Ashes and Starlight

Not Essie

Every chapter has a sound, and this one hums like a summer night caught between loss and laughter. If you want to feel it the way I wrote it—

🎧 Play Like Real People Do by Hozier while you read.

I let out a sigh so heavy it rattled my chest and sprawled across the bed, staring at a ceiling that belonged to someone else’s house, listening to noises that were half-familiar, half-strange. Yesterday my father had dumped me here like some busted parcel the mailman couldn’t be bothered to shove into the box-so he just left it to rot-and the thought burned through me all over again, bitter anger tightening like shackles I couldn’t shake off. I wasn’t stepping outside this room. Not today. Not tomorrow. Better to suffocate in here and play the martyr than give anyone downstairs the chance to pity me.

The place smelled of old books and motor oil soaked into the bones of the house, of whiskey that had been spilled so many times it practically haunted the wood. Laughter and banter floated up from below, but none of it had anything to do with me.

I traced the thin cracks in the ceiling with my eyes, stubbornly counting them like they might turn into something else, when heavy footsteps creaked up the stairs. Three knocks followed, then a voice-low, gravelly, way too deep for a teenager, laced with awkward nerves-pushed through the door.

“Uh... Essie, right? Bobby says you can’t stay locked in there forever.”

Of course. He couldn’t even get my name right. I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly stuck, shoved myself upright, and yanked the door open.

“It’s Calla. My fucking name is Calla Black.”

And there he was. Dean Winchester. Seventeen, all restless limbs and cocky posture, jeans hanging loose on his hips, a T-shirt stretched across shoulders that hadn’t finished growing into themselves. He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish for all of a second before those green eyes lit with mischief that looked like it had nowhere better to be.

“Right... Calla. Sorry. I’m terrible with names if I don’t have a face to glue them to.” The smirk that followed was pure arrogance. “So... you planning to come out of there sometime this year, or what?”

“Didn’t plan on it.” My brow arched automatically, defiance answering defiance.

He leaned against the frame like he owned the entire house, arms folded in a way that screamed challenge.“Oh, really? Planning to rot in there forever? Bobby’s gonna start charging rent.”“Send the bill to my beloved father.”

The words came out sharp, casual, but the bitterness underneath tasted too strong to miss.

Dean laughed-warm but edged, the kind of laugh you only earned if you already knew what it was to have a father who treated you like collateral.“

Your beloved father, huh? Sounds peachy.”

“Yeah. Picture-perfect hunting bond. He drops me wherever he pleases, Bobby gets the joy of babysitting, and I’m supposed to pretend it’s family tradition.” My smile was sharp, humor dipped in venom.

Dean barked a laugh.“Welcome to the club, dear Calla. Dean Winchester, another one of Bobby’s babysitting cases.”

And just like that, I knew-we were in the same cracked boat. Still, my mouth betrayed me before I could stop it.“I heard another voice downstairs yesterday... there someone else here?”

His grin widened at my slip, but he let it slide.“Good ears. Yeah, my kid brother’s here-Sam. Know-it-all, opinionated little shit, but tolerable when he shuts up long enough.”

For all the grumbling, affection flickered in his eyes. I saw it, though I didn’t call him out-just smirked at myself.“Well, I’m an only child. No sibling to torture or be tortured by. Honestly? Even that sounds better than rotting alone in random places.”

His smirk slipped, replaced by something quieter. Thoughtful.“Then don’t be alone right now. Come downstairs. Sam, Bobby, me-we’re not gentlemen of the year, but we can be halfway entertaining if you squint.”

Something unknotted in my chest, sudden and unexpected. I glanced back at the four walls of my cell, then at Dean. Before I realized it, a smile tugged at my mouth.“You know what? Even a damn toothpick is more interesting than this room. Fine. I’m coming.”

Dean blinked, caught off guard, then smirked again, cocky as ever.“Knew it. Guess I’m not as bad at persuasion as I thought.”

He tilted his head toward the stairs, already moving.“Come on. Let’s go.”

The wooden stairs complained with every step as I followed him down into Bobby Singer’s living room, his stride falling almost in sync with mine, like a shadow that refused to drift too far.

The air downstairs smelled of fried onions and bitter coffee-a dead giveaway Bobby had been reigning over the kitchen all evening.

“Well, look who finally decided to crawl out,” Bobby’s gravelly voice called from the doorway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, eyes glinting with wry amusement.

“Let’s just say someone’s pathetic attempts at persuasion actually worked.” I shot Dean a sideways glance, smirking.

Bobby chuckled, gaze flicking between us. Dean’s smug grin told the whole story without words.“So it was this boy, huh?” Bobby jerked his chin toward Dean.

Dean shrugged, casual as sin, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed pride. Bobby muttered something about stubborn hunters and disappeared back into the kitchen.

My gaze caught on a boy curled into the couch with a heavy book on his knees. Dark hair fell into his eyes, and when he looked up, his brown gaze was softer than Dean’s sharp green.

“Oh, hey-you must be Sam. I’m Calla.”Sam shut the book, setting it down gently before standing. His smile was polite, warm.“Yeah, I’m Sam. Nice to meet you.”

Dean lounged against the wall, arms folded, eyebrows raised, watching like he was waiting for me to slip.

I gave Sam a once-over, then the first thing tumbled out of my mouth.“Damn, what do they feed you? You’re tall.”

He laughed, sheepish, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m thirteen. You?”“Sixteen. Honestly, if I didn’t already know Dean’s the older one, I’d swear it was you.”

Sam smirked, shooting a sideways look at his brother. “Oh, Dean’s made sure I never forget who’s older.”

Dean scoffed, arms folding tighter. “Careful, Sammy. Still older. Still wiser.”

“Sure,” I muttered, lips curling sly. “I can only imagine the mountain of wisdom you’ve stockpiled.”

Sam laughed outright. Dean slapped a hand to his chest in mock offense.“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m the wisest hunter in the business.”

“Really?” Sam shot back. “Then why do you always charge in headfirst without thinking?”

“I do not always charge in headfirst!” Dean’s voice jumped an octave. “That’s called instinct. Hunting instinct.”

Sam grinned wider, twisting the knife. “Instinct? Is that what we’re calling reckless stupidity now?”

“Alright, that’s enough, boys,” I cut in, raising a hand. “I’m not getting stuck in the middle of World War Three.”

My voice was steady, though the twitch at my lips betrayed me.

They both laughed, the tension breaking into harmless noise.

Dean lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. But Sammy started it.”Sam rolled his eyes so hard I thought they’d stick. “Oh sure, blame the little brother.”

I shook my head and headed for the door.“I’m getting some fresh air.”

The screen door squealed shut behind me, leaving the Winchester boys to bicker.

Outside, the summer night wrapped around me like a secret. Crickets hummed in the tall grass, the air thick with honeysuckle and heat.

I didn’t know it yet, but stepping out onto that porch would change far more than the air I breathed.