"Let's start off with an easy question." The therapist smiled. "What's your name?"
"Carrie." I answered.
"Depends who you ask."
"What is your surname, Carrie?" The therapist pushed.
"Winters, but I'm known as Singer."
"And why are you known as Singer?"
"Cause' that's my Dad's surname." I stated.
"Not your real father's though. Any reason why you adopted that surname instead of keeping the surname you had for so many years?"
"You called him your Dad, why give him that title?"
"Why'd you think?" I answered.
"I'm asking you." The therapist replied.
The mention of Bobby was already starting to bring back painful memories, but I knew I couldn't allow myself to breakdown because of them, not here anyway. I had to stay strong.
"You came here for help, Carrie, and I can't help you unless you open up." The therapist explained.
"I didn't want to come here at all..." I muttered under my breath.
"But yet, here you are." The therapist stated. "Which tells me that you're not doing this for you, you're doing it for someone else. A friend? Boyfriend, maybe?"
"Look..." I began. "This whole 'talk about your feelings' thing, it's crap."
"Why is that?" The therapist asked.
I didn't say anything.
"Or is it because you feel that you can't be helped?"
"Does this normally work with your patients? Get them to open up and tell stories around the campfire?" I stated in a mocking tone.
"People come here to talk, because they feel that they desperately need someone to open up to that won't judge them." The therapist paused. "Now obviously there is someone out there that you care about, deeply, because like I said before, you've actually showed up to the session. Now this person cares about you, and they have felt that you need to see someone, because you've obviously been through something in your life that has had a negative effect on you, and they want you to get better." The therapist leant back in his chair. "Everyone has their dark spots."
I scoffed once again. "My dark spots are pretty dark."
"Tell me about them."
This guy is determined.
The therapist opened a file and began reading over it. "Carrie Winters, 19. Daughter of Mitch and Natalie, both deceased. Killed in a car crash on September 27th, 1997. You were 15 at the time. You were injured too in the accident, but pulled through with little more than some bruises and a scar below your ear. The time between the car crash and 1999 is unknown. You were under the radar of the CPS, and only came back onto it when you enrolled at Sioux Falls High, now with a new address and parental guardian, a Mr Robert Singer, also deceased. Died of a stroke two years ago. You were 17. While attending Sioux Falls High, you lost a close friend. Wolfe Dietrich. Died of cancer on January 1st, 2000." The therapist looked back over at me. "Your friend Mr Winchester has included some extra notes on this record. I could read through them too...unless you would like to tell me yourself."
"Where d'you want me to start?" I asked.
"How about we start at the beginning?" The therapist suggested. "Specifically, your parents. Did you have a good relationship with your parents?"
I was a bit reluctant to answer.
"It's alright, Carrie. I'm not here to judge."
"Not really." I answered.
"They were never there, and when they were, we would always fight."
"Who would fight?"
"Me and my Dad." I stated. "We argued about everything. Hell, we were arguing the day they died."
"Have you ever told anyone that before?"
I shook my head. "No."
"So you were arguing the day they died?"
The therapist nodded and began taking notes.
"We were arguing in the car."
"We had been arguing the night before, and he got so angry that he rang some family friends and arranged for me to stay with them for a while. I brought it up in the car, and we started arguing about it. The last thing I ever said to him was that I hated him." I paused. "Then the truck hit us."
"What can you remember about what happened after the truck hit you?" The therapist asked.
"The car started spinning, then I was thrown from it." I paused. "I can remember shouting for them, but I didn't get a reply. I called 911, then I must've passed out. The next time I became aware, I was in an ambulance, then after that, I must've passed out again because the next thing I can remember is being at the hospital. I could hear them talking. They were shouting about how they were losing me..." I paused. "At one point, they gave up." I paused once again. "'Give up, the kid's gone'. I remember one of them saying. They nearly called it, turned me off. Then I luckily came back." I explained. "Once I was in recovery, they told me about my parents. I didn't really know how to feel at first. A part of me wanted it to just be a dream, like I would just wake up from this crazy Wonderland at any moment. But I never did, and it hit me like a bag of rocks when I realised that I was an orphan." I paused once again. "I didn't like that word."
"Did you attend the funeral?" The therapist asked.
I shook my head. "I wouldn't have been welcome."
The therapist raised an eyebrow, curiously. "To your own parents funeral?"
"My Auntie hated me." I stated. "Not that it mattered anyway, I was pretty messed up after I was discharged. I didn't know what to do. I dropped out of school, moved out of the house."
"So where did you live?"
"Anywhere." I answered.
"So how did you come to meet Mr Singer?"
"Bobby." I stated. "He's called Bobby." I explained.
"Okay then, how did you meet, Bobby?" The therapist asked.
"I...got into some trouble at the diner in town, and Bobby helped me out." I stated. "It had been one of those bad weeks when I just couldn't find anywhere to stay or squat. I'd been shood off half of the shop doorways in Sioux Falls, and nearly got caught by the cops for squatting. I also hadn't been able to gather any money together. Usually, you'd find a few coins lying around, but in that week, I'd found nada. I hadn't eaten in three days, so I was starving, and desperate."
"Going back to what we were discussing before, why do you call Bobby your Dad?"
"Because to me, he was. Yeah, I didn't know him for that long, but in the time that I did, he was more of a Father to me then mine ever was. He loved me, and I loved him." I smiled. "In some ways I regret what I did that day in the diner, but out of that experience, I met Bobby, Sam and Dean."
The therapist looked down at his notes and nodded. "Okay, so Sam, tell me about him."
"Sam's my brother, and my best friend." I smiled. "He's always been there for me."
"Dean is..." I paused. "was..." I corrected. "My boyfriend." I explained. "He's Sam's older brother."
"Why did you break up?" The therapist asked.
I didn't answer.
"Okay..." The therapist looked over at me. "How did you feel when you and Dean split up?"
"How would you describe yourself?" He asked.
"Cursed." I scoffed.
"Because everyone around me dies." I stated.
"Sam, Dean and Jess haven't died, and they've been around you." The therapist stated.
"It's only a matter of time, trust me." I leant back into the seat.
"You don't strike me as someone who is cursed, Carrie, just someone who is silently suffering and unwilling to let anyone in to help." The therapist leant forward. "Carrie, you must be able to see that this isn't healthy. Keeping everything locked away, no person should have to deal with that alone. Now, you have friends, and according to this, you have another parental guardian."
"John." I answered.
"Sam and Dean's father?"
"You have a good relationship with John?"
"Yeah, he's like a Dad to me too."
The therapist smiled. "Three father figures, aren't you lucky."
"Yeah, I am." I nodded.
"Could you talk to John about this?"
"He's not really the pour your heart out kinda' guy."
"That's not what I asked." The therapist stated. "Could you talk to John about this, and as a father figure, he would listen?"
"Then why don't we start there."
I opened the door of the apartment and walked in.
"Carrie?" Sam called.
"Yeah, it's me." I answered.
He walked into the living room. "How was your meeting with the therapist?"
"A waste of time, just as I said it would be."
"Carrie..." Sam began.
"It was. I don't know what else to say to you, Sam, but talking to some guy I don't know about my feelings just doesn't work for me."
"So my chances of getting you to actually go to your next meeting?" Sam asked.
"I'm not going back to therapy, I would rather French kiss a fucking Wendigo!" I walked off into my room and closed the door.