## Dean
**Thirteen years, two months. The bunker. Kitchen. Morning.**
It started with blood.
Not the blood I knew. Not the blood I understood—claws, blades, bullets, things you could stitch up and bandage and forget. Different blood. Blood that sent me into more of a panic than any demon I'd ever hunted.
Johanna came into the kitchen. Slowly. Stiffly. Her face was white. Not pale—white. And she was walking strangely. Carefully. Like she was afraid to move.
“Morning, Jojo. Coffee?”
She stopped in the doorway. Looked at me. And I saw it—that look. Not the Winchester look. Not the battle look. A look I'd never seen on her before. Fear. Real fear. And shame. Shame so deep she didn't even know what to do with it.
“Dean.” Her voice was small. “I think—I think something's wrong.”
My heart sped up. Instantly. Instinct. Threat. “What? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Did something—”
“No. Not—not like that.” She swallowed. Her hands clenched in the fabric of her T-shirt. Dean's old AC/DC shirt, hanging down to her knees. “I—I’m bleeding.”
“Where?” I was already on my feet. Scanning her. No wound. No cut. No—
“Dean.” Quieter. Barely audible. And then she looked down. And I looked down. And on the inside of her thigh was a thin red streak emerging from beneath the T-shirt.
And my brain took three seconds. Three full seconds during which I thought: wound, cut, attack, who did this, I’ll kill him—
And then I understood.
Oh.
Oh God.
“Sam!” My voice was too loud. Way too loud. “SAM!”
Johanna flinched. “Dean, don’t—”
“SAM, GET IN HERE! NOW! RIGHT NOW!”
Sam came running. Of course he came running. Because I sounded like someone was dying. And in my head, someone was dying too—me. I was dying. Inside. Completely.
Sam stood in the kitchen. Looked at me. Looked at Johanna. Looked at the blood.
And Sam—Sam, the smart one, the analytical one, the one who understood everything—needed two seconds too. And then he turned red. Sam Winchester, who had looked the Devil in the face, turned red.
“Oh,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Oh.”
Johanna stood between us. Thirteen years old. White face. And she looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor. Like she wanted to die. Like this was worse than any monster she'd ever seen.
“Am I sick?” she whispered. And her voice broke, and her eyes filled, and I thought: Shit. Shit, shit, shit. No one had explained it to her. We hadn't explained it to her. We'd taught her how to take apart a gun and banish a ghost and stitch up a wound, but we hadn't explained what happened to her body when she turned thirteen.
“No.” Sam was quicker. Sam knelt in front of her. Hands on her shoulders. Calm. Gentle. Sam voice. “No, Jojo. You’re not sick. It’s—it’s normal. It’s completely normal.”
“This isn’t normal!” Her voice cracked. “I’m bleeding, Sam! Without a wound! This isn’t—”
“It is. It is, that’s what it is. It happens to every girl. It means—” Sam looked at me. Desperately seeking help. And I stood there like an idiot. Like a damn idiot who could kill demons but didn’t know how to explain a period to his thirteen-year-old sister.
“It means you’re growing up,” Sam said. Carefully. Like he was defusing a bomb. “Your body is changing. The blood—it comes every month. It’s—”
“Every month?!” Johanna’s eyes widened. “Every—this doesn’t stop?!”
“It does, after a few days—”
“A few DAYS?!”
I had to sit down. So I sat down. On the kitchen chair. And put my head on the table. And breathed. Because my little sister had just gotten her period and I—Dean Winchester, hunter, fighter, survivor—wasn’t prepared. For any of it. For anything.
Sam explained. Calmly. Patiently. Biologically accurately, because Sam explained everything biologically accurately. Johanna listened. Asked questions. Direct, blunt, classic-Johanna questions that made me flinch every time.
“And what do I do now?”
Sam looked at me. I looked at Sam.
Neither of us had pads. Or tampons. Or anything even remotely related to them. We had guns. Ammunition. First-aid kits. Salt. Holy water. Silver bullets. But no pads.
“I’m going,” I said. And stood up. And grabbed the keys. And left.
I drove to the nearest supermarket. Stood in the feminine-hygiene aisle. And stared at a shelf full of products I understood none of. Pads. Panty liners. Tampons. Regular. Super. Super Plus. With wings. Without wings. Night. Day. And there I stood, Dean Winchester, more afraid than I’d ever been in a crypt, a grave, or any godforsaken house.
I called Sam.
“What am I supposed to buy?”
“Pads. To start with. With wings.”
“What the hell are wings?”
“The little fold-out things on the sides that—”
“Sam. I’m standing in a supermarket in Kansas staring at feminine hygiene products. Just tell me which package.”
“The green one. Always. Regular size. With wings.”
I bought three packages. And chocolate. And a hot-water bottle, because Sam had said hot-water bottle. And then I stood at the register, and the cashier looked at me—big guy, leather jacket, three packages of pads, chocolate, hot-water bottle—and smiled. And I wanted to die.
When I got back, Johanna was sitting on the couch. Wrapped in Sam’s hoodie. Sam beside her. He’d explained everything to her. Everything. And Johanna looked at me when I came in with the bag and said:
“Did you buy winged pads?”
“Yeah.”
“Sam says they’re the best.”
“Sam’s obviously an expert.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Johanna grinned. Weakly. But it was there.
And then she saw the chocolate. And the hot-water bottle. And her grin grew wider. And she said, “You bought a hot-water bottle.”
“Sam said—”
“You bought a hot-water bottle. For me.”
“Yeah, Jojo. For you.”
She took the hot-water bottle. Hugged it to herself. And then she laughed. Really laughed. And said, “Dean Winchester buys winged pads and hot-water bottles. If the demons knew.”
And I laughed too. Because it was absurd. Because everything was absurd. Because I hunted demons and burned ghosts and my little sister had just gotten her period and I’d bought three packages of pads and had no idea what wings were.
But I’d bought them. And the hot-water bottle. And the chocolate. And that was—that was everything I could do. Not enough. Never enough. But everything.
## Sam
**Thirteen years, five months. The bunker. Hallway.**
I noticed it first.
Of course I did. Because Dean wasn’t looking. Didn’t want to look. Couldn’t look. Because Dean still saw Johanna as the baby he’d held in his arms when she was three months old. As the child who slept on his chest. As his little sister who had glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling and a toy Impala under her pillow.
But Johanna was thirteen. And thirteen wasn’t little anymore.
It started slowly. Imperceptibly. A T-shirt that fit differently than it had the week before. A hoodie she suddenly wore all the time, even when it was warm. The way she crossed her arms over her chest when she stood. The way she leaned forward slightly, as if she wanted to hide something.
I didn’t say anything. For weeks. Because I didn’t know how. Because I was Sam Winchester, and Sam Winchester could talk about Lucifer’s cage and demon blood and the end of the world, but not about the fact that his little sister was growing breasts.
But then came the day Johanna came out of her room—in one of Dean’s old flannel shirts, buttoned all the way up, in the middle of summer—and I saw the way she moved. Carefully. Awkwardly. Like her own body had suddenly become foreign to her.
“Jojo.”
“Hm?” She walked past me. Quickly. Head down.
“Wait a second.”
She stopped. Didn’t turn around.
“Do you need—I mean—” I rubbed the back of my neck. God, this was hard. “Do you maybe need a—well—”
“A what, Sam?” Her voice was sharp. Too sharp. Defensive.
“A bra.”
Silence. Long silence. And then she turned around. And her face was red. Not angry-red. Embarrassed-red. As red as I’d ever seen her.
“I don’t need a bra.”
“Jojo—”
“I don’t need a bra, Sam! I don’t need anything! Stop staring at me!”
She ran. Into her room. Door closed. Not slammed—closed. Quietly. Carefully. And that was worse than slamming it, because slamming was Dean, and quietly closing it was Johanna when she was embarrassed.
I stood in the hallway and thought: We need a woman. Any woman. Someone who isn’t an older brother and knows how to tell a thirteen-year-old girl that her body is changing and that it’s okay.
But we didn’t have a woman. We had Dean and me. Two hunters. Two brothers. Two men who could kill demons but didn’t know how to buy bras.
I called Jody. Sheriff Jody Mills. The only woman in our lives who wasn’t dead or trying to kill us.
“Jody. I need help.”
“Who’s bleeding?”
“No one. It’s—it’s Johanna.”
Silence. Then: “What kind of help?”
“The kind where I completely fail as an older brother. She needs—stuff. Girl stuff. And someone to talk to her. Someone who isn’t—”
“Isn’t a Winchester?”
“Yeah.”
Jody laughed. Briefly. Warmly. “I’ll be there in three hours.”
Jody came. Jody took Johanna shopping. Three hours. And when they came back, Johanna was still wearing Dean’s flannel shirt, but underneath it—underneath, something was different. She stood straighter. Not by much. But noticeably. And she looked at me and said:
“Thanks, Sam.”
Nothing more. Nothing less. And I knew Jody had found the right words. The words I didn’t have. The words Dean wouldn’t even look for.
Dean came out of the garage. Saw Johanna. Saw the shopping bags. Saw Jody.
“What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” Johanna said quickly.
“Girl stuff,” Jody said. And her look said: Don’t ask any further.
Dean didn’t ask any further. Dean was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.
Later, when Johanna was asleep and Jody was drinking coffee, she said to us, “You’re doing a good job. Both of you. But she’s going to be fourteen. And fifteen. And sixteen. And it won’t get easier.”
“Worse?” Dean asked.
Jody looked at him. For a long moment. And smiled. That smile that said: Oh, honey. You have no idea.
“Much worse.”
## Dean
**Thirteen years, eight months. The bunker. Library.**
I heard him before I saw him.
Footsteps. Quiet. Careful. Not Johanna’s footsteps—Johanna was never quiet, Johanna walked like she owned the floor. Not Sam’s footsteps—Sam was in the kitchen, and I could hear him, dishes, water, Sam’s dishwashing noises.
Strange footsteps. In the bunker.
My hand was on the gun before I thought. Instinct. Fourteen years of hunting in a single movement. I stood. Quietly. Went to the hallway. And saw—
A boy.
Maybe thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Thin. Dark hair. Glasses. Backpack on his back. And he stood in the bunker hallway, looking around with eyes as big as saucers.
“What the—”
“Dean!” Johanna. Behind the boy. She shot out of her room, stepped in front of him, arms spread as if she were protecting him. From me. She was protecting him from me.
“Jojo. Who. Is. That.”
“This is Mark.” Quickly. Too quickly. “He’s in my class. He’s my friend. My best friend. And you’re not allowed to shoot him.”
“I’m not shooting anyone.”
“You’ve got your hand on the gun.”
I took my hand off the gun.
The boy—Mark—stood behind Johanna and looked like he was about to faint. Or throw up. Or both.
“Hi,” Mark said. His voice was thin. “I’m—I’m Mark. Johanna said I could—I mean, she said—”
“He’s helping me with math,” Johanna said. And lied. Johanna was better at math than most adults. Johanna didn’t need help with math. Johanna didn’t need help with anything school-related.
I looked at her. She looked at me. Green eyes, defiant, chin raised. My face. My look. My damn stubbornness.
“Math,” I said.
“Math,” she said.
“In the bunker.”
“Where else am I supposed to go? We don’t have a Starbucks.”
Sam came out of the kitchen. Dish towel over his shoulder. Saw Mark. Saw Johanna. Saw me. And I saw the corners of Sam’s mouth twitch. That bastard thought this was funny.
“Hi,” Sam said. Friendly. Normal. As if it were the most normal thing in the world for a thirteen-year-old boy to be standing in the secret bunker of the Men of Letters. “I’m Sam. Johanna’s brother.”
“The nice brother,” Johanna said.
“Hey—” I said.
“Mark, this is Dean. The other brother. He looks dangerous, but he’s harmless.”
“I’m not harmless.”
“He’s harmless.”
Mark looked back and forth between us. And then—and then he grinned. Crooked. Nervous. But genuine. “Johanna said you guys were—special.”
“Special,” I repeated.
“She said you collect old weapons. And books. And that you’re—historians?”
I looked at Johanna. Historians. She’d told him we were historians.
“Exactly,” Sam said without hesitation. “Historians. Specializing in—medieval weapons and—folklore.”
“Folklore,” I said. “Yeah. Folklore.”
Mark stayed for three hours. They sat in the library—Johanna had cleared away anything that looked like hunting first, hidden the bestiaries, locked up the guns, taken down the maps with the ghost locations. She’d planned it. For days. Carefully. Like an operation.
I watched her. From the hallway. Not because I didn’t trust him—although I didn’t trust him, because I didn’t trust anyone—but because I wanted to see what Johanna was like. With someone who wasn’t a Winchester. With someone who was normal.
She was different. Not completely different. Still Johanna—loud, quick, the grin, the wisecracks. But softer. More open. She laughed at things that weren’t funny because Mark found them funny. She listened when he talked—really listened, not the Winchester listening that was actually planning. She was—a teenager. A normal teenager with a normal friend who did normal things.
And it hurt. Not because it was bad. Because it was good. Because I saw what she could be if the world let her. And because I knew the world wouldn’t let her.
Sam stood beside me. Quietly. We watched together.
“She snuck him in,” I said.
“I know.”
“Through the side entrance.”
“I know.”
“She hid the bestiaries.”
“I know.”
“You knew the whole time.”
Sam looked at me. That Sam face. “For three weeks. He comes every Wednesday.”
“Three—three weeks?! And you didn’t say anything?!”
“She needs this, Dean. She needs someone who isn’t us. Someone who’s normal. Someone who doesn’t know what a Wendigo is.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“He’s thirteen, Dean. He weighs maybe fifty kilos. He wears glasses and has a backpack with a dinosaur on it. He’s harmless.”
“I don’t like the dinosaur backpack.”
“You don’t like anything.”
“I like things. I like—pie. And the Impala. And—”
“Dean.”
“What?”
“Let her have this. Let her have this.”
I looked back into the library. Johanna was showing Mark something in a book—a normal book, not a bestiary, a history book—and Mark laughed, and Johanna laughed, and her eyes shone, and she looked thirteen. Just thirteen. Not like a hunter. Not like a Winchester. Like a girl showing her friend something funny.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Okay.”
But I kept the gun within reach. Just in case. Not because of Mark. Because of everything else. Because of the world that never stopped knocking on our door. Because of the monsters that didn’t know my sister had just turned thirteen and had a friend and was laughing and wanted to be normal.
Because of everything that was coming.
And it would come. It always did.