*Note. This was a project for a writing class, so I wasn't allowed to let my imagination run free. I just wanted to get it up anyway. Yes, I know Jo or Azazel aren't in Supernatural anymore, but has that ever mattered? Theres another note at the bottom, too.

Once upon a time, in a city far away from where you live, was a charming little neighborhood. Well, the residents certainly found it charming enough, although that may not be the word you use to describe it. It was on the south side of the river, where the trash washes up on shore. There were a few ramshackle houses, decrepit garages, and a huge Gothic-century church that had definitely seen better days.

The people who called the place 'home' were a motley crew. They came from every corner of the world, some to live the American dream, some to earn money, and some just to get freedom. They had suffered hardships and lost everything on their way. Those who fought to survive. Those who had no place better.

But of this group, we're following Dean Winchester as he walked up the deserted sidewalk. He stepped over the crumbling parts of the path, avoiding piles of shit, and swung a plastic bag in his hand. He had dark brown hair, green eyes that looked of summer grass, a three day stubble, and a sinewy gait. He wore a mean look on his face, one that said it had seen too much, too early. A tattoo showed through his black leather jacket on his chest, between his neck and shoulder. An anti-possession demon warder.

Dean Winchester was the famous hunter, son of the legend John. He had been raised with military training and precision to track down and destroy the things that went bump in the night. He knew how to put patterns together, that sulfur meant demons, salt scared ghosts, and the only way to kill a vampire was by beheading it. The knight-in-shining armor.

He stopped in front of a gate, if it could be called that. The iron was rusted and there were holes poking through large enough for Dean to have crawled through. What a waste. When Dean shook it open, bits of the peeling paint fell to the ground. He sighed and continued inside.

When he knocked on the door, a small blonde opened it. Jo Harvelle, his best friend, had on a white tank, skinny jeans, and a thick leather jacket that matched Deans but hid her tattoo more securely. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, showing her icy blue eyes that were usually hidden behind bangs. She looked exhausted but genuinely happy to see him there. The damsel-in-distress.

"Hey, you. I've got good news." Jo embraced him, warmth filling her features.

"Did you sleep last night?" Dean asked concernedly, fingering the dark circles under her eyes while he ignored her comment about good news.

Jo pushed his hand away, rolling her eyes. "It doesn't matter. I've discovered where Azazel is."

At the mention of the yellow eyed demon who was the lord of the wild and the army general of Lucifer, Dean's forehead wrinkled. They had been tracking down and working on hunting him for so long. He was in the area, last anyone had heard. All of the hunters knew that he was attempting to bring about the Apocalypse and break Lucifers binding chains. Hell on Earth. The bad-guy.

But only Dean Winchesters younger brother, Sam, had sacrificed his life to stop Azazel's last plan. He would never rest until he returned the monster back to his fiery home. "Well, go ahead." He told her, putting the bag with breakfast on a table missing a leg and balancing precariously.

Jo studied him for a moment. She knew he was hungry for revenge. And that often made people foolish. He had turned to hide the thirst of bloodlust in his eyes. She cared for him too much, though Jo had never told him her true feelings. "Dean, you can't just run off, okay? I know how much you'll want to kill the basta-"

"Jo, not now. Just tell me."

"Promise me you'll be responsible." She pleaded, watching his eyes harden.

"Jo…" He warned her. He was a good guy if he wasn't so driven and stubborn.

Giving in to his will, Jo replied, "He's in the church."

"Our church? Hallowed ground?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Yes. He's much too powerful to let that affect him. A few spells, some holy water- nope. You know he isn't even bothered by that stuff." Jo said.

Dean reached into the coat and pulled out a gun. The Colt. A sleek Patterson made in 1835 with revolving cylinders for an anonymous, long gone hunter. The gun every hunter craved for and was notorious in every monsters book. It killed anything. Even if Lucifer himself were to show his face, this gun would shoot him dead in a single bullet. After all, Samuel Colt himself had made the gun and thirteen bullets.

Of which there were only two left.

"This ought to do the job." Dean told her. He began to turn and leave back out the door with a crazed look in his face.

With reflexes that would rival even a vampire, Jo had grabbed Dean's hands and turned his body to her. Her grip was like a steel vise, and Dean knew that Jo's mother had raised her exactly as John had raised him. He could never wrestle out of her grip. "Ok, Einstein. Hold up. You can't raid the church without a plan. You'll be dead in five minutes flat."

Dean groaned, uselessly pulling at his wrist. "Let go. I have to find the son of a-"

"Dean! Are you listening to a single word I'm saying? First of all, you aren't leaving without me. Second of all, use some preparation. How proud would John be if you marched in there and declared, 'Come forth and do battle!' and got killed?" She demanded.

Dean did pause then. She was right. "Fine. What do we do?"

"That is exactly what I spent all night thinking." Jo smiled at him.

--_=_--

Later at night, Jo and Dean calmly walked out of her dying house toward the church. Vampire hours meant the slums were coming alive, and they walked fast. Jo had changed into a long-sleeved shirt under her leather jacket to better hide the demon-warding tattoo she bore on her bicep in case her coat opened. The one that wouldn't let her be possessed by Azazel in case he grew bored of his old body.

Jo stopped in front of the church and Dean continued to the back door. Nobody knew why it even existed in a place like this. It wasn't visited very frequently. Some families might come every Sunday, but on a Tuesday evening it lay deserted. There wasn't even a priest inside. Not one that was human, anyway.

As Jo made her way inside, the holy water in a flask tucked into her pocket began to sizzle. The only man there was the father in his black robe, lighting candles calmly. 'His nerve!' Jo thought, outraged by the blasphemy.

The man turned, setting his pale blue gaze on Jo. Jo wasn't fooled for a second. She knew that behind his normal pupils was a sickly yellow stare, common to all demons of status. "Yes, my child?" He asked in a pastors voice.

Jo winced when he said 'my child.' Clutching her rosary and suddenly flooded with adrenaline, Jo said in a trembling voice, "Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned."

"What is it, my child? Tell me what bothers you." The priest urged, raising an eyebrow.

"This. Cristo!" Jo spat as she reached into the pocket of her coat. The Latin word for Christ turned the demons eyes to their original color: yellow like a ripe lemon. With one hand, Jo propelled the stake in her hand forward to the man's heart.

There was a pause as Azazel's now normal blue gaze took stock of the girl. "Jo Harvelle, spawn of Ellen and the brave hunter who my son tortured to death." He remembered with a mocking smile.

Jo stared up at him, open mouthed and wide-eyed. "You- you're still alive!" She cried, reeling back with shock.

With a twitch of his fingers, Azazel pointed at the female. She gasped as a sudden force knocked her back into the wall of the church. Staring at the discolored pews with blurry vision, Jo felt her knees buckling as she collapsed.

"Who told you, silly human, that demons could be killed with wood?" He asked, gripping the ash stake and pulling it out of his heart. There was no blood, not even a hole as his ripped robe showed. "So, I heard your boyfriend was in town. I was going to pay him a visit, but it seems you've come to sacrifice yourself before I got a chance. The Winchesters are such a bad influence on you, dear. Remember what happened to Sam?"

As if Jo needed reminding. She'd never forget. She was having a hard time breathing but still, every one of Azazel's words were like a stab in the back to her. She forgot everything for a moment and had to concentrate just to inhale. The abrupt tornado came again, pulling her up and locking her with the cold, moldy wall behind her back. Jo could feel a pressure at her neck. Her legs flailed in the air, yearning for solid ground.

"So tell me: where is he? Waiting for me once I go outside? Are you his scapegoat?" Azazel asked, relaxing his hand.

Jo found it easier to breathe once he did that. "He doesn't know I came," she answered in a hoarse voice. "He doesn't even know you're here."

"Really? Jo, drop the façade, sweetie." He advised.

"He doesn't know!" She insisted, and the pressure returned. Jo inhaled sharply, but bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

"He doesn't?" Azazel inquired once more.

"No." Jo said evenly.

"Well then, I'm bored of you already. I need to find that bloody idiot and get on with raising my master. This Arctic Hellhole is making me sick. I don't see what I can do for you any longer." Azazel dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

With that, Jo flew into the pews hard; it smashed into her ribs with an audible force. Her shirt stained with the blood coming from an invisible gash. She couldn't move, she couldn't see. Her coat flew open, and holy water was leaking out of the flask that had opened with the violence that had just occurred. "Dean…" Jo whispered with what felt like her last breath.

Azazel fixed his eyes on her, enjoying her slow death with steady eyes. He imitated her in a nasal tone "Dean!"

"That's my name. Don't wear it out." A voice rang out clearly in the church.

Azazel turned in shock.

A shot rang out.

Time froze.

And then lightning exploded from the wound in Azazel's forehead. His eyes turned their piss color and he fell to the ground, dead. The church robe spread out under him like an early funeral shroud.

Dean paid no heed to the demon he'd had to kill and dashed to Jo's side. His coat was off him in seconds, pressed to her wound. "Its okay, Jo. Breathe. Breathe, dammnit!"

She gasped, "Dean?"

"You called and I came. At your service ma'am." He told her, putting his arms under her and lifting her close to his chest. Jo flinched at the pain the movement caused, and Dean quickened his pace. "You'll be fine." He assured her as her eyes met his.

"Dean?" She repeated.

"Jo?"

She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his gently. "I love you." She murmured.

Dean returned the kiss and said, "I love you, too. And after this, we're going away far away from this mess."

With a satisfied smile, Jo fell back unconscious.

--_=_--

A new patient was admitted to Mercy Cross Hospital that night. She was soon well enough three days later to leave for home. Nobody ever heard of her or the enigmatic man she had come with again. They left behind only a bullet, just as mysterious as themselves, as a token of what was assumed to be their appreciation. Nobody knew what to do with it.

--_=_--

Two days later, a body was found by a local family in an old church in a bad area of town. The place stunk of sulfur. Despite the fact that it was a preist who was dead, the case was never solved.

--_=_--

A month later, a happy family consisting of a cute woman who was still healing from some wound and a handsome man moved into a small house with a white pickett fence in a place far away from there they used to live, in a real charming neighborhood with emerald grass and a white pickett fence. You see them sometimes, exchanging a smile or getting into their black car from your window, usually at night. But it doesn't matter. They don't matter, right? Just another normal family. You don't care about them. The couple lived happily ever after.

The End

*Note: Ok, ok, Dean would never settle down. But who said he did? Sorry Sam had to be the one to die .. It just seemed appropriate.