AN: I am so sorry. You have no idea. I don't know what happened. I went through a painful break up with SPN this year so that probably had something to do with it, but that's no excuse. I took a break, then I took a longer break, and then suddenly it was summer of 2014 and I hadn't updated in forever and I am just...so unbelievably sorry.

But I'm here now.

Please forgive me. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Teen Wolf or any of the characters you recognize.

she said she collects pieces of sky

Written by Becks Rylynn

Part Six:

i'm your lionheart

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and in the sea that's painted black
creatures lurk below the deck
but you're a king and i'm a lionheart
- of monsters and men; king and lionheart

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As soon as they officially move into the bunker, Dean starts looking at nearby schools for Lydia. Correction: Dean starts obsessively looking at nearby schools for Lydia.

For about two weeks, while they're getting acquainted with the bunker, he is like a man on a mission, making phone calls and doing research and disappearing at random times during the day to go drive by the schools like he's casing them, deciding which one would be safer. It is Lydia who eventually has to break the news to him that enrolling her in any school - especially a private school, which he has decided is the best idea - is not something that is feasible right now. He looks crestfallen, shoulders slumping in defeat, excitement draining out of his eyes. His fingers are still curled protectively around the stack of papers, fresh from the printer, that he had been so excited to show her. They're full of information on local private schools and there's a highlighter in his mouth, ready to highlight fascinating courses and tuition fees that they could never afford in a million years.

But he accepts it. Or at least he stops actively talking about it. She's quite certain he's still planning something for some time.

Dean neatly tucks the dream away in his new room, behind the books he acts like he doesn't read and the typewriter he pretends he doesn't use, but before he does, he makes one last ditch effort to give her a slice of normalcy. It goes... About the way you'd expect for them.

There may or may not be shenanigans.

Because, you see, while Dean is off trying to carve out just a little bit of a real life for her, Lydia is trying to reclaim her agency and fix what has been broken inside of her. Contrary to what some people believe, she does know how to live. Her mind, her memories, her life has been tampered with, yes, but she hasn't forgotten what life is in general. She doesn't remember her family or her friends or where she came from; she doesn't know if she's ever been in love or what her tastes her regarding fashion, literature, music and entertainment.

But she knows all of the holidays.

She knows all of the different types of religions, she knows the periodic table of elements, and she knows that recycling is good for the earth. She recognizes the Kardashians on the television, their names bleeding into her memory, maybe from a life of flipping through tabloids, and when she hears a familiar song playing on the radio, she knows that it's a Daughter song, perhaps telling her she was a fan. She starts watching The OC on Netflix and it takes her an entire season to realize that there are lines of dialogue that she seems to know by heart and when she gets to the part where Marissa dies at the end of the third season, it takes her a full day to realize that the reason she is not shocked and saddened by the plot twist is because somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that it was going to happen.

With that said, there is a lot she doesn't know as well.

She doesn't know she's allergic to shellfish until she wakes up on the sticky floor of the Red Lobster that she forced Dean and Sam to take her to with paramedics hovering over her. She doesn't realize that things such as Advil, Tylenol and aspirin exist until Dean presses an Advil into her palm when she gets a headache after reading in the car and says, ''For the pain.'' The first time she gets her period after coming home from Purgatory and it's human condition suppressing environment, she panics and comes this close to demanding Dean take her to the hospital because obviously her body is literally falling apart and she's dying before she remembers, ''oh, yeah, this is normal.'' (And thank God she remembers before she tells Dean, because that would have been one hell of an awkward and embarrassing conversation.) And she has absolutely zero knowledge of what high school is like.

She is a mess of instinctively knowing some things and re-learning most. So maybe that's why she ends up agreeing to this. Maybe it's not about just getting him to shut up about school already, Dean.

Maybe it's just about re-learning.

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See, one day, a few days before she has to sit him down and tell him that school isn't an option right now, Lydia reluctantly accompanies Dean to the local public high school.

They get a tour, meet a teacher or two, and she sits fidgeting in a chair in the principal's office with her eyes narrowed as the principal goes on and on about the extracurricular activities they offer, all the while shooting disapproving looks at Dean and his ripped jeans and Lydia and her short skirt because they were ''not what she was expecting'' and also because ''my, isn't that an interesting skirt, dear.'' After about twenty minutes of the principal blabbering about things like AP classes and clubs and the dress code (which she mentions with a pointed glance at Lydia's bare legs), Lydia is asked to go wait outside while the principal talks to ''her father.''

Which she does, thank you very much. She sits outside the office silently and awkwardly, trying very hard not to notice the way the school secretary keeps looking at her with half assed cheerful smiles. But there is an unfortunate kind of discomfort that comes along with just being inside a school. Part of it is simply because she has no memories of being inside a school and she has no idea how she's supposed to act or what she's supposed to do, but there's something else as well. Something that feels familiar. Like a mix of dread and boredom and fear. She sits there for as long as she can, doing her best to be still, biting her tongue and idly scratching at her wrist, which itches horribly for some reason, and then she just can't do it anymore.

She jumps to her feet, hooks her purse on her wrist, and says to the secretary, ''Can you please tell my, um, dad that I'm going to wait for him outside?'' She escapes before she even gets a nod in response.

She doesn't go outside. Instead, she heads down the empty hallway, the click of her heels echoing through the hall. The principal's office is on the second floor of the school and in an effort to get as far away as possible from Principal Dress Code, she heads downstairs to the main hallway. It's a strange feeling. To be standing in a high school. She assumes that she has been in a school before and she assumes that, in her old life, whatever kind of life that was, she probably knew her place at school. She probably knew what to do. She has no idea what to do here. She moves slowly, brushing her fingertips over the cool metal of the lockers as she goes, humming The Beatles under her breath.

She drifts aimlessly until she gets to the trophy case, and then she stops. She tilts her head to the side and presses her fingers against the cool glass, leaning in close to survey the names and faces of all the past school champions. She wonders, idly, what happened to them. What becomes of the high school heroes? Where are they now? She leans down, hair falling in her face, to look at all of the faces in the pictures, smiling and proud. She can't help but wonder if she was ever like those smiling faces. Is her face in some school's trophy case? Is her smile haunting some hallway somewhere? Was she a high school hero? Did she, once upon a time, know what she was doing here?

Lydia stands straight and folds her arms over her chest, still staring blankly at all the trophies and memories.

It is only when she hears the word ''hero'' drift down the hallway to her that she moves. She follows the voice, heels clicking, and soon finds herself standing in the open doorway of what looks to be an English class. Her heart constricts and her mouth dries when she sees the sea of kids her own age, a surge of anxiety flooding through her, but the question the teacher is asking his class is too fascinating to pass up on.

''What makes a hero?'' He is asking, and she can hear the words Heroes & Villains scrawled on the outdated chalkboard. ''Heroes and heroines have been staples of the literary world since the literary world began,'' he's saying. ''Even as the times change and reader's tastes changes, the call for heroes is still loud and clear. Almost every book ever written has a hero. Why is that? What is it that makes someone a hero? What is that singular ingredient that every hero has? Is there a singular ingredient?''

One girl says, ''Good looks.''

A boy in the back says, ''A cape.''

Lydia, hovering in the doorway, unseen, blurts it out before she can stop herself, ''Tragedy.''

Every eye in the room swings over to her and she instantly regrets opening her mouth. She's not entirely sure why. She is not a shy person, that is one thing that she knows. It's just that these are all teenagers. People her own age. She's hasn't really been around people her own age. She has no idea how to relate to them. And from what she's seen on TV, teenagers are really only good for one thing: Creating drama.

The teacher - early forties, kind of handsome actually - doesn't seem to sense any of her nerves. He grins and leans back against his desk. ''Tragedy,'' he echoes, hugging his copy of Les Miserables to his chest. ''Interesting. Care to elaborate, Miss...?''

''Lydia,'' she says, and has no idea why she's still talking. ''Lydia Martin. And I...'' She should go. She should apologize for disrupting class, go find Dean and get the hell out of here. She doesn't do any of that. ''Heroes and tragedies go hand in hand,'' she says confidently, chin up, avoiding the gazes of the teens and focusing only on the teacher. ''Often times, they're born from it. It's why they're heroes in the first place. Because someone killed their family or their love or whatever. Tragedy and guilt and loss. Those are the things that every hero has. I mean, just look at Batman, right?'' There are a few chuckles from the class. Lydia barely hears it. She shrugs. ''It's like what F. Scott Fitzgerald said: Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy.''

The teacher - the name plate on his desk reads, Mr. Harper - is still grinning.

''Personally,'' she tosses her mane of fire over her shoulder. ''I find the whole concept of heroes and heroines to be a bit played out.''

Mr. Harper raises his eyebrows, looking intrigued. He pushes off the desk and places the book back on the desk. ''Really? What makes you say that?''

She shrugs. ''Writers pile so much hurt and suffering onto these men and women that by the end of the book or movie or whatever, you're so emotionally exhausted for the character and their plight that you start thinking that maybe the only happy ending that exists for them is death. At least then they would be free of it all and be able to rest. Which strikes me as amazingly, unnecessarily grim,'' she wrinkles her nose. ''Nobody wants to root for a beloved character to die. But with heroes...'' She pauses and looks down at the dirty, dusty floor, licking her lips. ''Heroism hurts,'' she states boldly, lifting her head, chin up, eyes wide. ''It's nothing but pain and misery, not only for the heroes, but for the people around them. And, quite frankly, life is depressing enough without having to feel so deeply for someone fictional.'' As soon as she's done, she becomes painfully aware that the entire class is staring at her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices one girl lean over to her friend and whisper something in her ear. The two girls dissolve into quiet giggles and snickers. Lydia startles herself by not giving a single fuck. Her cheeks don't heat up in embarrassment and she doesn't narrow her eyes. Instead, her red painted lips quirk up into a half smile and she feels a twinge of pride in her chest that has her breathing speeding up quite pleasantly. She levels the girls with an even stare until they notice her and doesn't stop staring until their smiles waver and they focus their attention back to the front of the class.

Mr. Harper laughs, not unkindly. ''You make a fascinating point, Ms. Martin. Please,'' he gestures towards an empty desk at the front of the class. ''Take a seat. I'd love to hear your opinions on villains.''

Lydia freezes in the doorway. She opens her mouth to protest, to say that maybe she shouldn't - and she knows she shouldn't; she should go back to Dean. She should go home. This isn't her life. She doesn't have time for this to be her life. But she doesn't say that. She doesn't say any of that. She hurries farther into the classroom, heels clicking, and she takes a seat. She fits at the desk, one leg crossed over the other, eyes to the front, in a way she didn't expect she would. The girls start up again, whispering and smirking, and a few of the boys keep sending her bare legs hungry looks, but she doesn't care. They are not of import in the slightest. She keeps her eyes on Mr. Harper and listens to him talk about villains, words already forming in her head.

She could belong here. In this world. This normal life. She could rule this life.

She spends the rest of the class participating more than any of the other students in the class. She raises her hand, answers literary questions she didn't know she had the answer to, and debates with another student over the difference between an anti-hero and a villain. She enjoys herself. By the time the bell rings, she doesn't want the class to ever end. Only when she sees Dean hovering in the doorway, looking awkward as teenagers rush past him, does she snaps out of it.

Lydia gets to her feet slowly, looking around the room wistfully. This is not her life. She does not belong here. ''So, Ms. Martin,'' Mr. Harper says her name before she can slip out the door and she stops in her tracks. Dean has fought his way through a swarm of teenagers eager to get to lunch and is converging on Lydia. Undoubtedly, a conversation will be struck up between him and Mr. Harper. She has no escape. ''Is today your first day?'' Mr. Harper asks.

''Oh, uh, no,'' Lydia smoothes down her dress so she has something to do with her hands. ''I'm not actually a student here.''

''But she might be,'' Dean says, coming to stand next to her. ''Soon.''

Lydia clenches her fists until her nails dig into the palm of her hand. ''Um, Mr. Harper, this is Dean.''

''Dad,'' Dean corrects.

She blinks up at him. ''What?''

''My name is Dad,'' he stresses.

She stares at him, wrinkles her nose, and waits for him to realize what he's just said. He doesn't. Of course. ''Right,'' she turns back to Mr. Harper. ''This is my dad, Dean.''

''We're new to the area,'' Dean says.

''Well, we'd certainly be lucky to have you,'' Mr. Harper tells Lydia. Then, to Dean, with an odd sort of knowing smile, ''You've got a clever girl there, dad.''

Dean looks like a proud soccer dad.

''I hope to see you in my class one day, Ms. Martin,'' Mr. Harper says, offering them one last smile. He excuses himself and, as he's passing, places a hand on Dean's shoulder. It might just be Lydia's imagination but the smile Mr. Harper gives Dean as he's passing by is, um... Lydia suspects Mr. Harper might think Dean is something of a DILF. Dean, for his part, glances after him and then immediately tries to pretend he didn't.

Lydia would normally comment on this, but she's too preoccupied with her discomfort. Any sort of belonging she had felt is long gone now. All she feels is uncomfortable and she wants out as soon as possible. ''Can we go now?'' She asks, folding her arms and trying to make her voice sound impatient rather than shaky.

''You don't want to sit in on a math class?''

''Dean.''

''What about biology?''

''Dean!'' It comes out high pitched and shrill and seems to startle him, but she doesn't care. She needs to get out. She scratches at the inside of her wrist and looks over her shoulder. She swallows hard. ''I just...want to go, okay? Please?''

He seems to realize that she is not to be toyed with right now, because he agrees surprisingly quickly, nodding once and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

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''You could have this, you know,'' Dean tells her. ''I want you to have this.''

Lydia rolls her eyes, still absently scratching at her wrist. He's sweet, and his willingness to give her a life so normal it's like something straight out of a Normal Rockwell painting is both admirable and adorable. It's also entirely unnecessary.

Sure, it would be easy enough to pretend. She could call him dad, bicker with him about eating healthy, go to school, get good grades, make friends, make the honor roll, graduate at the top of her class and go on to some ivy league university with a full ride scholarship. She'd tell her classmates all about her single father, who makes cookies for the bake sales, picks her up every day after school, and maybe flirts a little too much with her English teacher. She'd be just like any other girl her age.

But it would be a lie.

She's not like any other girl her age, they are not normal people, she doesn't belong here, and he is not her father.

''I don't,'' she says plainly. She pulls up the sleeve of her sweater to scratch at her bare skin. ''I don't want any of this, Dean,'' she says. ''I don't belong here. It would never work.''

''We could make it work,'' he protests.

''How could we possibly make it work?'' She snaps, whipping her head around to face him and fixing him with a steely glare. ''We're on the road half the time.''

''You could stay here while we're - ''

She scoffs. ''Like I'd let you two idiots go off on your own. Everyone knows you two need constant supervision.''

''Lydia - ''

''Look,'' she heaves a sigh. ''Just because we have a home base now doesn't mean anything is different. It doesn't mean we're settling down and it sure as hell doesn't mean you get to push me out of this life. We're never going to be normal. You're never going to be a stay at home dad - and don't lie to me, it's pretty clear that's your dream job, you big dork - and I'm never going to be a regular teenage girl. We're still hunters. That's just the way it is, Dean. Okay? So, this school thing? It's never going to happen. Now.'' She crosses one leg over the other delicately. ''Can we please go?'' She flicks her hair over her shoulder and folds her arms, turning her nose up and staring out the window. ''I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I don't want to be here.''

When she risks a glance at him, she expects him to be all sad puppy dog eyes and long, wistful looks in the direction of the apple pie life he'll never have. He mostly looks annoyed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed slightly. He grunts, mutters something under his breath - something that sounds suspiciously like ''kids these days'' - and then he turns the ignition.

Without warning, the Impala screeches away from the curb so fast it makes her gasp and clutch at the dashboard. She sends him a withering glare in response. ''Ass,'' she grumbles. Then, mostly just to aggravate him even further (if he wants an annoying teenager, she can be an annoying teenager), she says, crisply, ''So, are you going to buy me lunch or what?''

He doesn't even try to fight her demands. A little disappointing, to be honest. ''Fine.''

''Great! Also, I need new sho - ''

''You do not need shoes.''

''Excuse me,'' she bites out, arms still crossed over her chest. ''But I seem to recall someone promising me a new pair of boots after someone got me pushed into a disgusting swamp by a swamp monster - because swamp monsters are apparently real things - which ruined my favourite pair.''

''You have enough shoes. Jesus.''

''False,'' she points a finger at him. ''One can never have enough shoes.''

''What happened to your wrist?''

She opens her mouth to retort, then pauses. ''What?'' She looks down at her arm. Sure enough, there is a burn on the inside of her wrist, right where she has been scratching. It doesn't look serious. It's just a small burn. Like she had accidentally brushed her wrist against a heater or something. It doesn't even hurt. It just...itches. Still, it makes her breath catch and her stomach drop. She doesn't remember how she got it. Was it from this morning, when she was making her tea? She doesn't remember. She swallows hard. ''Oh. That,'' she waves it off. ''It's nothing. Don't worry about it.''

He looks like he's worrying about it. She doesn't expect him to let it go. She stubbed her toe once and he wanted to take her to the hospital. Maybe it's the look on her face, the one that says she doesn't want to talk about it, or maybe he's just moving on from his helicopter dad stage, but he doesn't pester her about the burn. He just asks her where she wants to go to eat and reluctantly agrees to take her shopping.

Which is good.

If he hadn't let it go, she would've had to have told him about the burn on the small of her back. Not that it matters anyway. It's probably nothing. It's definitely nothing. She just needs to be more careful around hot things.

That's all.

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and as the world comes to an end
i'll be here to hold your hand
'cause you're my king and i'm your lionheart
- of monsters and men; king and lionheart

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end part six

AN: So...

This is more of a scene from a chapter rather than an actual chapter, but I've been working on this chapter since June (the part that was supposed to come after this scene is proving to be extraordinarily hard to write and incredibly emotional) and I really just wanted to let you all know that this story is going to go on.

Yes, the updates are going to be slow (I'm going to be starting a new job within the next few months) but I have not and will not give up on this story. It's my baby.