Jordan Delaine is back!
I honestly wasn't sure if I'd come back to her again, but out of the blue she popped into my head. I had a crazy scene playing out, where Sam's being convicted of the myriad of things the boys would be convicted for, and she just waltzes into the hearing ... and here I am. If you have no idea who Jordan Delaine is, she's the most recent edition to the Winchester crew. She first appeared in my fanfiction "Her Boys" as the runaway mall slave who discovers a talent for hunting.
Anyway - Enjoy!
Judge Eugene Hale was having a good day. His wife had actually deigned to make him coffee today, which meant that whole anniversary thing was forgiven and forgotten—and suggested maybe he'd be having a good night tonight as well. The trial he was currently presiding over was nothing special, open-and-shut in the truest sense, and one that would look good in the papers to boot. The defendant's name was Sam Winchester; he'd done some unmentionable things to a grave, things that the judge would just as soon have never known about. Revolting. Usually cases like these took an agonizingly long time to wade through, but there was such a quantity of evidence against the defendant, the judge really couldn't foresee any problems whatsoever. Add the bottom-of-the-barrel court-appointed sleaze Sam Winchester had defending him, and it looked it looked as if Judge Eugene Hale might just be going home early today, to have his dinner with his wife and two children, both of whom were rotten to the core and probably just this minute planning how they'd ruin his (so far) excellent day. With the prospect of an early day, a good meal, and-although this might be too much to hope for-quiet children, Judge Eugene Hale relaxed back in his extra-padded chair, tapped his fingers absently against the mahogany wood before him, and let his mind wander.
No one else in the courtroom seemed very attentive to the proceedings either, although the prosecutor was making a token effort; a case like Winchester's, of course, could very well be just what he needed to make his career. But the heat of the summer day was leaking in from outside, making everyone lethargic and giving the world a steamed quality, and somewhere nearby there was a fly buzzing. In the jury box, one man had actually fallen asleep.
Amidst the prosecutor's drone, the fly's incessant whining, and the soft snores of the grey-haired man on the jury, there came a sound. It came from out in the hall—at first Judge Eugene Hale thought he was imagining it—it grew gradually, steadily louder, and as most women the judge knew wore sneakers, it took him a moment to recognize the sound as heels clicking against the stone floor of the courthouse.
Just as this thought crossed his mind, the doors flew wide, banging into the walls and knocking aside the first guard, who crumpled straight to the ground. The man on the jury awoke with a snort and the prosecutor, who had been trying to work up something resembling enthusiasm, stopped midsentence. They all stared collectively to the back of the courtroom.
She strode forward, hips swinging, stride confident. The judge felt as if he were being mesmerized. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the second guard was having similar troubles.
The woman moved quickly and fluidly up the middle aisle, a long swath of hair tumbling down her back in waves. It swung with every step she took. What was she doing here? What could she want? As she drew up to his desk, however, he looked at the defendant and saw relief in the other man's face—and that was when Judge Eugene Hale finally registered the very large, very scary, very deadly rifle the woman was carrying in her hands.
"Hey, boys," she said, her voice a throaty purr as she glanced from the judge to the guard and back again. "This here's a stick up." And then she laughed, as if this were a joke, throwing back her head and exposing a long neck—
"Put down your weapon!" the guard shouted, wrenching the judge to his senses. The guard was reaching for his own weapon. "Do it now!"
As the handgun came up, the assault rifle swept over, and a loud pop echoed through the courtroom. A few people screamed. But instead of a hole in the guard's chest, there was a fuzzy little—but no. Couldn't be. The judge squinted. It was. She'd shot the guard with a horse tranquilizer! What sort of criminal was she, anyway?
She bent swiftly—the judge had to close his eyes—to fetch the keys from the guard's belt, and then tossed them neatly to Sam Winchester. "Hey, baby," she said, as she threw them. He caught them without appearing to have moved at all, and the judge saw on his face an answering smile, just as wicked as hers. The judge would smile too, if he had a woman like that, willing to break him out of prison in the middle of a court proceeding—where, by the way, there were security cameras aplenty.
Sam Winchester's lawyer seemed to be temporarily paralyzed with horror, but the same couldn't be said for the prosecutor. The man's face was almost purple with rage. Fingers hooked into claws, he went for the girl at a run, and that was when Sam Winchester struck.
The attack was so sudden, so violent, that at first the judge couldn't comprehend that it had happened at all. One moment, the lawyer was standing there, about to smack the living daylights out of that girl, and the next he was flat on his back, and didn't look as if he'd ever get up again. She hefted her rifle and grinned.
"Good to have you back, babe," she said. "C'mon. The car's waiting."
They waved at the jury, whose mouths were without exception hanging full open, and walked together arm-in-arm out of the courtroom. No one tried to stop them.
He wondered how they'd get past the guards out front but, upon reflection, decided they'd probably already met a fate similar to that of the guards in the courtroom. He watched them go—the doors swung shut—and it occurred to Judge Eugene Hale that he was having a very, very bad day indeed.
Jordan Delaine jumped into the backseat of the Impala so that Sam could sit up with Dean, who was grinning at his brother with a twinkly look in his eyes. She figured Dean would want a moment. Nothing girlie, you know—Dean punched Sam in a shoulder. "Long time no see, brutha," he said, just as Jordan had guessed he would, and Sam grinned back at him.
"I was starting to think you weren't coming for me," Sam said, as Dean hit the gas and roared out of the parking lot.
" 'Course we're coming for you," Jordan told him. "We're always coming for you. We just had—some hiccups."
"Like the-prosecutor-had-mojo hiccups," agreed Dean.
Sam's eyebrows jumps. "Explains why he was so pissed. What kind of mojo?"
"South American mojo," said Jordan.
"Guy likes to party in Rio." Dean mimicked downing some shots and chuckled to himself. He seemed to recall something, and asked seriously, "How'd the job go, though? Did you finish it?"
"Well," said Sam.
The setting: Long Island, hotel ballroom, evening gowns and penguin suits mandatory.
The time: Some three months previous.
The characters: various schmucks, schmoozers, and tightwads. A slick SOB who (with 95% certainty) was an African-trained shaman magicking away people's valuables. Oh, and of course, a waiter with a gun, and a couple just recently engaged looking to party.
The engaged part was a cover, of course. As far as Jordan knew, she had not received any actual proposals of marriage, although her stomach had certainly turned cartwheels when she'd put on the faux engagement ring. She looked at with eyes only a little bit crossed while Dean fidgeted with his collar and complained.
"Why do I have to be the waiter?" he demanded of Sam, who was trying patiently to straighten Dean's bowtie.
"Because the invitation we nicked is for one James Callahan and his plus one, who was registered as Regina Marcelli." Sam gave the bowtie a sharp tug. "And you do not get to parade Jory around."
Dean blew air through his lips noisily, but he was smiling good-naturedly. "Yeah, yeah, don't get your panties in a bind. Next time mug a guy a little more robust, okay? Dude had a dweeb neck. I can't even breathe."
"Quit complaining, you pansy," Jordan said, straightening up. She reached up and fiddled with his collar, tugging it this way and that, and then with a neat movement, undid the little button just under the collar. She brought the bowtie around to hide it and tucked the collar in so that it didn't look unbuttoned. "There. So long as you don't start yanking on your bowtie—which is hot, by the way, you should wear them more often—"
"Shut up," said Dean.
"—you'll be fine. You can breathe, right?"
"Yeah, thanks," he said grumpily, and ambled off to check his gun one more time. Jordan turned to look up at Sam, who sucked in his gut, puffed out his chest, and raised his eyebrows in what he probably thought was an austere expression.
"So?" he asked. "Do I pass inspection?"
She ran her eyes down the length of him, then back up again, and was pleased to see a hint of pink showing on his cheeks. "I guess you'll do," she said. "I mean, you're no James Bond—"
He took an aggressive step forward, giving the end of her hair a gentle tug. "Yeah?" he murmured, and it was her turn to flush. "You'll have to be hot enough for the both of us, then."
"Whoa, cool your jets," said Dean from the bathroom, where he'd arrayed his solvents and brushes and cloths all across the counter. Jordan hadn't let him do it on the bed. ("We have to sleep on those sheets, you know.") "I'm still in the room, Mr. Love Machine."
Sam grinned unrepentantly and dropped a kiss on Jordan's lips, just to show Dean who was boss. Jordan rolled her eyes at him, which had zero effect whatsoever, as her face had gone scarlet. Sam glanced down at his watch. "Time to go, kids."