’s and Sammy’s room. She definitely wasn’t shaking or feeling tears as she ignored her bed and crawled into bed with her brother to take what small comfort she could. When the younger stirred, she managed to control it all enough to brush his hair softly and whisper in a definitely strong but soft voice “shh. You were having a bad dream.” Stilling him immediately once he readjusted to her curling round him.
She was nine years old, and already held together by duct tape.
***
She’s twelve and three days hungry and desperate because there’s no food, Sam having just ate the last of it, the next time someone makes a comment about it.
“You’re sure about this, kid? Your momma made you damn pretty, but this is-”
“I’m sure.” The mask of emptiness belied nothing of the turmoil she was in as the group of older girls tried their best to dissuade her. They lend her one of their tank tops, it fitting the smaller, skinny girl just shy of being a mini dress. They taught her how to paint to catch attention, without screaming ‘inexperienced whore who’s seen too much TV', tied her hair up to bring attention to her thin frame and sharp shoulders. Dad’s training meant that she'd started developing lean muscle as soon as her body got old enough to realize that was a thing it could do. She couldn’t carry a weapon because it would have been too obvious.
“-em to grab it.”
“What?” Deanna had been stuck in her head and missed a bit of probably vital advice.
“Expect them to grab it. Your hair, I mean.” The girl slipped a purse over Deanna's shoulder. “All good to go. Don’t worry about getting this back to me, I've got a spare.”
“...thanks, Krys.” Deanna sighs softly, steeling herself. “See you around?”
“I mean this in the kindest possible way…. I hope not. I really, really fucking hope not.” Deanna gave her a shy smile, before putting her game face on, and stepping out into the streets.
She decided it was worth it when Sam ate breakfast the next morning, even if she wasn’t able to keep her own down or wash herself clean in the shower as she quietly sobbed. Her hair would never fucking come clean. She didn't look in the mirror on her way back out into the motel room, couldn't bear to see fingers fisted into the most obvious gift given to her by her mother. She was sure she’d see steaks of red or white or grey in her blonde waves.
At least she didn't look like Mom anymore.
***
“That her picture, De?”
“Sammy, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were asleep.” Panicpanicpanicpanicdon’tsayitbecauseyou’retheonlyone-
“Woah. She was pretty.”
“She was.”
“I thought she had to look like you, but it’s kinda… weird to see it.”
No. Please. “Yeah.”
“...are you okay? I didn’t mean weird like-”
“It’s okay Sam. I knew what you meant. Now go to be, ya little freak.” keep it warm, keep it teasing. Keep it normal.
“Okay. Sorry, I know you don’t like talking-”
“It’s a school night. Get your beauty sleep, Samantha.”
“Hey, don’t be a jerk.”
She watched the worry slip off the boy’s face as his unintentional faux pas gets swiftly forgotten - comforted by the teasing that Deanna didn't take it the way he didn't mean it - as he lays back down, quickly passing back into sleep.
***
Angels are watching over you.
Deanna had known that was crap for a while, but right here right now it became screamingly apparent that they were. And they were using her cosmic joke of a life as their Entertainment Weekly. Getting all their fucking yucks from finding newer and lower depths to shove her into. She didn't dare let any flicker of emotion shows her entire being froze and plunged into icy waters of pain and shock.
“Mary.” The whispered, pained sound had come from across the room like a quiet, reverent prayer from the currently half dead and medicated John. Deanna had been sat with her back to him, brushing out the fucking hair that she wasn't allowed to cut off after another too long, too hot shower that was just the standard way she took them these days. She thanked what tiny piece of luck she had that Sam had been left with pastor Jim while they did this hunt together. “Why are you… I missed you…”
A sob escapes John, and Deanna didn't know whether to let the morphine-ridden mistake hang there or to break the medicated revery by leavingscreamingfightingbreaking speaking. She’d known why Dad was so fucking focused on making sure she never wore anything too wrong, to wear her hair too wrong, to force her into a mould of what she should look like, but this just put it right the hell out there, confirmed every nasty theory she had about the matter and meant that the canoe up the river (de)Nile that she was doing her best to toss water over the side of with nothing but a cup crumbled to pieces around her. The world fell away as the sixteen-year old felt waters crashing against her mental walls, searching for any crack to breach and drown her as her oblivious high as a kite father whispered prayers and apologies and shifted the entire fucking dynamic of the relationship that was keeping them both alive.
None of his words registered as Deanna’s brain rebooted.
What does she do?
What she always done. Steels her voice to stop any sign of break or weakness, puts just the right amount of softness to the edge it wants to take, warms the ice from the water with the fire of needing her family to be okay, to stay okay. She puts the hairbrush down softly, as if not to risk breaking the spell. Doesn't dare turn around, though. “It’s okay, John. You’re hurt, and you need to sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
She needs to vomitcutleavebreakscreamfight just get him to stop talking.
“I need to…. D’ya f’give…” the half formed question as already fading into his medicated sleep that he’s fighting and has been for the last five minutes Deanna’s just been doing her best to not vomitcutleavebreakscreamfightdon’tturnaround fall apart.
No. Yes. I don’t know anymore. “You’re doing your best, John. Nothing to forgive. Now sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”
Don’t acknowledge it, then it never happened.
Survive.
The minute the ragged breathing deepens and evens out, she grabs the room key, and she runs. Vomits round the back of the building. Doesn’t scream, as much as she wants to, but does split her knuckle punching the wall. Wipes the tears that have been streaming silently. The pain is good. Welcomed. Distracts. Purifies. Gives her an inch of control over these ashes of an existence that she calls life. Another one splits the other knuckle. She’ll clean them up, they’ll both ignore it, and life will go the fuck on. Like always. But she already knows something irrevocable just happened, and what that means she knows she’s never going to be ready for.
Pulls herself together.
Doesn't look in the mirror.
Doesn’t sleep, keeps vigil over her wounded father.
John doesn’t complain that she threw the morphine away either. Hunter’s helper and Tylenol do John just fine from now on, but Deanna’s going to tell herself he doesn’t remember.
It’s not the first time he's looked at her like the ghost of a dead woman, after all.
***
“Sam’s asleep.” Deanna hisses, pissed that John’s stumbled in noisily off what smells like a three day bender, noisily. She’s had nothing but three weeks of bitching, two weeks of hustling not bringing in enough money in this Podunk town.
She knows the hunts take half the time he’s away these days.
She knows they both know why.
“Then get the fuck outside.” John responds, grabbing Deanna by the arm and pulling her out to him, and by the sheerest base instinct of protect Sam and her Hunter's sense now screaming danger on a higher alert than on any hunt, she manages to grab the door handle and it slams because of the force that John's yanked her out with.
The tense moment of silence listening for movement slips between them, until John decides for them both that enough time has passed for it to be safe.
He passionately kisses the ghost of a dead woman, and she can’t bring herself to push him off of her.
This is what he needs. It’ll help him heal. Forgive himself.
It becomes a mantra, willing herself through it.
That night with the morphine. He needs this. This is something only I can do. This is what he needs. It’ll help him heal. Forgive himself.
She drops herself into work mode as much as possible.
Just another John.
No kissing is one of the main rules. He needs her to break it, so she does.
“John.” She quietly whispers, playing her part as lips have made their way to her neck, worshipping at the temple of a dead woman.
“Mary.” He prays against the soft skin of her neck, calloused hands caging exploring her under the clothing.
No names are rule number two. But he needs her to break it, so she does.
This is what he needs. It’ll help him heal. Forgive himself.
Payment upfront is rule number three. That rule’s kept, but in this case payment is her everything, because that’s what she does with the tatters of her self for the last shreds of her broken family that takesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakestakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakestakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakestakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakestakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakesandtakes is all she has left in the ashes of her world and if they need her to give her everything she will do that she can just have them. Keep them from falling apart so that she can keep herself from falling apart.
She grabs him by the lapel, trying to gain what little control of this situation she can. “Not here. If- if-” she can’t say it. “Sam’s asleep. We’re outside. Not here.”
The mouth paused, the hands freeze and it’s like her words have broken Jack, Jim and José’s spell on him. He pulls back, staring at her like she's a puzzle that won’t fit together. Can’t make a puzzle if you’re missing the pieces. She gestures to the fact they’re outside, the full body shudder of revulsion being played off as just a shiver from the cold. It’s a Mexican standoff, and she wonders who’s going to win. The ghost and the alcohol, or his morals.
As he stumbles towards the motel reception, she feels another piece get stolen away. But she expected nothing less. The ghost of perfection always wins, and she can never hope to measure up.
She isn’t still in the room when John wakes up afterwards to pray to the porcelain throne.
Rule number four is also kept. For both of their sakes.
***
‘If you don’t acknowledge it, it never happened’ should replace ‘Saving people, hunting things’ as the family business’ motto, in Deanna’s opinion.
***
She made peace with never being clean years ago. This is something she’ll never be able to cut out of her, something that she’ll never be able to scar herself with a facade of control with.
The duct tape is becoming thready and strained.
***
The tape is stretching thin under the weight of the manilla envelope in Sam’s bag. The only time she’s ‘Dee’ anymore is when Sam's after something for school or pleading to be left behind for the duration of the hunt. The only time she’s ‘Deanna’ is if she steps out of line. That goes for both people that she’s trying to please and keep together.
She refuses to acknowledge when she’s the ghost of a dead woman, but she knows that is ‘all the time' to at least one man in the room. Like her existence is a spiteful reminder of everything they’ve lost.
She may have helped Sam apply to college, but she'd always dreaded him getting in. He’s the sticky part of the tape keeping her shredded sense of self together, and the tattered ribbons won’t last with the adhesive gone.
She didn't want it to explode like this, though.
Not with a bang, but with a whimper.
And that's worse, somehow.
The one time she controlled when John was praying at his temple was to get Sam what he wanted, what he needed. She had a plan.
John getting a separate room to sleep in for the last few years always been a fifty-fifty point of contention for Sam: either it was the best thing because it gave him and his sister room to just exist without worrying about the man’s impressive shadow, or it was utter hypocrisy that the man wasted money on an unnecessary room when money was ‘tight’ and he should be keeping them both safe and how the fuck was he going to do that when he couldn't keep an eye on them, why the fuck won't you think for yourself Deanna-
She hadn’t let herself think about it. She’d told Sam she was going to go to a bar to give him space to study and don’t wait up and "-try to get at least some sleep so you can function dude." Sam had dismissed her airily, as he so often did these days.
She’d not gone to the bar. She’d gone to the liquor store, and she had a plan. A plan that required John’s three best friends.
She’d let herself into the room under the pretence of talking business, kept the whiskey flowing into one of their glasses readily and kept him distracted from how much of the amber liquid was disappearing. Talk drifted into reminisces, and she knew the plan was hitting go time. She played her part, and eventually-
“I’ve always wondered what you thought me and Sammy would do if we weren’t hunters.”
She phrases it softly, carefully, as she sips her own drink slowly. As he chuckles dryly and drains another three fingers, she knows that the response she gets could make or break this stupid fucking plan that it was now too late to chicken out on.
“Had a college fund for you both set up. Hundred dollars every month until…” he runs a hand through his hair. No anger. Good. She can work with this. She’s also not as stupid as she looks at least fifty percent of the time. She gives him a smirk.
“Until you spent it on bullets?”
John laughs heartily as she tops him up. Yeah, he’s getting there. “Hey. What did you want to be?”
The personal question catches her off guard. They didn't do this, and her soul freezes. No, you don't get to look at her as a person instead of a ghost now, for fuck’s sake. This was entirely not a part of the plan. She gives him an empty smile as she drains her glass. Tops them both off again. “You know me - I’ve always known I was going to be a hunter.”
“Humour me. God knows we don't…. You’re a good kid. Better than I deserve. But none of us want this, after…” there’s no after, dad. Revenge is what you’ve got, then you’re either in too deep, or you’re eating a bullet. Fifty-fifty if it’s your own or someone you’ve pissed off. Hell knows what I'll do then, but that's why I don’t think about after. My job is to keep you and Sam safe, that's all.
The tenuous control she thought she had on this situation is threatening to slip. She decides to acquiesce. “Firefighter. Right up until that werewolf hunt where you got shredded. I’ve always known I was going to be a hunter, but I really made my peace with it as I was burning the body. Doesn’t matter what I want. What matters is keeping you guys safe, looking after Sam, after you. And if I get to save people along the way? Bonus.”
John stares at her, but she doesn’t look up from the glass. A gentle hand tilts her chin up to make her eyes meet his, and she has to stop herself pulling away. Sam needs this to work.
He’s got that look he gets when he's seeing a dead woman again but this time it’s not because he’s blackout drunk or high as a kite. It’s because she didn't get that depth of compassion from him, and they both know it. They crossed uncrossable lines years ago, but this is the first time he whispers “Dee.” With the same reverence as his wife’s name.
She hates it. She also hates that him finally seeing her instead of his mom makes her feel more complete than she has since the night of the fire.
She hates this fucked up relationship.
She hates love.
She hates that she can’t love her father in either way that he wants.
She's going to pay her dues, and sacrifice this last fucking thing to get Sam out and away before they ruin him completely, whether it’s through hunting or through this.
She steels herself, detaches herself mentally, empties her thoughts, and initiates.
John’s gentler than normal.
She hates it.
The plan goes to shit when the door clicks open with the deafening sound of a picked lock. “What the fuck?”
Disgust
Shame
Anger
Hatred
All in the quiet question from her bigger little brother who’d been getting ice and thought he heard sounds of familiar people doing something they never should.
By the time she's thrown enough clothes on to chase Sam back to the room, his duffel’s gone and the manilla envelope is on the bed, only the necessary papers taken out.
She tries to track Sam down.
He paid cash.
He trashed his phone.
He’s gone.
And it’s her fault for ruining him, as she’d feared.