You see the black Impala park across the street at the police station and raise an eyebrow. Who are these idiots? Two men step out and share confident looks before walking up the stairs to the front doors. The driver is a rugged, handsome man. He has broad shoulders and walks with an attitude like he owns the world. The passenger is much taller, and his hair is kept shaggy. He has a handsomeness that is different from the driver, but still handsome nonetheless. He seems cautious and worried about something.
You hold back a laugh when your eyes land on their obvious costumes; probably posing as the FBI or Homeland Security. These men are hunters. You've seen how sloppy male hunters can be. After working with five separate male hunters, you realized long ago that working solo was easier and quicker. You crack your back and neck before walking across the street to investigate.
Once the men go inside, you take it upon yourself to search their car. Your finger slides across the driver's side handle and you open it slowly. These old cars don't have alarms, and judging by the driver's attitude, he wouldn't lock this car. You slide into the seat and shut yourself inside. A scoff leaves your lips as you see the keys jingling in the ignition. This bastard really does think he owns the world. After searching for anything to indicate their identity, your eyes land on a paper sticking out from under the passenger seat.
You grab it and nod to yourself. They are staying at the old motel down town. These boys are too easy. They have been inside for a while now, so you step out of the car and keep the paper with you. You can figure out who they are later. No use getting caught in their car. Hunters don't usually play nice when it comes to invasion of privacy.
You take your place back across the street and sit on the bus bench and wait. Just in time. The guys come out talking, obviously trying to piece together what is happening in this town. There have been two murders already and no suspects other than Abraham Lincoln and James Dean. You've been working this case all week. And still nothing. You make eye contact with the driver and flash a flirtatious smile. Maybe he's a lady's man. He licks his lips and smiles back before getting in the car and driving off.
You get into your baby blue Volkswagen Beetle and follow them slowly, keeping a couple cars in front of you just to play it safe. They drive to the motel and you park by the front office. Might as well get a room for the night. Sleeping in the car for the past week has given you a serious crick in your neck. You walk up to the counter and ask for a room. They have one left; perfect. After giving a fake name, and paying in cash, you walk to your room and find that it is directly next to the hunters' room.
Taking a deep breath, you go inside and lock the door behind you. Don't act suspicious and they won't have a reason to notice you, you tell yourself. You decide to take a nap and wait until nighttime to investigate their car some more. After all, you haven't had a decent amount of sleep in ages.
You wake up to the sound of the TV turning on. Sitting bolt upright, you look around the room. You're alone, as far as you can tell. Grabbing the remote, you go to turn off the buzzing television. Your fingers stop from touching the buttons. Maybe you did that. You have been experience more psychic abilities lately. Lifting the hand that doesn't have the remote, you point your fingers at the TV.
"Off," you command.
The screen goes black and you exhale. That seemed relatively easy. You nod at yourself for getting better. Suddenly, a knock at your door makes you jump. Who found you? You grab your pistol from your purse and walk towards the door. The knocking becomes more urgent. Looking through the peephole, while standing on your tiptoes because let's face it; these doors weren't made with a five foot two girl in mind. The handsome passenger with shaggy hair is looking back through.
You cock your gun and slowly open the door. The man shoves the door open scaring you, making the gun go off. Thankfully, neither of you are shot, but the lamp on the nightstand it now shattered. Good thing you paid in cash. The man glares at you like your crazy for shooting a random guy who barges in your room.
"Who are you?" he says harshly.
You hold up your gun. "I could say the same to you."
Damn it. You meant to say that you could ask the same thing. Why do your words always come out wrong? This guy isn't going to take you seriously now. Well, tough luck. You're the one with the gun.
"I'm Sam Winchester."
"Hold up," you lower your gun. "Sam Winchester? Like, Bobby's Sam Winchester?"
He tilts his head slightly. "You know Bobby?"
"Yeah," you say putting your gun on the table. "I'm his daughter."