superninjaviolinist

[superninjaviolinist]

The Girl With The Black Dragon Tattoo, Chapter 3

I would find out much, much later, what all this future-talk meant, but at that point I was overtaken by overwhelming panic. Romance and love? Big fat red flags in my book. It’s how I was lured before and I swore to myself that I’d never let it happen again.

I took a step back from the brothers. “Stay away from me.”

“Eva, wait—“ Sam started to say.

I began moving faster towards the Continental. “Both of you just stay the hell away from me!”

I’d automatically locked the door when I’d gotten out, and since my brain had gone stupid all I ended up doing was yank uselessly at the handle. Someone put their hand on my arm and I instinctively swiveled around and punched its owner in the face.

Dean Winchester staggered back a few steps and palmed his cheek. He whipped his gaze over to his brother. “Where the fuck did you pick her up?”

“Oklahoma.” I could swear Sam was trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, well, Busty Asian Beauty she ain’t.”

Oh. That tore it. I hate that magazine. My body was closer to Lucy Liu, the A-list actress, than Lucy Lee, the C-cup porn star, and I was tired of hunters trying to compare my more toned, small-breasted form to those squishy, silicone-enhanced inaccuracies. Time to take a stand.

I walked up to Dean and stabbed him in the chest with my finger. “You listen to me, you dim-witted, inbred hick. I don’t know what pool of stupid you crawled out of but I’m not some starry-eyed slut that’s going to fall into your arms just because you went and made up some sci-fi fairy tale!”

“It ain’t a fairy tale!” Dean shouted down at me.

“You expect me to believe that someone flew you into the future where not only am I dead, but I’d had some kind of relationship with your pretty-boy ass?”

“Yes.”

The conviction with which he said that single word took me by surprise. Either Sam’s brother was a complete lunatic or… well, we’re hunters. Weird and unusual is part of the gig. But time travel? That was stretching it. “Prove it.”

I’d apparently stunned the man. “Uh…”

“Something like this happened before,” Sam offered. “Angels have the power to transport people through time.”

“You expect me to believe that? On your word alone?” I threw my hands in the air. “You’re both crazy! Why the hell did I let you drive me all this way after that shit last night? For all I know you two are psycho killer rapists!”

For some reason Dean took a good deal of umbrage against what I’d accused him of. “We ain’t psycho… killer… what you said!”

“Eva,” Sam said gently, “what’s wrong?”

Everything. “Nothing.”

“What’s she talkin’ about, ‘last night’?” Dean asked his brother. “Did you two…?”

Both Sam and I vehemently cried, “No!” “Look,” Sam said to me, “we can still get you to Bobby’s. It’s maybe two hours out. After that, you don’t have to see us ever again.”

His sentiments were wrong, but there was no way he could have known what was to come. Our lives would eventually become so intertwined it would be impossible to separate one from the other without creating tremendous, vacuous spaces. Regardless, I warily accepted the offer of transportation. “Long as we’re going straight there.”

Dean was giving his brother the stink-eye. Sam, thankfully, was unrelenting. “Dean, I promised.”

“Fine,” grumbled the pretty-boy. “Get in the back, Xhang Xiyi.”

I put him on the receiving end of one of my finest glares. “I’m not from China, I’m from San Francisco. And I’m Korean, asshole.”

He threw up his hands in surrender and backed away. “Sorry.”

By the way, Dean still can’t tell the difference. It’s all tits and exoticism to him.

After Sam and I got our things we headed out. The tension in the car was thick; not only were the brothers still dealing with the issues had separated them, Dean was pointedly ignoring me. I had the feeling that he was embarrassed over his proclamation and was now pretending he’d never said it.

We arrived at Bobby’s around noon. I escaped the car as soon as it had rolled to a stop, not bothering to wait for Dean to kill the engine. “Hey!” he barked out the window.

“Fuck off,” I said loudly as I tore open the screen door and headed inside.

I expected to be able to throw myself into Bobby’s arms and give him a tremendously big hug. It had been several months since I’d been able to visit and I was very fond of him. He was sitting behind his desk when I walked in the study and rolled out to greet me. Bobby Singer was wheelchair-bound and I had no idea when or how. “What happened?”

Before he could answer, Dean yanked me out of the room, nearly tearing my arm from its socket in the process. He shoved me up against the hallway wall and pressed one of his forearms against my neck. “Don’t you know not to go barging into people’s houses like that?”

“Let me go. Now.”

“I’d take heed, son,” Bobby said. He sounded way too amused by the situation.

“You know her?” Dean asked incredulously.

Bobby didn’t bother answering. Instead, his eyes flicked downwards. When Dean complied with the silent request he found one of the small daggers I kept up my sleeves pointed directly at the V of his jeans. He grimaced at me. “Now that’s just rude.”

“Me and Eva go back a ways,” Bobby answered. “No need to get your undies in a bunch.”

Reluctantly, Dean backed away. “How?”

“None of your business,” I snapped at him. In a far more sympathetic tone, I repeated my query to Bobby. “What happened?”

“Demon,” he replied succinctly as Sam came in bearing my saddlebags. “Guess that thing down in Oklahoma didn’t go so well.”

“Steve’s dead,” Sam said quietly. “The others got away.”

“Still don’t explain why Eva didn’t come here on her own wheels.”

“Because those fuckers ran over my bike!” I exclaimed.

“On purpose?”

“On purpose.”

“Dickhead move. What did you do?”

Yeah, okay, he was right to assume it was my fault; Bobby knew my mouth tended to run faster than my brain. Except this time I had the upper hand. “Tim-fucking-Janklow sucker-punched me and then used me as bait!”

“Bait for what?”

“Me,” Sam replied. “They… Um…”

“No need, son. I get it.” The gentleness in Bobby’s tone was new to me. I’d never seen him act so paternal to anyone other than me before. Most of his relationships with other hunters were purely professional, Rufus Turner being the exception. I suppose you could call Bobby and Rufus frenemies, if you were being generous. Cantankerous old grumps with grudges would be more accurate.

The Winchesters, seeing that their duty to me was done, prepared to leave. They gave their farewells to Bobby and headed back to their car. I followed them to the porch. “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

”Thanks.”

He gave me a smile. God, the man did and still does have the cutest little dimples. “You’re welcome.”

“Say,” Dean inserted, “how do you know Bobby?”

I’d already told him to mind his business, but seeing the way Bobby acted around these two made me trust them a minuscule amount more. “He saved my life.”

“He does that a lot,” Sam said as he opened the passenger’s side door. “Well, good luck with everything, Eva.”

“See ya,” was Dean’s farewell. I waved, their engine turned over, and they were gone.

I headed back inside. “I don’t got a new bike for you, darling,” Bobby said. “But if you hang about I’m sure one’ll turn up. Unless you think you might head on home?”

Home? I didn’t have a home, not really. I had a place of origin, certainly, but San Francisco wasn’t home anymore. The old, narrow house that I grew up in was sold, its blood-spattered walls covered with thick beige paint. I wonder if the new owners know about the history of horrors their million dollars granted them. “Can I stay upstairs?” I asked. “I won’t get in your way.”

“Back in the old bedroom? Sure. You know, there’s parts and frames all around the yard. Maybe you could cobble something together.”

Put together some Frankenstein’s monster of a motorcycle? “Think I’ll just wait.”

“Suit yourself. Room and board’s same price as always.”

“Home cooked dinners and the occasional supply run. Got it.”

Bobby smiled. “Glad to have you back, Eva.”

We’d had this arrangement, at this point, for about five years. I’d get melancholy and need company, he’d get sick of canned chili, and the two of us would be housemates up until one of us needed to get on the road. Unfortunately, with Bobby’s debilitating condition the only one of us able to indulge in extracurricular activities was me, and he wasn’t shy about showing how dejected he was about it. The man found relief by plugging himself into a bottle of whiskey. Hauling up a dead weight, middle-aged, belligerent alcoholic off the floor is about as easy and delightful as it sounds.

He left at one point because of what he said was a witch. I was a little worried about the gleam in his eye, but I knew better than to pry. When Bobby got back, I was surprised to see that his spirits had risen. The older hunter merely said that he’d had a change in perspective.

A Triton motorcycle from the sixties came in shortly after the witch incident and finally answered my prayers. Some idiot had seen the handlebars and the seat as prime parts and had left the engine intact. It was going to take a bit of work, but that baby was going to be mine.

Several weeks after meeting the weirdo Winchesters I was done fixing up the Triton. The day before I’d done a test run and she moved like a dream. I was wiping the last bits of dirt and oil off it when Bobby rolled in. He gave an appreciative whistle. “That is one mighty fine lookin’ bike.”

I gave him a grin. “No backsies. She’s mine.”

“Promise is a promise.” He scratched under his hat a bit, a sure sign that whatever he had on his mind was something that made him uncomfortable. “Look, I got company coming and I don’t think you wanna be here.”

I grabbed a rag and began cleaning my hands. “What, embarrassed that some Asian chick is now King of the Scrapyard?”

He snorted derisively. “You need a couple more decades of tinkering around here before I give up that title.”

“Then what?”

“It’s Sam and Dean. They’ll be here tonight.”

Ick. “You’re right. I better get going.” I sniffed under an armpit. “Do I have time to get cleaned up?”

“Maybe. Depends on whether or not Dean or Sam is driving.”

“Better hurry then,” I said as I started jogging towards the house.

I’d showered and dressed and was putting the last of my things into my saddlebags (of course I’d gotten them replaced) when I heard a car pull up. I looked out of the window and spotted a truck. The woman getting out was around Bobby’s age: Ellen Harvelle. She strode right in and I could vaguely hear her and Bobby greet one another.

I knew the woman from when she’d managed the Roadhouse, a great bar where hunters had gathered to swap info and stories. I used to swing by whenever I was near; it was nice to talk to a woman that didn’t treat me like either a rival hunter or a stupid little girl that didn’t belong. Her daughter, Jo, and I were on friendly terms through mutual association; we both liked her mother. The place had been demolished by a demon, so I was told, and I was happy to see Ellen alive and well.

When I came down the stairs, bags in hand, I saw Bobby and Ellen in the kitchen talking quietly. I didn’t want to interrupt; I’d been brought up to respect my elders’ privacy. That all went to hell when a low, gravelly voice said from behind me, “Who are you?”

I immediately stepped forward and swung my saddlebags around to clobber whoever it was. My belongings smacked into the man’s head before bursting from their confines and scattering everywhere. Apparently I hadn’t closed them as tightly as I thought. Much to my irritation, the stranger didn’t even flinch. I drew a fist back but was arrested by Ellen shouting, “Whoa whoa whoa!” as she came rushing over.

“Cass, you idjit!” Bobby snapped as he followed her.

I let my hand drop and peered at the newcomer. He was almost the same height as Bobby, a healthy six feet, with tousled dark hair and a set of ancient blue eyes. No standard hunter gear (jeans, shirt, flannel, boots); this guy had a trenchcoat, suit, tie, and even dress shoes. It was like being stared at by a weirdly intense accountant. A handsome accountant. Which made him even more weird.

“Who is this?” the man asked, this time directed at Bobby.

“Evangeline!” Ellen cried warmly. She knew I didn’t like being hugged and settled for patting my cheeks. “It’s been a while.”

Yeah, more than a year at least. I gave her a smile. “I missed you, too. Where’s Jo?”

“Oh, she’ll be along soon. Out with those Winchester boys retrieving the Colt.” I couldn’t tell whether the woman was proud or anxious that her daughter was out with those two freaks.

Hold up. “Wait, the Colt?” I asked, astonished. “The Colt?” Everyone knew about the magical gun wrought to kill everything.

“One and only. Were you heading out? It’d be a shame if you two missed each other.”

“‘Evangeline’,” said the stranger in a thoughtful tone. “‘Bringer of good news’.”

I lifted an eyebrow without looking at him. “Someone want to tell me who special ed over here is?”

“That there’s Castiel,” Ellen replied. “He’s an angel. It’s why he doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of what you’d call ‘social graces’.”

“I’m working on it,” the angel said testily.

“Well, keep at it,” I snapped. “Learn that it’s not nice to sneak up on a girl.”

So it wasn’t love at first sight. That’s for fairy tales and silly romantic movies. In fact, it wasn’t even like at first sight. All I came away with from this encounter was the impression that he was just another big dumb idiot. It would take months, years even, for Castiel to make a dent in that thick steel wall I’d built around my heart, but when he did…

“All right, all right,” Bobby scolded, “stop trying to piss him off. Didn’t you wanna head out before Sam’n’Dean get here? Any minute now they’re gonna be drivin’ up.”

Oh shit. I immediately knelt down and started shoving things back into my saddlebags. The so-called angel stepped out of the way and Ellen joined me. I was still scrabbling for wayward arrows when the sound of an approaching engine came rumbling through Bobby’s screen door. “Sweetie,” Ellen whispered as she handed me a shirt, “you wanna tell me why you’re running from the Winchesters?”

“No time,” I answered as I zipped and buckled up. I hurried to the front door and swung it open… only to smack face first into someone’s chest.

“The hell…?” said its owner, one Dean Winchester.

I shoved passed him, nearly knocking Sam and Jo down on the way, and walked as fast I could towards the shed and my bike.

Of course, the dickhead followed me. “Eva!”

I turned around after getting my bags attached. “What?” I snapped.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For freaking you out last time! I shouldn’t have told you… you know…”

“What?” My lip curled into a sneer. “That we were destined to be? That you’re apparently going to be there holding me when I die?” I walked over to the workbench and snatched up my helmet.

Dean grabbed it out of my hands as soon as I got close enough. “Listen, we don’t know the first thing about each other—“

“You’re goddamn right.”

“—And so far the only things I know about you are that you’re hot and you’re freaking insane!”

I breezed by the first thing he said and latched onto the second. “I’m insane?”

The man gave an exasperated sigh and plunked my helmet onto the back of the Triton. “Look, we’re heading out tomorrow to take on Lucifer. Could use another hand.”

I paused. This was important. Fighting ghouls and vampires wouldn’t mean anything if Satan roasted the planet. I could be part of something big, something vital. It could be that my presence could mean the difference between someone living and someone dying.

There were, however, two big issues with Dean’s request, both of them having to do with him. For one, going up against Lucifer was suicide at best, and with Dean in attendance I had no intention of prophetically fulfilling my demise. For the other, there was no way I was going to dive into that handsome, green-eyed trap. Going into a life and death situation with the man would leave too many openings for him to show me that he was worth falling for. “No,” I said as I swung one leg over onto my bike.

Dean looked at me in disbelief, like I’d told him I hated kittens or something. “No?”

“No,” I repeated as I squished my head into my helmet. The engine purred when I turned the key and I revved the handle a few times to get Dean out of the way. He stepped back and I nearly broke the sound barrier getting away from him.

I didn’t see the Winchesters again for several months after that, thankfully. The world didn’t end but the Apocalypse kept on rolling, which meant that they’d probably failed at stopping Lucifer. When I called Bobby about it a week later he broke the news that the Harvelles had died and confirmed my suspicions about the Winchesters’ defeat.

So much time and so many hunts passed that I figured I was done with those two idiots and put thoughts of them aside. In the weeks before it all went to shit there was a werewolf in Utah and a djinn in Vegas (selling “dreams come true” of all things). Afterwards I’d headed to San Francisco and checked on my sister (still whoring it up on Geary), solved a haunting at Ghiradelli Square while I was there, drove up to Idaho for a pair of ghouls, swung all the way over to North Dakota for a nest of vamps (I loathe those assholes), and ended up in Blue Earth, Minnesota after hearing about a demon infestation.

What’s the saying? Hindsight is 20/20. If I had known how bad it was going to get I would have turned the fuck around.

Blue Earth had been taken over by the church. It’s inevitable that when you deal with Heaven and Hell you get tangled up with religious nuts. This wasn’t the first town like this I’d encountered and it wouldn’t be the last. The difference this time was that I’d ridden willingly in and now I wasn’t allowed out.

The inability to go was more due to the abnormal amount of demons surrounding the perimeter than anything else. Anyone that tried to go by freeway ended up running into a blockade. Anyone trying to go through the woods ended up dead.

I think I could have stood the isolationism if a lot of those people didn’t start seriously freaking me the fuck out. In the past seventy-two hours I’d gotten three marriage proposals, dozens of admonishments over my cleavage (you know, the minuscule amount that I had), and several lectures about my habit of using profanities. The latter two I could ignore, the first was unnerving. Couples were marching down that aisle every day, ones I suspected hadn’t even considered the other person as a viable husband/wife prior to that morning. Unfortunately, this town had more men than women, which meant that the more I refused the more frowns were thrown my way. I slept with my blade in hand just in case someone decided to rouse me in the middle of the night for a shotgun wedding.

The bartender, Paul, was the only person I could regularly stand to be around. We’d even flirted a bit, but the watchful eye of Leah Gideon and the Sacrament Lutheran Militia kept us apart.

Speaking of which: Leah Gideon, Prophet of the Lord, gave me the creeps. I don’t know how to describe it, but there was something about her that was just off. It made me want to stab her in the face.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re the Whore of Babylon masquerading as the pastor’s daughter.

The bar Paul ran was full from lunchtime to closing due to the fact that these people knew the Apocalypse was nigh. It was strange to be around non-hunters who talked about angels and demons casually, slipping them into conversations like some people do sports teams. I suppose with the actual hellspawn around the perimeter and the Prophet talking about her connection to Heaven they had a right to be casual and supercilious about the whole thing, but it didn’t make it any less odd.

Paul was pouring me another beer when they walked in. I’d heard that strangers had rolled into town, demons hot on their tail, I just didn’t expect it to be the Winchesters. There wasn’t much I could do to hide (other than duck under a table), so I did what I could to keep my face pointed away from them. It seemed to work. Sam waltzed right on by while dialing a number on his phone and Dean plopped down at a table almost directly behind me.

I waited to see how long the giant would stay on his call. Once he started talking to Castiel’s voicemail (I didn’t know it then, but for the crime of siding with humanity Cass had been cut off from Heaven’s energy; thus the mundane communication method) I figured that was distraction enough for me to escape. I slapped a twenty down on the bar top, swiveled my stool, and took two steps towards the exit.

“Don’t think I don’t see you there.”

Shit.

“Been a while, Eva,” Dean continued. I turned around, my lips pressed tight. He was slouched in his seat facing the opposite wall and didn’t bother changing positions.

I folded my arms and glowered at the back of his head. “Not long enough.”

“How long would that have to be?”

“I was honestly hoping for, you know, forever.”

Dean gave the peanuts a wry grin. “Yeah, well, me too.”

This was weird. At the time, I didn’t know Dean very well, but I’d gotten the impression from our two rather heated encounters that he was a little more… I don’t know, alive? The way he sat, the way he spoke, it was as if whatever spark had once lit Dean Winchester had guttered out. It was disheartening, and pitiable.

What had happened to him would have been devastating to anyone, really. Dean had basically found out God had said, in terms of the Apocalypse, “Fuck it. You’re on your own.” I’m sure there were more nuances to the message He’d left, but that was the gist. Before receiving that message, Dean had already been on a steady slide towards self immolation and God’s apathy just steepened his descent. This shitstorm at Blue Earth would get him to smash right into the bottom.

Sam slipped by me to sit down with three beers. He held one up to me and gave a small smile in greeting. I’ve never been one to turn down free alcohol. “Hey, Eva,” he said as I sat. “Came here because of the same reason, I assume.”

He was at least unchanged. I nodded. “Been here couple of days already.”

“You’ve been sticking around that long?”

“It’s not a matter of ‘sticking around’. It’s a matter of ‘I can’t fucking leave’.”

Sam glanced at his brother who, I assumed, was supposed to glance back. Instead Dean kept drinking, his eye-line somewhere around his brother’s stomach.

This had passed awkward straight into excruciatingly uncomfortable. I decided to change the subject. “Who were you calling?” I asked (even though I already knew the answer).

“Cass—uh, Castiel. The angel? He said you guys met at Bobby’s and you hit him with your stuff.”

I shrugged. “That’s what he gets for sneaking up on me.”

“He probably didn’t sneak up so much as… appeared in that space.”

“Great. Do they just pop up whenever? Should I expect angels to show up in my shower at some point?” I was starting to wonder whether I could be alone and naked without fearing angelic intrusion.

Sam gave a little chuckle. “I don’t think… well…”

“The bastards are junkless,” Dean inserted. “Probably see a woman’s ass and wonder where her balls went.”

I thought back to that first encounter with Castiel. Clueless and tactless. “Well there’s one less thing to worry about.”

Sam took a swig of beer. “So any clues why the demons are circling this town in particular?”

I shook my head. “Best I could come up with was that they didn’t want the Prophet slipping through their hands.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe the angels are making these people do their dirty work.”

Both Dean and I asked, “Yeah? And?”

Sam blinked disbelievingly at us. “And they could get ripped to shreds!”

“They’ve got their stupid little exorcism chant,” I retorted. “Not to mention their phone line to Heaven. Believe me, these guys are a lot more prepared for slaughter than anyone else I’ve met.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Dean added dismissively. “These people ain’t freaking out, they’re runnin’ to the exit in an orderly fashion. I don’t know that that’s such a bad thing.”

“Who says they’re all gonna die?” Sam snapped back. “Whatever happened to us saving them?”

The church bells started ringing, cutting through whatever Dean was going to say (and also the biting remark I had in mind). I sighed and spent a few seconds chugging down the rest of my beer, a good three-quarters of the bottle. When I was done, I found both brothers goggling at me. Apparently girls in their world didn’t really drink. “What? Ding dongs mean Leah’s had another vision. Time for church. You two coming?”

“You know me,” Dean said with a ghost of his former spunk. “Downright pious.”

The Prophet had seen demons about five miles out all gathered nice and neat in an abandoned farmhouse. This all stank of setup and stupidity but it wasn’t like anyone was going to listen to the drunk old maid who’d rambled into town a few days ago. The only thing of any real consequence occurred when Pastor Gideon began the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

Dean was right behind me. Under his breath he muttered, “Yeah, not so much.” When I turned around, puzzled, he shifted, but didn’t acknowledge my silent query.

The raid itself went without a hitch. People running about chanting their little chant and black smoke flying out of the windows like someone had let loose really ugly balloons. It was afterwards when it all went to shit.

Most of us had already left, me included. Sam and Dean had lingered and so had Dylan, the son of some locals (Rob and Jean? Jane?). Not all the demons had hightailed it as soon as the guns started going off; one had decided to hang out underneath the Winchesters’ car. It pulled the young man underneath and slit his throat before the brothers could do shit.

They came driving back, solemn as all hell, and quietly informed the others about Dylan’s fate. His mother let out a terrible wail. I flinched, not at the mangled body in their back seat, but at that unearthly, devastating sound. I’d seen a silent version under my grandparents’ lips at my parents’ wake. No one should live to bury their own child.

Funerary services were hastily put together for that very evening. Sam, Dean, and I stood at the doorway of the church as it filled. We all felt as if going inside would be an unwelcome intrusion; after all, we were the only non-residents currently in town. A young man’s death was too intimate a tragedy to barge in upon.

Eventually, Dylan’s coffin passed by. His pallbearers, none of whom acknowledged our presence, appeared to be an uncle, grandfather, and several of his friends. Mother and father came stumbling up the steps shortly afterwards. I was staring at the grim wooden box when I heard Dean attempt to give his condolences. “Ma’am, we’re just… very sorry.”

“You know,” the woman hissed through her tears, “this is your fault.”

Her husband said her name quietly in admonishment (Jane! That was it), but before they could go any further, I stepped in front of Dean and snapped, “You can’t blame him for a damn demon. What, you think he personally stuck that thing under his car just to fuck over your son?”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Jane snarled at me. “Blasphemous, drunken whore.”

Dean grabbed my arm and pulled me away before I could smack the bitch. Dylan’s father took the opportunity to hustle Jane inside.

As Pastor Gideon began the service, I jerked my limb out of Dean’s grip. He frowned at me. “She just lost her son,” Dean scolded. “Let her blame whoever she wants.”

I threw my hands up and let them drop. This apathy of his was starting to grate on my nerves. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Before he could retort there was a commotion inside the church. Sam gestured us over. On the floor was Leah, seizing, her father making blandishments until the fit passed. When it did, Pastor Gideon helped his daughter sit up. “Dad,” she gasped, “it’s Dylan.”

“Just rest a minute, huh?”

“No, listen! Dylan’s coming back.”

Leah Gideon, Prophet of the Lord, stood at the pulpit and promised paradise, including the inevitable reunion with lost loved ones… if we followed the angel’s commandments. As I listened to her rattle off the list of demands my eyebrows crawled higher and higher. No gambling. No drinking. No premarital sex. In fact, no unmarried man or woman was allowed to be alone with the opposite gender without a church-sanctioned chaperone. Prayer morning, noon, and night. Curfew from nine to six.

Dylan’s parents, as well as a majority of the townsfolk, ate it up. Sam and I glanced at each other, astonished. I looked over and saw Paul staring at the girl in disbelief. Dean projected weary resignation.

The brothers split up when the congregation finally dispersed. Dean went back inside to speak to whomever while Sam started walking towards the town’s single motel. Paul had given me one of those sweet smiles of his as he’d passed. Maybe we could start following the rules tomorrow instead…?

I headed for the bar. It was nearly dark, but unlike every other night I’d been in town no one else came in. Whatever. It wasn’t curfew yet and Paul was a local. He flipped the neon “open” sign and settled behind the counter. I swung myself onto what I had privately claimed as “my” barstool and he plunked the usual down in front of me.

A few minutes into my beer and Sam walked in. He greeted us both before sitting beside me.

The boys bantered for a bit, Paul revealing the abrupt change in most of the town’s attitudes once Leah had gone Prophet. He was the only person I knew that was outspoken about the obvious fraudulence underlying everyone’s sudden piety. It’s why I liked him best.

“Not a true believer, I take it,” Paul said to Sam.

“I believe, yeah. I do.” He shrugged. “I’m just pretty sure God stopped caring a long time ago.”

We scoffed at the indifference of our supposed creator. “What about you?” Sam asked me.

I was on my third beer and my guard had slipped a bit. “Parents were devout. I believe that He’s out there but I’ll be damned if I give the son of a bitch the time of day.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Paul said. The three of us clinked mugs.

We continued to drink until curfew. Paul and Sam talked about demons and television and sports while I munched on nuts and irregularly provided my opinions. It was a comfortable spot, cushioned by alcohol, and we drew a modicum of relief after the trials of the past twenty-four hours.

Of course, shit wasn’t done yet. I’d been scrolling through news bits on my phone when my service abruptly died. “What the fuck?”

“What is it?” asked Sam. I showed him. He and Paul pulled out their own phones and, despite the varying carriers, found the same problem. “What the hell?”

“Great,” Paul grumbled. “And it’s ‘curfew’.”

Sam groaned and staggered to his feet. “Guess I’ll see you two tomorrow then.”

We ribbed him for a bit about being a good little cultist before he left. Paul sighed and picked up Sam’s empty mug. “You going too?”

“I dunno.” I gave him a (drunken) smile. “You want me to go?”

He returned the expression, eyes dipping down to the skin I had peeking out from the V of my shirt and back up again. “Not particularly.”

I reached over to grab his button-up and pulled him close. “Then what do you say you lock up that door, close the lights, and we see what happens?”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied huskily.

Sex with Paul was what I had come to expect from these small-town guys, but in his case the alliteration was in a good sense. See, when you live in a place where nearly everybody knows everybody most people end up having no more two or three sexual partners; the variety is lacking and the gossip is damning. These guys were, unfailingly so, inexperienced, with more clumsy enthusiasm than anything else. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

Paul fell into that same, sorry category, but he had the exception of being gifted in both stamina and endowment. Good God, his was a dick to remember. He was sweet about the whole thing, too, getting all shy about putting on a condom and insisting on lapping at my folds until I was good and wet. I was the one who was pushing, eager to lose myself in the exertion, the alcohol not nearly enough to dull the effects of all the messed up shit that had gone down in the past eighteen hours.

The man obliged, eventually, after he had slid himself deliciously inside of me. We were on the edge of one of the tables and I bit my lip as I gazed into his eyes, my hand gripping his shirt as my legs wrapped around his waist, before quietly requesting he get on with fucking me. Paul grinned, gave me a few experimentally harsh thrusts, before shunting that wonderful cock of his in and out of my cunt.

We were just coming down, wrapped in post-coital bliss with his head resting between my breasts, when a rock came crashing through a window. I let out a shriek and he hurriedly drew away. Paul buttoned his pants back up as he went to investigate while I shoved my bra and shirt down and went looking for my jeans. I didn’t find them before the door smashed in and a half dozen locals, spearheaded by Dylan’s parents, marched in.

My shirt was thankfully long enough to give me a shred of modesty, but it was obvious what we had been doing. Paul was still flushed and his buttons were askew while I was, well, pantsless. Jane’s lip curled up at me. “She was right!” the woman cried. “You’re the reason why the angels are angry at us! Fornicators! Unbelievers! Blasphemers!”

I could have sworn we were in Blue Earth, Colorado, and not Castle Rock, Maine. “We’re two consenting adults,” I said as calmly as possible. “What does it matter?”

“What matters is that you are keeping us from joining our son!”

Okay, that made absolutely no sense, but when Pastor Gideon came rushing in things started to click into place. “Please!” he cried. “Calm down. There’s no reason to do this! Let’s just talk it over.”

“The angels are angry, Pastor,” said one of the other women. “If we want to enter paradise we need to be rid of these people!”

“They need to leave town now,” Rob growled. “Then we can tear apart this den of debauchery and lust.”

A chorus of agreement swept through the group. Bolstered by the support, Rob lifted the bat and smashed it down on the nearest set of liquor bottles. Seeing his livelihood threatened, Paul grabbed the weapon and began grappling with his old friend. Pastor Gideon did his best to physically come between them while shouting for peace.

Jane and another local woman tried to corner me into the bar. I still hadn’t found my pants, goddamnit! “Touch me,” I warned, “and I’ll break your face.”

My bravado was swept away by apprehension when I saw Jane reach into her jacket. There was no mistaking the black object hidden within as anything other than the handle of a semiautomatic. I was contemplating ways of disarming her when a new voice asked, “Need some help, padre?”

Fuck. Dean Winchester. I risked glancing over towards the doorway and saw the poster child for Prozac assessing the situation. My underdressed state made him blink but he was otherwise concerned by the rest. Pastor Gideon took advantage of the momentary lull in violence to plead, “Just everybody cool down for a minute.”

“‘Cool down,’ hmm?” Paul repeated angrily. He turned towards Dean. “My friends are trying to run me out of town. Do you think I should ‘cool down’?”

I lost track of the ensuing conversation as I had, with great relief, finally caught sight of my missing jeans. I was inching towards them when I heard Paul say loudly, “This is my home. You want me out of here? You’ll have to drag me out.”

I snatched up my pants and held them close to my chest. Maybe I’d get ten seconds in all this chaos to shove them back on.

Or not. I was sliding my way to Paul’s side when Dean abruptly slugged Rob. The Pastor shouted, “No no no— stop —“

There were two loud reports. Something punched me in the stomach.

Then nothing.

Acknowledgement : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode “99 Problems” (SPN 5.17).

[superninjaviolinist]

The Girl with the Black Dragon Tattoo, Chapter 2

You ever completely panic and let your body do whatever it thinks it’s supposed to do? Sometimes we shit ourselves, other times we freeze. Hunters, we tend to get violent.

My hand shot out and impaled the closest demon, someone’s aging soccer mom. It gave a howl in pain as I ripped out the blade. I turned to face another and ducked under a flying fist. Slit his belly open and watched his guts spill just like Steve’s. Whipped my leg around and kicked him in the temple.

This was a nightmare. I’d never faced more than one demon at a time and now there were ten. I dodged, stabbed, kicked, and made absolutely no impact on their numbers. Even the one I’d disemboweled was getting back to his feet.

One managed to clip me on the head with what felt like a bat. In the few seconds I was dazed another demon locked my arms behind my back. The guy that had hit me got in close, grabbed my chin, and leered. “I wonder what it’s like to fuck a hunter.”

On the surface, what with the claws and fangs and black eyes, monsters seem inhuman, but get down into the basics and they’ve got the same wants and desires as the rest of us. The difference often was whether their natural hunger had been slaked, be it for flesh, brains, or violence. This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered a sociopathic creature aiming to fulfill more base desires and it wouldn’t be the last.

Demon or not, males are still males. “Not interested,” I replied as my knee snapped up between the bastard’s legs. He folded down. I whipped my head back at the one behind me while he was gaping. Soon as my arms were freed I introduced my fist to his face.

Tim and Reggie made a break for the camper and I followed. We climbed into the late Steve’s ride and slammed the doors shut. I watched the demons gather themselves as Tim dropped the keys from the visor and started the engine. The black eyed fuckers smiled as we peeled out of the parking lot.

I sat down on the aisle between the stove and the table in order to catch my breath. All of us were scraped up, bruised, and bloody. From the passenger’s seat, Reggie attempted to console his friend. “Tim—“

“Shut the fuck up,” the other man snapped.

We drove in silence for several miles, just far enough to feel safe, before Tim pulled to the side of the road. As soon as we were stopped, he began slamming his palms against the steering wheel. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

“What’re we gonna do?” asked Reggie.

“I got me an idea.”

“Take me back to my bike,” I said as I stood up. I leaned over between the two seats so I could make sure they heard me. “Ten demons? Whatever stupid-ass idea you’ve got is suicide.”

“Okay. But first…”

Tim’s fist connected solidly with my temple. Blackout.

Next thing I knew I was being hauled down the camper steps in a fireman’s carry, across black pavement, and through some doorway, its bell blasting in my ears. Through the haze, as I was dropped to my feet, I heard someone cry my name. A moment later a blade was pressed against my throat. That cleared the fog up pretty goddam quick. “The fuck—?”

“Just take it easy, okay?” came Sam Winchester’s voice. “Put the knife down.”

Reggie wasn’t stupid enough to do that, especially since he knew that once he did I‘d grab it and shove it in his throat. In fact, the knife bit a little more. I felt a small trickle of blood go down my neck.

Now I didn’t know Sam from Adam at the time. He might not care that some woman he’d met for all of five minutes was being used as leverage for whatever the Douchebag Trio, sorry, Duo had in mind. Maybe he’d just fight them off and leave me to my fate. Fortunately for me, the man has a hero complex, a trait that gets him in trouble more often than he would like to admit. “Stop!” Sam cried. “It’s true. What the demons said, it’s all true.”

“Keep going,” Tim said, deceptively calm.

“Why? You going to hate me any less? Am I going to hate myself any less? What do you want?” Such a whiner.

“I want to hear you say it.”

There was a moment of quiet. “I did it. I started the Apocalypse.”

Oh. Well then. Of course, the details were more convoluted than could be explained in a single sentence, but at the time I was just angry that this over-grown idiot had doomed us all. But before I could express my outrage I was handcuffed to the service station. It was a sign of just how out of it I was that I hadn’t noticed the bracelets sooner.

I pulled at the cuffs, loudly clanging metal against metal, as Tim withdrew a vial of red liquid from his pocket. “What is that?” a deeply apprehensive Sam asked.

“What do you think it is?” Tim replied triumphantly. “It’s go juice, Sammy boy.”

Demon blood, had to be. The mix of desire and loathing on Sam’s face was ugly. “Get that away from me,” he growled.

“Away from you?” asked Tim. “No. This is for you. Hell, if that demon wasn’t right as rain. Down the hatch, son.”

“Are you insane?” I yelled. “We don’t know what that’s going to do to him! For all we know it’s going to make him kill us, you stupid son of a bitch!”

“Will you shut that slut up?” Tim barked at his co-conspirator.

Reggie backhanded me. I’m quite sure he’d been wanting to do that ever since I’d dumped his ass. After spitting blood from a bitten cheek onto the floor, I looked up through stray locks of hair and told the motherfucker, “When I get out of these you’ll have to eat through a straw.”

“Look, just leave her alone,” Sam said loudly, “and we can work this out.”

Tim ignored him. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna drink this, Hulk out, and you’re gonna waste every one of the demon scum that killed my best friend.”

Confident I was secured, Reggie joined his friend in advancing on the taller hunter. Tim held out the vial invitingly. “Come on,” he urged, “you know you want it, Sam. Just reach it and take it.”

Entranced by the proffered liquid, Sam failed to notice Reggie creeping up to him from the left. In another moment they were grappling and Tim moved forward to force the blood down the Winchester boy’s mouth.

Great, Dumb and Dumber were distracted. I yanked on the cuffs again. No go. Next, I looked about (out of the corner of my eye I could see Sam spitting crimson liquid into Tim’s face). Bottled, cups, and toothpicks. Nothing remotely helpful.

My lockpicks were in my boot. I swung my foot up and used my teeth to undo the laces. Thank you, mom, for insisting I keep up with the gymnastics. As I worked I could hear fists smacking flesh. I wasn’t quite sure who I was rooting for at this point. I just hoped they were too preoccupied to see what I was doing… and… success! I pounded my loosened heel on the countertop to drop the kit near my hands. A few seconds later I was free.

When I looked up I saw Sam beating the ever living hell out of Tim. Good… except Reggie was sneaking up behind him with that stupid knife. I grabbed the nearest mug and hurled it as hard as I could. It hit him right in the face. Even better, his blade dropped to the floor and Sam snatched it up. He held it to Tim’s neck while Reggie spit out a few teeth.

The Winchester boy then looked at me. I don’t know what was on my face, but it made his expression crumple from fury to resignation. He shoved Tim at Reggie. “Go.”

Tim rubbed his own neck. “Don’t think we won’t be back.”

“Don’t think I won’t be here.”

The Douchebag Duo left and left me alone with Sam. He approached and reached out at the bruise on my face. “Are you—“

I slapped the hand away. “Don’t!” Touching me without permission was a good way to develop a fatal case of steel-in-the-gut.

Sam backed away. “Sorry. Let me at least get you some ice.”

I didn’t object; my cheek was throbbing. Sam was lifting the gate to get behind the bar when I heard the engine of Steve’s van rev several times. There was no way that thing would survive being rammed into the bar wall so I couldn’t begin to fathom what he was planning. Didn’t have to wait long; a few seconds later a horrible series of crunching and grating noises filtered in.

My blood ran cold. They couldn’t have. “Oh, shit,” I gasped and ran through the exit.

Yep. Those dickheads had run over my motorcycle. My poor bike was smashed all to hell, parts strewn in a curve all over the parking lot. Luckily the saddlebag that had ended up scraping along the concrete was the one with my personal effects and not the one with my weaponry. They’d even done the courtesy of tossing my sword and its sheathe out of the camper. Both were lying sadly on the asphalt several feet away.

Sam came out holding a clean rag full of ice as I was silently fuming. The idiot made the mistake of putting a hand on my shoulder while my back was turned and I automatically spun around to plant a fist in his stomach. He let out a whoof and stumbled back a few paces. “Oops,” I said.

“Ow!”

I didn’t apologize; he should have known better. Instead I knelt down and got busy unclipping my surviving saddlebag from the wreck that had been my Yamaha. The other one was completely shredded. I pulled it out from under the ruined bike anyways to see if anything had survived. Nope. I discovered my spare clothing had been inadvertently reconstituted as workshop rags with the exception of a single pair of underwear. In an additional insult to injury my toiletries had squelched out and had soaked pretty much everything.

Wonderful. My current shirt and jeans were filthy with blood and sweat and I was in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma without a ride. I sat down with my rescued panties hanging pathetically from my fingers and sighed. “Great. Just fucking great.”

“Listen,” Sam said as he put the ice pack on my cheek. I flinched, but gratefully held the cold thing to my face. “Why don’t you at least spend the night at my place? In the morning I can take you wherever you want to go.” I peered up at him suspiciously. “Just a peace offering,” he claimed.

Seeing that there was a dearth of options I told him, “Fine.” I stood and walked over to my sword with a scrap of what had been a really comfortable shirt. As I headed back I wiped off the dirt and blood. “No funny business,” I warned him as I pointed the tip at his chest.

Sam eyed it warily. “You got it.”

As the shower warmed up I took stock of my remaining belongings. Bow (no arrows; all snapped), sword, wallet, iPhone, compass. Rollup pouch of various blades. Couple of tampons (which, then and now, made Sam deeply uncomfortable), makeup bag that was miraculously untouched, and the (lonely) underwear.

Sam put a shirt, flannel, and a pair of basketball shorts next to my bag. “Just for now,” he said. “I’ll throw what you’re wearing in the wash.”

“Thanks.” I grabbed what I needed and headed into the now delightfully steamy bathroom.

After passing my clothing out to Sam I used his soap and shampoo. No wonder the man had such a fluffy coif; the stuff he used was really nice. Now clean, my long, black hair wrapped snugly in a towel, I catalogued bruises and cuts. Nothing major. Worst was the mark on the side of my face, the one out there by a human dickwad.

I unfolded Sam’s shirt and snorted. The thing was a tent. I don’t know what he was thinking; he had almost a foot in height on me. Better than nothing. It was comfy and warm and with the flannel everything would be covered. There was no fitting the shorts, however, no matter how tight I made the drawstring. Oh well.

Sam returned while I was packing up the remains of my meager possessions. He still had my clothes in his hands. “Someone’s using the washer. Don’t worry, I’ll get to it.”

“Thanks.” I looked around the motel room. There was only one, albeit king-sized, bed and no couch.

He saw what I was doing and declared, “I’ll take the floor.”

I rolled my eyes. “That bed is huge, dumbass. You stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine.”

“Are you sure? Because—“

“Look, you’re cute, and normally I’d be seeing if you were interested in a good fuck.” Sam flushed. Aw, how precious. Wish I could still picture him that way; what happened between us several months later pretty much scrapped any concepts I had about his innocence. “But I just got knocked in the head several times, not to mention nearly torn to pieces by a bunch of black-eyed assholes. I want to sleep comfortably. And after those guys knocked you around? I bet you do too.”

“Someone also punched me in the stomach,” he said wryly.

I made a disparaging noise before lifting a corner of the covers and climbing into bed. “Good night, Sam.”

“Yeah. Good night, Eva.”

I was woken up a few hours later when Sam’s lips found my neck. My eyes snapped open and I flipped around. Initially, I was prepared to smack him, but he was staring at me with such affection that I was taken aback. “I love you, Jess,” he murmured.

God, if only I’d known then what this little hallucination of his was heralding I’d have walked out that damn door the second I woke up. I merely thought Sam Winchester was in the grips of some really intense dream. It was either that or I’d taken charity from a delirious nutcase.

Nonplussed, I watched as he turned around and sat at the edge of the bed. “God knows how much I miss you, too,” Sam said sadly. “But you’re wrong. People can change. There is reason for hope.”

“What a crock of shit,” I replied bitterly.

“How can you be so sure?” he asked.

I hesitated. I mean, undoubtedly he was talking to Harvey the Rabbit, but I barely knew the man. It wasn’t really the right time and place to expound on the fallacies of the human race. It was taken out of my hands, however, when Sam jerked around and looked at me in horror. My eyebrows shot up as he stood up and stumbled backwards. “Lucifer.”

A chill ran down my spine. I’m in no way religious, especially after everything I’ve seen and been through, but my parents had been devout Christians. I also didn’t have my head in the sand; I knew the Apocalypse that was looming was the biblical Apocalypse, atheists be damned. Sam Winchester had claimed he was responsible. Maybe the guilt had addled his brain. “What do you want with me?” he demanded. “I don’t want anything from you.”

I glanced around and found my saddlebags set neatly at a table near the window at the opposite side of the room. Damnit, I wanted a knife, but I didn’t know how he’d react if I moved. When I turned back, Sam’s expression had gone from horrified to baffled. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

Sam stood and took a few steps back, his gaze pointed at some vague spot on the wall. I guess Satan had gotten to his feet. “No,” he snarled. “No. That’ll never happen.” A short pause. “You need my consent.” And another. “I will kill myself before letting you in.” I really wished I could hear the other half of this bizarre conversation. “You’re wrong.” More silence. “Why me?” His head fell.

When Sam finally raised his head it was to search about as if whomever (or whatever) he’d been talking to had vanished. Much to my consternation those hazel orbs were filled with tears. “Sam?” I ventured.

He jumped. “E-Eva?”

I went for directness. “What the hell is going on?”

“Uh, um, nothing.” Sam turned away.

“Sam,” I snapped. He still didn’t look at me. “You woke me up by kissing me. Then you called me Lucifer.”

That got his attention. He whirled back around. “How much did you hear?”

“Everything you said. So again: what the hell is going on?”

“It’s… It’s nothing.”

All right, enough of Mystery Man and his enigmatic phantasms. “Fuck this, I’m out.” I stood up and whipped off the borrowed flannel. But when I pulled the shirt over my head, fully intending on throwing both things back at their owner, getting dressed, and hitching a ride, his shocked gasp was hard to miss. It wasn’t my sudden nudity; I’d bet Sam Winchester had been treated to much better sights. I’d been so rudely awakened and treated to such a queer spectacle that I’d forgotten I was in his bed as a guest and not a lover, and it meant that I hadn’t warned him about my scars.

They crisscross my back in an irregular pattern. I remember how each of them had been inflicted. This one, here, across my shoulder blades, was from a bullwhip. That one, right under my ribs, was one of a dozen made by a razors he’d kept in a velvet-lined case, blades too small to kill but just right for inflicting pain. The one closest to my nape? His teeth.

After Bobby rescued me, it took months of rehabilitation to get me back on my feet, but once they were healed I’d traveled to Japan. With Bobby’s directions (the man is, quite surprisingly, fluent in Japanese) I’d found a tattoo artist who was also familiar with the supernatural. After two exquisitely torturous days under the needle I had an irezumi, a traditional Japanese tattoo, of a sinuous black dragon curled over my back and buttocks. An anti-possession mark was hidden in its coils along with thirteen Shinto wards meant to ward off evil. It covered nearly all my scars, but in certain lights you could make out every ridge and gouge.

Sam obviously knew he wasn’t looking at the expected inevitable repercussions of living as a hunter. Those would have been scattered, maybe a few on my arms, my legs, my torso. These were concentrated on my back. They’d been artistically inflicted by a sadist, one with centuries of experience. Of course, there was no way he could have known then who and why but his silence spoke volumes.

I slowly put the flannel back over my shoulders. “I’m not telling you,” I said quietly, still not facing the man, “so don’t ask.”

“I didn’t,” he said gently. “I won’t.”

It was refreshing, and jarring, to meet someone who didn’t pry. Some men wanted salacious details, thinking it might be from a background of rough S&M. Others played the macho card and wanted to know who and whether or not the perpetrator had been punished. Both disgusted me, which is why I normally told some outrageous lie (sorority hazing, Halloween makeup gone wrong, a really aggressive dog), then rode ‘em and tossed ‘em in the same night.

Whether Sam would backtrack to appease his curiosity wasn’t a given. Then again, after what I’d seen I was certain he had his own secrets that he didn’t want unearthed. I buttoned up and made a quick decision. “Look. I need a ride to Bobby Singer’s. He obviously knows you so I’m assuming you know him. He hooked me up with my last bike for dirt cheap and I’m pretty damn sure he‘ll do it again. If you’re not going to help me then I need to get moving.”

“No, I’ll take you.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I was planning on leaving town anyhow.”

“Is this… talking to Lucifer thing a nightly occurrence? Should I be prepared?” I had to ask.

Sam chuckled a little, much to my surprise. “No. I’m pretty sure this was a one time thing.”

“Fantastic. Can I get back to sleep now?”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

I tucked myself back into bed. Sam, however, grabbed his jacket. “Where you going?” I asked sleepily.

He gave me a small, sad smile. It made me want to cuddle him. I swear he must practice those puppy eyes. “I’ll be back. Just going for a walk.” I made an agreeable noise as he shut the door.

Man, I’d lucked out. Nearly killed by demons, knocked senseless by a complete asshole, and had my ride and belongings completely fucked over. But surprise, surprise! I scored a free ticket to Bobby’s and a handsome companion to get me there. Afterwards, Sam could go his way, I could go mine. No way I wanted to get into whatever issues the Winchester boy was having, especially since he seemed to be directly involved with the Apocalypse.

I wish time travel was more accessible. Stupid, naive past-me really needed a whack upside the head.

We left as early as possible the next day. Sam paid the reckoning for our room and we loaded up his car, a rust yellow Lincoln Continental with ripped seats and a faint smell of cigarettes. I sat in the passenger’s side and popped open the dash. “George Freedman,” I read off the registration.

Sam turned the engine over. “You really wanna know?”

I tossed the slip of paper over my shoulder. “Nope.”

It was going to take us about a day to get to Sioux Falls (barring traffic) including some overnight driving. I offered to take the middle stretch and he agreed.

Both of us, by unspoken mutual agreement, made no small talk. We were both content to be lost in our own thoughts, the shifting radio serving as a backdrop. It started on a modern pop station, but somewhere between states it morphed into classic rock. I caught Sam mouthing the words for a few minutes before he grimaced and tuned it to country.

“No love for Zepplin?” I asked.

“Nah.”

We did a drive thru for lunch but decided to stop at a sit-down place for dinner, some out of the way diner in Missouri. I ordered a Cobb and a water, he did the same. While we waited I hummed a little, not seeing the need to start a conversation. “That’s a pretty tune,” Sam said, killing my attempt to keep myself distant.

“Piece,” I corrected.

“Okay, ‘piece’. What is it?”

“Chopin’s Prelude in E minor.”

“You play the piano?”

“Played.” It wasn’t as if I could cart an upright around while I hunted.

“Ah.” I resumed humming. Sam, unfortunately, didn’t seem to like awkward silences. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He could ask, but it wasn’t like I was obligated to answer.

“What made you start hunting?”

I shrugged. “Thing killed my family. Went looking for it. The end.”

“That’s… vague.”

No shit, Sherlock. I figured Sam was used to people opening up to him almost right away. He flashes those empathetic eyes at them and they cave. Not me. “So why are you a hunter?”

“Pretty much the same reason.” Our salads arrived and we dug in. “How long ago?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Does that matter?” I asked before popping a cherry tomato in my mouth.

“I guess not. It’s just… you seem pretty skilled. No one gets that good right away.”

“It’s been… several years. You?”

“Almost all my life.”

Wait. “What do you mean ‘almost’? Not including the obvious time you were in diapers.”

Sam poked morosely at some lettuce. “I, um… I went to college for a bit.”

“Where?”

“Stanford.”

I gave a derisive snort. “Stanford.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You’ve got to be the first person I’ve told that isn’t amazed I went there.”

No lack of ego there. “That’s because I went to Berkeley.”

Sam startled me with a bark of genuinely surprised laughter. The rivalry between our two universities was notorious. “You sure you won’t stab me in my sleep?”

“Bears are inherently better than trees, chump,” I declared, referring to our respective mascots.

Sam continued chuckling as he ate. I speared a slice of hard boiled egg and tried to choke it down. Remembering college inevitably recalled the phone call I’d gotten from the SFPD that cloudy Thursday afternoon, taking the BART into the city while numb with shock, seeing the blood liberally splattered over the walls of the place that had once been my childhood home…

I gave up trying to eat and put my fork aside. After a minute or so Sam did the same. It looked like the path of our conversation had killed both our appetites. I wondered if he’d left Stanford for the same reason I’d left Berkeley. However, I didn’t want to pry and only ruminated about how much tuition money Sam had thrown down the drain.

We choked down a few more bites before asking for the check and getting back on the road. Sam had driven until lunch, I’d been driving since then. We switched about three hours in and I curled up in the back to get some sleep.

Sam woke me up again. I figured if I ever wanted to get a full night’s sleep again it had to be without him anywhere in the vicinity. At least this time there was no unintentional molestation; now he was just talking on the phone. I got the impression that he might have begun the conversation quietly for my sake, but the topic was distracting (not to mention agonizing) enough that courtesy had been forgotten. ”He said I’m the one that’s supposed to be letting him ride around in my skin.”

At least this time I could hear the other person. “So, you’re his vessel, huh?” they said. Damn, that was one deep voice. I pictured someone taller than Sam with the build of a lumberjack. Beard, belly, plaid, the works. “Lucifer’s wearing you to the prom?”

“That’s what he said.”

Well, shit. I’d heard about the whole angelic possession thing. A hunter who wanted to survive kept up with new supernatural developments. We all knew that angels were walking the Earth for the first time in thousands of years. They were supposedly powerful, invulnerable, and could freaking teleport. Rumor mill also had it that while demons took unwilling meatsuits, Heaven’s ambassadors needed permission before getting a ride. Therefore Lucifer, who, if I remember correctly, was an archangel, needed Sam’s permission to ride his ass through Armageddon.

I‘d fooled myself into thinking that maybe he’d been playing along in order to get the Douchebag Trio—sorry, Duo—off our backs and that maybe last night’s conversation had been the product of some personal issues he was having. Apparently I was an idiot. I’d been watching Lucifer court his fucking vessel and hadn’t had the foresight to do something about it. Well, it looked like I’d been given a second chance.

Quietly and slowly I reached down and unsheathed my sword. “Dean, don’t do this,” Sam was pleading. A farewell sounded from the other end and he slowly dropped his phone.

I didn’t want to startle him too much; he was driving, after all, and I didn’t want to end up splattered on the side of the road. Instead, I slid my weapon over Sam’s neck with just enough slowdown so he could acknowledge what was happening. “Pull over,” I said softly.

The car drifted to the embankment. “Eva—“

“Shut the fuck up. If I slit your throat would it all be done?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I felt Sam’s throat bob my blade up and down. “Lucifer told me he’d just bring me back.”

It was very likely he telling the truth. There was too much despair in his voice for it to be a ruse. “And the other guy?”

“My brother.“

If there was anything I could empathize with it was sibling estrangement. Still, I might be able to save a lot of lives by killing him. Or maybe he’d just get resurrected and my altruism would bring the literal wrath of Hell down on my head. Just… there was a chance I could derail the Apocalypse right here, right now. Or I might doom myself into having a revengeful lumberjack on my ass for the rest of my life.

I vacillated between the two possibilities for a bit too long. With a speed belied by his size Sam‘s left arm shot over to grasp the back of my shirt. He yanked me into the front seat and I let out a really undignified squeal. I threw my arms up to prevent my head from slamming into the dash as my blade flew to his feet.

After struggling a bit in the small space I ended up in a one-armed chokehold with my boot heels pressed against the passenger side window. Sam’s left arm was wrapped around my body for additional restraint. Frustrated, I kicked the door and the glass several times before letting myself go slack. “You done?” Sam asked irritably.

“Yes.” Even to myself I sounded like a big, pouty baby.

He let me go and moved his tree trunk of a leg so I couldn’t retrieve my sword. “Can we get going now?”

I answered him by slapping him silly. “That’s for starting the Apocalypse.” I slapped him again. “And that’s for Lucifer.”

Sam palmed his cheek, his eyes wide with outrage. “He’s not in me right now!”

“I know,” I said calmly as I settled down in my seat. “Just make sure he gets it.” After buckling my seatbelt I asked, as sweetly as possible, “Can I have my sword back?”

Sam grimaced. He used his heel to slide my samjeongdo under his seat. “No.”

“Asshole.”

When I woke up again it was just after dawn. Sam’s jacket was draped over my shoulders. Nice of him; it wasn’t exactly warm this time of year. Then I saw that we were stopped under a bridge and was pissed; if we were still driving in the right direction and at the same speed we should have been in Sioux Falls. This was definitely not Singer Salvage Yard and that guy that Sam was talking to was not Bobby Singer.

The stranger was slightly shorter than Sam (which still gave him half a foot over me) with a military cut and what were astonishingly handsome features. Man had a chiseled jawline and everything, and the five o’clock shadow only enhanced the package. The way Sam was looking at him, with a mixture of hopefulness and guilt, cemented the fact that this male model wannabe was his brother, Dean. No beard and belly. At least I’d gotten the plaid right.

I watched Dean hand Sam some kind of knife. The former gave the latter what looked like an ultimatum. They came to an agreement, Sam started looking relieved and grateful, and the conversation was over. Time to meet the pretty boy.

I opened the car door and got both of their attentions immediately. I will never forget how Dean’s face went ashen at the sight of me. This was the first time we’d met; there was no reason for him to be looking at me like I was some kind of ghost.

I walked over and stopped near Sam, still meeting Dean’s horrified expression with my own perturbed one. Stupid genetics. These two made me feel like a midget. “What?” I snapped.

“You,” Dean said breathlessly. “I saw you.”

“Stalker much?”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked his brother.

“Future me, man,” Dean said breathlessly. “I caught him lookin’ at this picture of us… them… whatever! Kept it in his pocket like some kind of fricking treasure.”

Sam was as confused as I was, but apparently it was for a different reason. Instead of, “Are you crazy or something?” (which I felt any normal person would have asked) he simply wondered, “Why?”

“Because he said she was someone he’d loved. And at some point…” Dean swallowed apprehensively and looked over at me. His next words would forever leave a black stain our relationship. “At some point she died in his arms.”

Acknowledgement : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episodes “Free to Be You and Me” (SPN 5.03) and “The End” (SPN 5.04).

[superninjaviolinist]

The Girl With the Black Dragon Tattoo, Chapter One

Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by other people that aren’t me.

SPOILER WARNING : This fic begins at the beginning of Season Five and will contain spoilers for all subsequent seasons.

CAUTION: The following is rated DSLV. It will contain strong language, sexual situations, and violence. Eyeball to device discretion is advised.

My name is Evangeline Chung, thirty-five years old. Long black hair, 5’6”, athletic (but not bulky)…

Currently collared and chained to the Throne of Hell like some kind of dog.

The situation sounds terrible, I know, but it could be worse. I mean, the deposed King is on the other side, similarly bound, being treated as if he were a dog, right down to the “Heel! Sit! Lick the floor!” commands. All I’ve gotten so far are gentle strokes to my hair and face, reminders from Lucifer of why I’d submitted to being bound. See, contrary to popular belief the Devil isn’t a demon; he’s an archangel. It means whatever body he inhabits on Earth must belong to a willing participant; those are the rules for heavenly denizens (by contrast, demons can swoop down the throat of whomever, or whatever, they want). They call them their vessels or, more crudely, their meatsuits.

His current vessel is the man, no, the angel who fell in love with me, and I fell in love with in return.

Castiel owed me a big fucking explanation for why this had gone down. There had to have been other options, something that would have prevented this scenario where Lucifer was keeping his little brother’s vessel hostage against my and the Winchesters’ good behavior.

Ah, Sam and Dean Winchester. If it weren’t for them I would have never been anywhere close to this mess. I mean, sure, I would have probably ended up a drained corpse in the middle of a vampire nest, but that’s neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is this: the warm, oh so familiar hand of Castiel is resting on my cheek, and if I don’t submit to Lucifer’s every demand I get to watch my lover and my friends die slow.

This is so fucked up. And it all started with a chance encounter six years ago in Garber, Oklahoma.

I made it into Garber at the same time as the men I had so lovingly dubbed the Douchebag Trio: Steve Bose, Reggie Hull, and Tim Janklow. We had history. At that point in my life I was unabashedly promiscuous. I know now that it was a product of the trauma I’d experienced, but at the time I’d convinced myself that it was my body and I was going to do whatever the fuck I wanted with it.

The four of us used to have a pleasant working relationship, but after I’d begun sleeping with Reggie I discovered that the man wanted more than just sex. When I blew him off the other two turned Mean Girls on me and suddenly we were no longer friends. I swear to God, men can give teenage girls a run for their money in the bitchiness category.

If I’d known Bobby had called these guys I’d’ve shrugged off the request. Well, maybe not. I might have loathed these assholes, but a) no one deserves the kind of brutal end demons were apt to give, and b) I owed Bobby Singer my life. Kind of made me obligated to fulfill any and all of his requests.

The four of us ended up squaring off in front of one of the local dives, Hoyt’s Bar, where Bobby had said the informant was working. “Run along, girly,” came Tim’s opening salvo. “Don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

“Go to hell.”

He and his cronies exchanged amused smirks. “Aw, she wants to play with the big boys.”

“Maybe we should let her play,” Steve suggested. “And when we’re done, she can kiss all our boo-boos better.”

Tim and Steve guffawed while Reggie and I got busy glaring at each other. “C’mon,” he said finally, “leave the slut alone and let’s go.” As I followed them in, I considered how funny they’d look headless.

Hoyt’s Bar was almost cliche in appearance. Wooden tables and walls, sports on the television, darts, pool, and alcohol. The Douchebag Trio was settling down at a table where a tall, well-built, shaggy-haired young man was joining them. I sat nearby and flagged the blonde waitress for a beer.

“Bobby called,” Tim said.

“And?” asked the stranger.

“You were right. Major demon block party going on.”

That was the first time I laid eyes on brooding, empathic, guilt-ridden Sam Winchester. Bobby had outlined the man’s fucked up situation. Sort of. Something about Sam and his brother separating. Made me wonder about what happened. I mean Josie, my sister, and I didn’t talk because… well, there were plenty of reasons, first and foremost being that she spent most of her time either drunk or high. Her normal state of mind didn’t make for very stimulating conversation.

I was too busy brooding over my family and finishing my beer to notice that the other table was looking at me. Reggie cleared his throat. “What?” I snapped.

He rolled his eyes. “I said: you coming with us?”

“Who’s this?” Sam asked.

“Eva Chung,” Tim answered for me. “Thinks she’s a hunter.”

“Yeah?” I threw back. “I bet you think you don’t have a micro-peen. We all have our delusions.”

The three I knew bristled, but I saw Sam lift his hand up to hide a smile. It made me warm up to him. A little. “I’ll come,” I told Reggie.

We all stood. “Good luck,” Sam said quietly.

“Beers are on you when we get back,” Tim said amiably.

“Yeah, you bet,” Sam replied halfheartedly. “And it was nice to meet you,” he said to me. I gave him an appraising look from head to toe before smiling in acknowledgment. Nice body. Handsome. Maybe when all this was done… Unfortunately, there were demons to check on first.

We headed outside and towards the Douche-mobile. Steve was Tim’s best friend, but I sincerely thought that Tim kept him nearby because the man had the sweetest setup in his camper. It had all the bells and whistles: stove, fridge, shower, bunkbeds, even WiFi and charging stations.

I grabbed my sword and its sheathe, a samjeongdo that was given to my grandfather after World War II, out of the saddlebags of my Yamaha before joining the others. Best place to sit was Steve’s dinner table where Reggie was already perched. We ignored each other.

“Got your ching-chong weapon from your ching-chong ride?” Tim asked from the passenger’s seat. I gave him the finger.

Why don’t I have a gun like the rest of these mouth breathers? Frankly, it’s a matter of finances. Bullets cost money. Well, okay. Not a lot of money, but enough. It also involves flashing ID’s and possibly credit cards; both dangerous things to do when your job involves killing creatures that wear human faces. I’ve heard some hunters carry around a bullet forge and use scrap to make their own. I went my own way and sprang for a collapsible bow. Arrows are retrievable, bullets are not.

Okay, I think I’m painting myself as some kind of cartoon heroine, with my Asian weapons and all. Trust me, it’s all either practical or a product of my upbringing. Growing up in a Korean household in San Francisco sort of slates you for certain stereotypes: you eat kimchi, you play the piano, and you learn to be frugal. I did ballet and gymnastics, and after I started hunting I discovered that the flexibility and athleticism translated well to sword fighting. It was a natural progression to my current state.

Reggie checked the clip of his gun while Steve and Tim argued about the destination. I peered out of the blinds. Usual nighttime small town streets. Woods in the background, no people. Peaceful and pleasant if you didn’t know what creeped about in the shadows.

Eventually Steve pulled into the parking lot for the Hawley Five and Dime, one of those twenty-four hour knockoffs of 7–11s. I looked curiously at Reggie. “Cashier is a demon,” he explained.

“And?”

“Trap him,” Steve called as he pulled his shotgun from under his seat. “Make him tell us what’s going on.”

“Here,” Tim said as he tossed me a spray can.

“Where?” I asked.

“Doorway. We’ll drive him out.”

I nodded and the three boys headed inside. I got out of the van a few minutes afterwards, ducking low so that the demon couldn’t see me, and did my job. Star, circle, scribbly runes.

While I was painting I smelled sulfur. The yellow powder had been liberally dusted onto the doormat. At least Larry, Curly, and Moe had gotten the location right, but something struck me as wrong. I got down on my hands and knees to peer a little closer. Was it me or was that too much sulfur for just one demon…? My hackles rose. I stood up and cast my eyes about. Nothing. Yet.

I drew my sword from its scabbard. This didn’t feel good, not one bit. A shotgun blast echoed inside the store and killed the opportunity to do a quick recon. Moments later, a scraggly young man bearing black eyes came pelting out of the glass doors. He smacked into an invisible wall and went down. It was almost comical. “Bitch!” he yelled at me.

Nobody likes name calling. I stabbed the thing in the shoulder. Demons can be hurt, despite rumors to the contrary, and I’d had my sword blessed by Pastor Jim (rest in peace). I had the demon shrieking by the time the others made it outside. I twisted the blade just for the hell of it before jerking it out of his flesh.

The trio just grinned approvingly. Sadists. “Now you got yourself some options,” Tim said down to the demon. “You tell us what we wanna know and we don’t let the young lady here stab you no more.”

“Fuck you,” it spat.

Tim nodded at me. I was loathe to take orders from him, but for this I’d make an exception. Into the other shoulder went my steel. A good, long howl erupted from the demon, but when I pulled my blade out again it started laughing.

We all glanced at each other uneasily. “What’s so funny?” Steve demanded.

“You came here because Sam Winchester told you about us, didn’t you?” The voice came out high and thready: this guy was riding a teenager. “I figured by now no one would be listening to him.”

“Why not?” asked Tim.

“Say please.”

I jabbed the thing in the eye. “Why, please and thank you,” Tim said over the wet sound of its eyeball popping from the socket.

“Why do you think he’s here?” the demon screamed as I whipped the orb off my blade. “Because he and his brother are having marital issues? He’s probably trying to get another fix of demon blood. Got himself addicted to the stuff. Made him feel good and strong. Strong enough to pop Lucifer’s box for us.”

The others were looking flabbergasted by the revelation. I merely frowned before uttering, “Demon’s lie.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned at me, “not all the time. In fact, I’ll even give you another truth, just because you’re so pretty.” It stood up, blood seeping from both shoulders and the empty hole in his face. “I’m not alone.”

There was a wet thump and squelch. We all looked at Steve. His eyes slowly drifted down to his stomach… where a woman’s lacquered nails were now protruding. Their owner yanked them out and spun Steve around before plunging her fingers back in.

And then she pulled.

Whenever I’d been told about a body being “torn apart” I’d always imagined the sort of bloody explosion on a video game. Random pieces of meat flying every which way, no recognizable pieces, red spattering randomly everywhere. But it wasn’t like that. Not at all.

Steve folded over, his guts literally spilling onto the concrete with a splat. Blood emptied out of his body in a steady stream, saturating his organs with a thick, crimson liquid. God, the smell. Piss and shit and copper all at once in a horrible concoction that caused bile to rise up in my throat. And he was still alive. We watched, horrified, as he tried to put his intestines back, desperately scraping and scooping at the mess and gurgling for help.

We all stepped away. The female demon licked blood from her arm, her eyes black from iris to sclera. In another moment there were eight more of them.

Ten demons against three human hunters. We were fucked.

Acknowledgement : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode “Free to Be You and Me” (SPN 5.03).

[superninjaviolinist]

I am trying out this tumblr thing.