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The day he brings you back to your house, your father trains a shotgun at your chest from the porch and tells you that you might think its real goddamn funny, but his son is dead and he ain’t never coming back. Your father says, “Bullets might not kill you, but rock salt is gonna hurt like a real fucking bitch.” And you say, dad, please, you say, it’s me, and that’s enough convincing for your father to drop the gun and bound down the porch steps, wrapping one arm around you so tight, you think your heart might explode. That’s enough convincing that when you see Sammy’s head peeking around the corner of the screen door, his wide hazel eyes, the hair that needs to be cut, when you see his open mouth, your knees start to buckle and the tears pour down hot over your freckled cheeks. Your father keeps saying, “Dean, Dean,” and this is the best day of your whole entire life, even better than every day before your mom died, even better than every adrenaline rush from every hunt you’ve been on, every ghost you’ve ever killed.
You father keeps saying, “Jesus.” And “Dean.”
Afterwards, after him and your father and little Sammy that’s looking taller than you are now, so much more grown up, afterwards, well, it’s like you’ve been dropped off onto an entirely different planet. Your house is older than you remember it, but isn’t everything, the lines around your father’s mouth, the dark circles under his eyes, Sammy’s even got what could pass for a five o’clock shadow, and your father cracks open a new bottle of whiskey to celebrate, passing shots around in little Dixie bathroom cups. Your father and his dark eyes, this is for every birthday you never got to spend with him, and Sammy holds his drink close to his stomach, wary, quiet, so much unlike the little curious boy you left behind. You’re older, too, a little taller, but not as muscular as you used to be, and your father tells you so, gives you a jacket to cover up your protruding ribs and says that you can hit weights in the morning because they’ve been hunting a poltergeist lately and you never want to catch one of those off guard if you haven’t got the strength to back it up. Sammy says, “Dad,” his sharp tone, and that’s nothing new, he was even pushing buttons when you were still here, but the small glance to you and the way his eyes look down immediately, well, you’ve never felt like a stranger in your own home before.
Your father says, “Oh.” Says, “Okay, well, we can let you sit this one out, I guess.” Like you’re a goddamn child or something. Like you’re just too fucking fragile.
Your room hasn’t been touched and your father stands there proud, glad that everything has a fine layer of dust, glad that your sheets are still smooth, straight military corners tucked in tight, and the shirts in your closet swing gently on wire hangers in the soft June breeze. Your father, glad that this is some sort of shrine to a boy who never survived, a boy who never made it out, who vanished all those years ago, and the warm whiskey in your stomach starts to turn, disgusted. Your room hasn’t been touched, but your father says, “You don’t have to sleep in here tonight if you don’t want to.” Says, “You can move anything around.” And, “We’ll get you some new clothes in the morning.”
Afterwards, well, your heart still skips a beat every time you see a blue car, every time you see a man with a strong build, dark sunglasses, light hair, every time your father places a hand on your shoulder. Afterwards, your father sleeps in a chair just outside of your room with a shotgun hanging limp in his lap, and when Sammy crawls into your bed at night to curl up beside you, he doesn’t say anything when you turn away from his touch to cry quietly into your pillow. Your father, Sammy, they don’t ask, and you’ll never tell, but Sammy’s hands hovering unsteady over the arch of your spine, they know exactly what he did to you, exactly what power he had because it’s written all over your body, these movements like words, damaged, broken, destroyed. These movements like the screams you hold in at night, ripping bed sheets and pillows with your teeth, scratches in the wooden headboard above you, crescent moons in your palms.
Sammy says, “Was his name Jamie?” His hands over you, his whisper in the dark, Sammy’s lips are right next to your ear, not touching, but close enough that you feel his heat, his breath, and you’re shivering, but you don’t even know why. You can feel Sammy’s gaze on your back, your withered body, your broken mess. Sammy says, “You say it in your sleep.” And, “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie.”
Sammy says, “We just want to find him.” Sammy says, “Anything you can remember, really. Anything you can do to help us.” And, “That’s his name, right? Jamie?”
Afterwards, after he drops you off on your front porch, his hands lingering on the skin of your back, pushing you forward, the sweet sun that graces your freckled face, the way he smiles against the back of your neck, says, “Time to go, Dean.” Says, “Time to get back to your life.” That feeling of butterflies in your stomach, the regret of his hands leaving you, that last kiss, his lips just underneath your hairline as he tells you that he’ll miss you, as he lies to you for the very last time, afterwards, you’ll lay in the dark with Sammy by your side and wish that you could have just stayed gone. The day he brings you back to your house, to your family, well, four years has changed everything, and maybe you were never supposed to come back anyway, no matter how many times you begged with a mouth that was kiss swollen, that was cherry red with blood, no matter how many times you might have wished and prayed. Four years has changed everything and you have this feeling that this was your old life, no matter that you were stolen from it, no matter that you never had a chance to say goodbye. You have this feeling that this is your old life and you’ve kicked and screamed and cried your way back into it, only to find that you don’t fit anymore, that this isn’t you.
You have this feeling that Jamie was your savior and you didn’t even know it.
***
Sammy doesn’t mind that you flinch every time he touches you, which is a good thing because he does it a lot. A hand on your back when you lay on your bed, brushing up against you in the car, his knee grazing against yours, his shoulder bumping into you as you both brush your teeth before bed, his fingertips gentle across your forearm, telling you to look his way.
Sammy doesn’t mind because he’s the only one who does it.
Because, sometimes, your father can’t even be in the same room.
***
He sees you outside in the empty sandlot, practicing swings with your imaginary baseball bat, pitches with your imaginary ball, and he smiles to say hello, his perfect mouth, his perfect teeth. You’re fourteen years old, old enough to realize that your family is cursed, young enough to still follow your father’s every command, even when he tells you to walk Sammy to the library after school just to make sure he gets there okay. He sees you and smiles with all his teeth and, really, the funny thing is, maybe if your father was a little more worried about you, a little less worried about Sam, well, just maybe you never would have even met Jamie.
He sees you and the next thing you know, there’s a knife dangerously close to the skin of your throat, his arms around you, his mouth against your ear, his soft voice, his warm breath, and you’re thinking, really, if only you had paid more attention to your father’s self-defense lessons. If only your head wasn’t filled with Latin and holy water and bullets made of rock salt. He says, “Careful.” Says, “Don’t move.” And, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He says, “Careful, Dean.” And you’re thinking, how does he know your name?
Because, see, the funny thing is, you’re used to monsters.
He says, “I don’t want to.” Says, “But I will not hesitate to slit your throat.” And, “Careful, Dean.”
You’re on the move for two, three full days just to get a couple states between you and Kansas, you and your family. Later, you’ll cry as you tell your father that you hardly put up a fight, your broken sobs, your father’s shaky hand hovering above your shoulder, Sam will look worried and sad and not know what to do, lingering by the doorway. Later, your father will promise you that it’s okay, that nothing was your fault, but you and Sammy, well, you’ll know that he’s lying. You’re on the move, and Jamie has you laying down on the floor of the backseat, padded with blankets and pillows and empty beer bottles, rolling with every start, every stop. You get to three thousand Mississippi before you lose count, exhausted, darkness taking you, and Jamie’s soft voice saying, “Almost there, Dean.”
Saying, “Almost there.”
You’re on the move for two, three full days and the next time you open your eyes, Jamie’s laying over you, hands and arms and legs wrapped around your body, fingertips gliding soft against your hair line, saying, “Welcome to Texas, sleeping beauty.” His lips ghosting across your freckled face, the soft drop of your nose, his hair tickling your chin, Jamie saying, “Welcome home.”
***
Sammy asks, “What does he look like?” Asks, “What color are his eyes?” And, “What about his hair?” His sad, sympathetic eyes, the way his voice is low, quiet, these careful non-threatening words, this careful non-threatening speech, like you’ll break if he starts to push. His hands touching you, soft, square, cold, these light touches, he’s saying, “He’s never coming back.” And, “He’ll never hurt you again.”
Your father won’t look you in the eye, and Sam’s saying, “You don’t have to be afraid, we’ll protect you.” And, “He’s never coming back to get you again.”
The funny thing is, your lips can’t even move to tell him that that’s what you’re afraid of.
***
Home is the basement of a four-story Victorian, out of place and breathtaking in the Texas heat, white and beautiful, baby blue shutters, wraparound porch, square windows with a view of the cornfields and the only escape, a long stretch of gravel facing North. It’s a town of low-income Ranchers, but the nearest neighbor is two miles away, so Jamie lets you scream all you want, white teeth and bloody lips, the sounds that rip from your throat, and the only answer is his laughter, sweet and sharp.
Home is rules and dark and cold, the slow drip of the hose into your water bucket, the dirty mattress in the corner, the raggedy blanket that you pull weakly around your shoulders, shivering hard in the night. Home is being punished every day for the rest of your life, the scrapes and bruises and welts around your wrists, the snagged elbows, the bleeding fingers, home is Jamie and his hands on you forever, pressing, pushing, stroking, his hands and your heat.
Jamie says, “I know this isn’t the best, baby, but it’s all I got,” his heavy hand on your hair, tightening and pulling back, his lips on your throat. Jamie says, “I’m sorry it’s so barbaric,” the cold concrete floor, the way you cry as you wet your bed during the night, the warm tears on your cheeks, the rush of fluid between your thighs, Jamie will give you a black eye in the morning, but some part of you wants that taste of blood in your mouth. And, “Don’t worry.” And, “You’ll learn to like it.”
You dream of your father and your little brother, rescue and love and warmth, your father’s gruff voice, the smell of his aftershave, the whiskey on his breath, you dream of the home you used to know, demons and Bibles and spells, rock salt and holy water, until one day you close your eyes and all you see is Jamie. Saying, “You’re mine, baby, and there ain’t no one to take you away from me.” Saying, “You’re home now.” And, “I love you.”
He takes pictures of you, skinny, tired, and cold, your pale skin, your sorry excuse for a body, withered muscles, dark bruises, and sleeps with them underneath his pillow in the bed you’d sometimes share. You’re doe-eyed and sad and he strokes each picture like it’s the real thing, warm and soft and weak, touches each picture and rolls his eyes upward, breathes shallow, moans your name. Later, your father will ask you if he ever touched you, if he ever even tried, and you’ll lie and say it wasn’t like that. You’ll lie and snort and sneer your upper lip, say, “It wasn’t like he was some sort of faggot, Dad.” And, “He was just…” But you’d get stuck on the “He was just” part, wouldn’t be able to think quick enough, wouldn’t know what to say, and your father will take a deep breath and go into his bedroom, eyes swollen and red, shutting the door behind him. Later, you’ll never be able to look at your father without feeling Jamie’s hands on you.
He takes pictures of you, and, later, much later, you’ll open the door one day and find a dirty envelope on the front porch with your name written in Jamie’s handwriting on the front, this slow, smooth cursive that runs like water. And, later, much later, Sammy will complain and say that he’ll never be able to get the smell of burnt Polaroids out of his clothes.
***
The night your father decides to leave Kansas, he shouts at you and Sammy to pack everything you need in a duffel bag, a mass of clothes and books and Sammy’s stickered laptop, grabs your arms hard enough to bruise, and pulls you out into the dark. You stand in the snow, white tee shirt and your pajama pants tucked into black boots, and watch as your father throws match after match through the kitchen window, watch as the fire sparks and dies and sparks again, red and orange and yellow against the wooden floor. You know this is some sort of message to Jamie, the way the fire flickers in your father’s eyes, the way he stands lock jawed, arms crossed, stiff against the cold winter wind, you know this is some fucked up way of starting over again.
The night your father decides to leave Kansas, he shuffles you both into the Impala, Sammy’s dirty face, tear stained, as he watches the smoke rise, your father saying, “We didn’t want to leave a trail behind.” Saying, “We need a clean slate.” And, “I never liked that old house, anyway.”
And you and Dad and Sammy move from town to town, shedding these old wounds like skin, leaving behind memories, claiming back your old lives. And, later, much later, as your father lays dying in this broken mess beneath your bloody palms, his cracked ribs, these ribbons of blood on his cheeks, you’ll cry and plead and ask him to stay with you, and he’ll just say, “I wanted you to feel safe.” Sammy and his gun shots made of rock salt, he’ll be screaming, and the demon will be laughing, and your father will say, “I wanted you to stop hurting.” And, “They’ll never find him.”