First attempt at a Supernatural fic!
Warning: I haven't really written many stories on humans. I mostly do animals, so this might not be the best.
Please review! :)
~Cas
Dean sat bolt upright.
Trembling fingers shot up to his forehead, which stung, and met the rough surface of a gauze bandage. He grunted at a sharp pain, propping himself up on the bed on his elbows. He felt drunk, hungover. Both were feelings he was accustomed to, due to his constant drinking. His eyes swam and his head throbbed, but he slipped his feet out from under the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, as he looked disorientedly at his surroundings.
The room was cluttered, the wooden floor littered with torn notebook pages and novels. A shotgun rested on the side of the headboard of the small bed, and he reached a shaky hand down to grasp it.
As he lifted it up, tracing the cold metal with his fingers, he got to his feet. Dried blood stained a shirt that lay in a discarded heap in the corner, and he frowned, looking at the door.
He made his way over to it, hearing the creak of the floorboards under his bare feet.
He placed a hand on the doorknob, preparing to knock the door down. To his surprise, it swung open easily, and the muffled sound of rock music reached his ears, causing his already-aching head to throb as if in protest. He cursed under his breath as stumbled over a pile of books, scattering them with a well-aimed kick.
He found himself in a hallway, a short one, with a door at the other end. It was slightly ajar, and he raised the gun as someone walked past it, blocking the light for a second.
"Sammy?" He called warily, but his cracked, raspy voice was swallowed by the deafening music.
He burst through the door, pointing his gun at the first person he saw.
A young woman blinked back at him, a dirty plate in hand.
He looked her quickly up and down, as if evaluating whether she was friend or foe.
She was short and thin, and wore a crinkled red tank-top and baggy pajama pants. She had pale skin, with just a small spatter of freckles on her small nose and flushed cheeks. Her vivid green eyes studied his face, and her hair was wrapped in a towel on her head.
He jabbed the gun at her, opening his mouth to say something.
She snatched the top of the gun and swiveled it so it was pointing down at the tile floor. She twisted it from his grasp, tossing it and letting it skid across the floor. "Morning!" She called loudly over the music that filled the room, offering him a broad smile before moving to place the plate in the sink.
Dean fixed his gaze on her, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for a small silver knife, which he flipped open and pointed at her with shaky hands. "Where the hell am I?"
She dropped the plate absent-mindedly, throwing her hands up as if to surrender and fixing her wide eyes on the silver blade, sudden anxiety in her eyes. The plate shattered on the floor.
Sam's voice reached Dean from where he sat at a table to Dean's right. "Woah, Dean, take it easy,"
Dean glanced in his brother's direction, keeping the knife trained on the girl.
"Take it easy?" He snapped. "I'd like to know where the hell I am and who the hell you are before I 'take it easy',"
"Fine," the girl said calmly. "I'm Rissa. This is my apartment," she said. "Now put the knife away?" The girl asked, a fearful edge to her tone.
He glared, lowering the blade slowly.
She dropped her hands to her side, bending down to scoop the shattered remnants of plate into a bag.
"Sammy, what happened?" He asked, walking over to his brother. Sam sat back down, eyes on his laptop.
"Werewolves," he stated simply. "But get this," he said, looking up from the screen. "It's not full moon. Not even CLOSE," he said with a frown.
Dean slumped into the chair opposite his brother, watching Rissa as she turned her music off, frantically trying to get all the shards in the bag. She jolted back as one cut her. "Shit," she snapped, sticking her bleeding finger in her mouth and carrying the bag one-handedly over to the wall.
Dean blinked. "Why are we here?" He asked in an almost angry tone. Rissa had stumbled backwards over her own kitchen stool, and was trying to get to her feet, obviously frustrated.
"You got hurt. It was pretty bad." Sam said.
"But who is SHE?" He asked. Rissa was apparently out of earshot, as she didn't pay any attention to the conversation.
"A hunter. And a damn good one, according to Bobby," Sam said, but he glanced doubtfully at the girl as she slipped on the tile, barely keeping her balance by clutching the counter.
Sam shrugged. "I trust Bobby,"
She looked over at the Winchesters with bright eyes. "Food's in the fridge. Help yourself," she called, hurrying into the bathroom.
Dean shook his head slowly, getting to his feet and swinging the refrigerator door open. He frowned. It was full of canned Pepsi and microwave meals, so he took a Pepsi and sat back down. "No beer," he commented, popping the top off of the Pepsi.
Sam didn't look up from the computer, but his expression changed.
"Looks like we have TWO cases," he muttered.
Dean looked up from the pop, raising an eyebrow.
Sam turned the computer so Dean could see.
"Seven deaths," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Not murders, not suicides, these people died of sheer clumsiness,"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Judging by Rissa, this town could just be full of clumsy idiots," He muttered, thinking that the short, clumsy girl couldn't possibly be the 'damn good hunter' Bobby had apparently directed Sam to.
Sam gave him a warning glare. "Seven deaths in two days?" He said, turning the laptop around do he was facing it again. "Dean. One of these guys was smoking while he put gasoline in his car."
Dean shrugged, taking a swig of the drink.
"Another got his tie stuck in an elevator door! We should at least check it out." Sam said.
"Check what out?"
Rissa stood at the exit to the bathroom, sporting a tight t-shirt with the words 'Panic! At The Disco' scrawled across it in spidery cursive and ragged jeans. She had unwrapped her pale brown hair from the towel, and it fell around her shoulder blades, apparently dyed bright blue at the very tips. She smiled happily, completely oblivious to Dean's distrusting glare.
"Listen, sweetheart." Dean started out sarcastically, getting to his feet. "Thanks for all the help, but I think we've got this one covered."
Sam swallowed, anxious gaze flicking from Dean to Rissa.
"Well, you aren't going anywhere without me!" She chirped, still not noticing the daggers in Dean's eyes.
"And why's that?" Dean snapped.
"The car," she said casually, glancing at the window. "It got pretty beat up."
Dean brushed past her, looking out the window above the sink that provided a view of the parking lot. The Impala wasn't among the cars that were parked there, and Dean clenched his teeth. "Where's the Impala?"
"At the shop," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "We'll have to use my car." She frowned slightly, walking over to him. He turned to face her, but before he could say anything, she had one hand on the side of his forehead, and the other she was using to pry the bandage from his head.
He let out a sharp gasp, clasping his hands to his forehead. "What the HELL!" He snapped, taking a step back.
She inspected his wound carefully. It was only a scrape, not too deep, and she smiled, satisfied. "Yep, you're healed enough to leave here," she said, half to herself, discarding the bandage on the already-cluttered floor and heading for the door.
Dean squared his jaw, glaring at Sam before following her reluctantly.
"Hey, Dean," Sam grabbed his brother's arm, worry in his eyes. "You sure you're up to a hunt?"
Dean shrugged. "I'll be fine," He said, slightly irritated.
Sam let go with a low sigh, falling into step behind Dean as they descended the long set of stairs down to the parking lot.
"Sam and I loaded the equipment in the back before I called the shop," She stepped into her car, a small green Ford, and beckoned for them to follow. Dean opened the back, leaving Sam in the passenger seat.
"What model is this?" Dean asked.
She looked vaguely confused, glancing at his reflection in the rear-view mirror.
"What model car?" He asked, trying to clarify what he meant.
She shrugged. "Dunno. It works, that's all I care." Dean looked disbelievingly at the girl. She started the engine and the CD player kicked on, somewhere halfway through Paramore's album.
Sam jumped a little, startled by the sudden burst of music. "The first man's name was Wolfe," He called over the drum music that filled the car.
She fumbled with the volume controls. "Huh?"
"Wolfe, Kurt Wolfe," he said. "First victim."
She fingered the silver locket that hung around her neck. "All right!" She exclaimed, clutching the steering wheel with another smile. "Where to?"
Yay! Done with Chapter One. I'm not sure if Rissa is turning out to be a Mary Sue or something, so honest opinions would be GREAT :)
I might not update frequently, so bear with me!
~Cas