She languished in the shadows, seated at an antique wooden table. Although she strongly suspected it was a well-made rosewood fake, she didn't nit pick. Not today, on a day that would be so important.
The bar she had chosen was out of the way, dingy and secluded, so she was relatively alone. Besides the drunken man on shore leave and the bartender, as well as a few men who looked one step above homeless, she was by herself, and the only woman in the room. She sipped her whiskey, feeling it burn down her throat and smiling for a moment at the sensation.
The drunken man who'd been eyeing her lewdly stumbled in her direction from his barstool, yet she pretended not to notice. He pulled out a chair from the table next to hers and plunked down next to her, his beer sloshing around and spilling over the lip of his mug. He was an ugly brute, short, stumpy and bearded. Alcohol wafted on his breath when he spoke, the pallor of his skin was a sickly yellow, which reminded her of a man she'd seen one day in Africa who had horrible leprosy. He'd been a pathetic specimen, and she had promptly put him out of his pointless, mortal misery. He'd given her a headache. Not that this man was much better, with his cocky attitude and pungent odour.
"You looking for a good time gorgeous? Cause Spencer can deliver!" He leaned closer to her, studying her raven-black hair, light hazel eyes and pale skin with glazed interest and thinly hidden perversion. She had on a typical outfit of an early twenty year old, tight blue jeans and a black halter-top that nicely complimented her flat stomach and visible curves. She was well toned and stunning to look at, and she knew it well. Her blood-red lips attracted particular attention.
He swayed in his seat, placing a hand on her knee before slowly moving it up her thigh. Her heart shaped face and high cheekbones betrayed her, filling with disgust as her eyes flicked down to his stumpy hand. Whisky brown eyes darkened in a flash, black as night, but the man before her was too wasted to notice. Her hand caressed Spencer's for a moment, before finely manicured fingers grabbed short fat ones and twisted them deftly backwards, breaking three.
Spencer screamed in pain, falling off his chair and rolling on the dirty hardwood floor. His dark, matted hair caught more then a few dust bunnies as he sobbed, staring up at the raven haired woman that had mutely gone back to her drink. She looked down on Spencer, which was the way she preferred to look at men, and gave a rare smirk.
She flipped open her deep red phone and dialled a familiar number as she walked to the bar and dropped a few bills down on the varnished wood.. Her hips swayed with every step, and the other trashed men watched with mild interest as Spencer desperately tried to climb onto the chair she'd left behind, pain etched into his sagging features.
When she got out into the cold night she raised the phone to her ear, her expression that of a bored collage student, instead that of a woman who'd just broken three fingers and left the bartender with a great story.
She tapped her foot lightly, not in impatience but in the spirit of acting. On the other end of the line there was a ring.
The dirty sides of buildings and broken down cars were her only witnesses. There were fires burning bright orange along the street, a few homeless people standing by them, their breath floating into the air in insignificant clouds alongside the smoke for their makeshift radiators as they warmed themselves. She scanned them impassively, only interested in people who would be a threat for her. Her scarlet lips were pursed slightly.
Finally the phone was picked up.
"Hello?" An overly chipper, distinctly female voice assaulted her ears, and yet she smiled. A rare, true smile, that was a terrible thing to behold on a face so striking. Careful and cunning, evil to its very root.
"Zana." Her voice was silk, as smooth and as uninhibited as polished stone.
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then the voice of her 'sister' came to her.
"Sorcha. About time you called."
"Did you find them?" She didn't bother with pleasantries, didn't believe in them. Her eyes were fixed on the dancing flames from the nearest barrel.
"Hello to you too." The line crackled with static, and Sorcha stepped to the side. The snapping and fuzzy sounds stopped abruptly. Her patience was wearing thin.
"Just answer me Zana."
"Well, the eldest is in South Carolina." Came the reply, and she felt vague surprise. Her clear eyes widened by a millimetre.
"And the one we need?"
"I'm assuming the same place, but they haven't been seen." There was a pause, and the sound of shuffling papers. "Not by my sources anyway. Did you find Desiree?"
"No. She didn't show."
"Well, she'll turn up. We'd know if she'd been exorcised." Calm and collected was how her friend seemed, but she knew better. "Besides, we've got work to do."
The beautiful woman nodded in the dark slums of Washington, her cruel smile returning to the flawless face. Her eyes had gone back to black, and the firelight reflected in them like a shimmering prism, red and orange sinking into translucent flickers of colour.
"They won't live past the month."
Dean Winchester didn't have that blissful after-sleep amnesia that he had read about in true-life accounts from random trauma books, and that he himself had experienced once or twice when he woke after a hunt. Instead he had the extreme feeling that he was royally, truly, and completely screwed. Two women who he didn't know had either A) Taken him to a hospital, where he would be arrested shortly after getting fixed up. B)Taken him to their house, (Which under any other circumstances he would been very pleased with) and decided to figure out who exactly he was, Or C) Left him lying on the ground next to Frank's re-dug grave.
He wasn't cold, and he was fairly certain he was lying in a bed and not on grass. So that ruled out C.
His wrists were tied with what felt like leather straps to the sides of the rather cushy bed he was lying on. That didn't actually rule out anything. If he had been dropped on his ass next to a hospital then they would know who he is by now, and probably restrain him to keep him from killing someone/escaping/Killing himself.
He chuckled to himself, imagining Henrickson's face as Dean, hysterical, waved a hypodermic needle around in the air of a white room, wearing the usual hospital track pants and baggy shirt, preparing to kill himself to avoid going back to prison. 'No, I won't go back there. I CAN'T GO BACK INSIDE YOU HEAR ME?! I WON'T!' Meanwhile a timid Henrickson would be babbling in a corner, fearing for his own life.
"He's a colourful guy, isn't he?" A voice asked, from what sounded like another room.
He briefly toyed with opening his eyes, but discarded the idea when the second voice answered, much closer. Like, next to his bed.
"Oh yeah, did you read the pile? Phil Rudd, Vincent Damon Furnier, Scott Spektor, Michael Von Bovi, Rudy Sarzo." There was the click of plastic on plastic after each name; amusement rang through the woman's tone. Almost like she recognized the titles.
"Oh, my favourite has to be Andrew Oldham." Was the pleased answer. "And Look at what the ID's are for! FBI, Homeland insurance, Animal control? Honestly, how stupid are police officers these days?"
"Pretty stupid. There's one here for secret service. Apparently he covers the president when he's not catching stray dogs and paying people's life insurance policies."
Dean's eyes snapped open, and he gave a groan as light flooded his corneas and blinded him. His wrists strained the worn leather that bound them as he instinctively went to cover his eyes, and he waited for them to adjust.
"Hey Sar, he's awake."
When the light faded he blinked a few times, then stared to his right. The first girl he'd met, Adina, was sitting with her feet up on the edge of the bed, the small amount of weight creating a barely visible dent in the soft white comforter. He was above the sheets, strapped to the four-poster bed and…. Shirtless?
"Leather? Ooh, kinky." He grinned wolfishly at the girl next to him. "This is a dream come true. Did Sammy set this up for my birthday?" The girl didn't look impressed. "I mean sure, it's a little early, 8 months or so… But it's a nice gesture."
Her deep brown eyes were amused yet inquisitive, and she was thumbing through a stack of plastic cards. His entire collection of ID's, he had to assume. She had changed her clothes, and was wearing a Hawaiian style strapless sundress of bright yellow and white. She looked good, especially with her dark hair out of a ponytail and tumbling down her bare shoulders. Her long, well-toned legs were crossed in a way so ladylike that he almost forgot the ass-kicking she had gotten the night before. There were subtle reminders, like the dried blood that peeked out beneath her nose and the light bruising around her right eye. Otherwise she looked just as naïve, just as fresh-faced as the first time he laid eyes on her.
He looked around the room, which had horrible orange paint that was peeling and faded. There was a low white dressing table across the room from the bed; It looked too heavy to throw if he had to, but he might be able to pull a fake out and make them hit it hard enough to hurt or distract them. There was a mirror on the night table next to him which was a ghastly pale red colour, spotted with brown around the edges of the glass.
He mentally slapped himself in the face for ever using the word 'Ghastly'.
The place basically didn't look very lived in, and he guessed a motel room. The tell-tale signs of a pair of motel-hoppers were all there, the fast food cartons, paperwork on the floor and the unmade bed next to him gave the hunter a strange sense of familiarity that he knew wasn't a good idea. He fought it back and smirked at the girl, his eyebrows raised. She had paused in flicking through the ID to stare at his chest, and hadn't pulled her gaze from it since.
"Like what you see?" He shifted his weight, muscles rippling under taunt skin, and she leered at him.
"I've got better in my basement." She winked at him and went back to her discs.
He stared at her in disbelief, and was still in shock when the girl that had saved both of their asses strode in. Her hair was still in a bun, but looked damp, small, smimmering beads of moisture ran down her face. Apparently she'd just gotten out of the shower. He caught a glimpse of ice blue eyes before black and bulky 'Paris-Hilton-just-got-out-of-jail-and-is-hiding-her-shame-behind-gucci' sunglasses hid them.
"Oh look, it's sleeping beauty." She muttered, seemingly unimpressed. She had on a ragged pair of jeans, baggy all the way through and comfortable looking, a pair of green converse sneakers and a red shirt with beaded designs along the neck and spiralling up from the bottom. The fabric was darker and damp in places, mainly around her neck and on her chest.
"Yeah, 'cause I haven't heard that one before." He smirked, feeling superior.
She smiled pleasantly, ambled over, and he barely had time to widen his eyes before the back of her hand connected with his cheekbone hard enough for him to see spots.
"Now. You're going to tell me what the hell you were doing at our job, and your gonna tell me before I take out my crowbar." Her smile was still there, unwavering, but the look in her eyes was murderous. Dean had no wish to be on the receiving end of another blow, especially when he was pretty sure his side was bleeding again.
"I was working it." He muttered, eyes fixed on the budding stain of scarlet on otherwise pristine white cloth. Bending his neck like that was uncomfortable, but he did want to keep track. He glanced up at the first girl, who was staring as well, her expression a facade of anxiousness
"Sahara." The girl said, standing up and dropping his many artificial identities on the ground.
The other girl rounded the bed, saw the blood and reacted consequently.
He chuckled while Adina started to take off the bandages, then stopped. Why was he feeling dizzy all the sudden?
"Yeah, that's right. Be a smartass." Sahara tossed some towels over to her friend, who was working on his wound furiously. "When the only thing standing between you and the grim reaper is Adina and Sahara, hunters extraordinaire."
Dean watched with a giddy gaze while the bloody bandages were replaced with a stack of gauze and a new cover. "Actually I met a reaper once… Not a bad guy… Way too into vengeance and stuff though."
"It's Sahara." She was pissed.
Out of the blue there was a shrill ringing in his ear, so he shook his head to dislodge it. It happened again, and again and-
Oh, it was his cell phone.
He smirked when Sahara reached into his pants pocket and pulled it out, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She pursed her lips like she had just seen something nauseating and flipped it open, offering it to Adina.
The other girl lifted her blood-soaked hands and a glared, and the two girls went though a series of silent and frantic movements. Obviously they were trying to decide who would talk to the person on the other line, who was saying 'Hello' over and over again and asking for Dean.
Finally, Sahara put the phone to her ear.
"Hello, you've reached Dean Winchester's phone."
Dean blinked. He didn't have his proper ID in his wallet, so how'd she known his name?
Sam blinked in surprise when a woman answered his brother's phone, giving a proper name for his brother. He must've liked this girl to give a real name, instead of one ridiculous stage name or another
"Uh…Hi. Can I please talk to Dean?"
"Um…" There was a break of static, "He's a bit busy right now."
"Well I'm sure you're having a lot of fun, but this is kinda urgent." He fixed his long hair in the dirty mirror of his cheap bathroom, drawing his eyebrows together to see his expression. He'd really have to work on his 'I'm not amazed' look.
He opened his mouth to ask how she knew his name, but the sound of the speaker hitting something solid cut him off abruptly. He could her hushed mumbling from far away, and then a crackle of breath as his brother came answered the phone. What the youngest Winchester didn't know was that the phone was actually being held up to his brother's ear by and blood-soaked hand, and that he was tied to a bed in the middle of god-knows where.
"Hey Sammy, how's Wisconsin?" Dean smiled up at the Adina, who shrugged while Sahara wiped off the dried blood around his new bandages.
"Are you in the middle of something I don't want to know about, or am I misreading things?" Dean rolled his eyes.
"Oh no, I think you'd really like to hear about this."
"Right." His brother's voice was laced with sarcasm. "Anyway, Black dog was a bust. Turned out it was a couple kids and their Newfoundlander playing pranks. How was the spirit?"
"Painful," Dean mumbled "But doable."
"A riot. Listen, Sammy. I've been kidnapped by-"
Adina slammed the phone shut, and seven states away Dean's worried brother started yelling 'WHAT?' at a solemn dial tone.
Another harsh backhand met his jaw, connecting with the ease of an expert.
"You are stupid, aren't you?" He stared at his two captors, smiling when Adina stomped off to wash her hands.
"Nah, but he'd have known something was wrong eventually." Dean stretched and made himself comfortable, staring at Sahara's face arrogantly. Truthfully, he was a bit worried. These girls knew his full name, had all his fake ID's, and were evidently well trained hunters. Why they'd kept him here was a mystery to him. He watched her walk away, then decided to give her a last little push.
"Besides Sara, Sammy's one of the best. He'll have me out of here in no time."
She paused, sneakered feet squishing into the plush carpet. Her shoulders were tense, her fists clenched.
She slowly turned around on the spot, walked over, and stood next to the bed. Her face lowered so it was inches from his and her sunglasses were on the bride of her nose, showing a sliver of silver-blue eyes. He shivered. They were homicidal.
"My name," his hostage taker whispered "Is Sahara, Sa-Har-Ah. And I swear to god if you call me Sara, or Suma, or anything else but my name one more time; I will chop you into pieces, put you into a blender and feed you to a windego as a Winchester milkshake. I'll even put hot sauce in there just for fun." She smiled at the proposal, and her smile was almost as disturbing as the look in that little patch of blue he could make out.
"I don't care what the hell you know about yellow eyes. I will kill you, and I will enjoy it."
Dean pulled his eyes from her chest for a second, looking sharply at her.
"You know about-"
She laughed, a glowing, radiant sound that he found himself wanting to hear again, and levelled herself to her regular height.
"Who doesn't these days?"
And with that ominous statement passed from her lips, she turned around and walked into the bathroom. Presumably to talk to her accomplice.
Dean took the time to plot his escape, staring around at the room to get his bearings a bit better. He took a mental stock.
'Okay. So my weapons are on the coffee table five feet from me, which, judging by the marks on the carpet, was moved when I got here. They found everything in my clothes, and apparently the knife in my boot. They know my real name, most of my aliases, and kept anything sharp at least six feet away. Smart move, anything under four I might've gotten... This isn't their first time at the rodeo.' He looked for windows, extra exits, anything that could get him out of here. 'No windows, no exits besides the front one. So even if I tried to get out of here tonight I'd have to get myself out of these straps, get my weapons, because there's no way I'm leaving those behind, find my car keys if they have them, which they might not, walk by both their beds and the bathroom, open the rusty deadbolts and run as fast as I possibly can with a probable concussion and a cursed wound. And that's assuming that one of them isn't going to stay up all night and keep an eye on me.'
"Great." Dean muttered to the air, desperately hoping Sammy was on his way.
Dean's Aliases (All are classic rock References)
Phil Rudd-Former drummer of AC/DC.
Vincent Damon Furnier- Alice Cooper's birth name.
Scott Spektor- Bon Scott was lead vocalist of The Spektors.
Michael Von Bovi-Bon Jovi.
Rudy Sarzo-Bassist for Ozzy Osborne's touring band in the late 1970's.
Andrew Oldham- Andrew Loog Oldham was the manager of the rolling stones in the 1960's.
Welcome, 2008! This is my welcoming post. HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL YOU LOVELY PEOPLE! -Free Drinks for all-