"We ready to go?"
"One sec," came Sam's muffled reply, his head buried in the trunk of Dean's beloved Impala. Surveying the plethora of assorted weaponry (and condiments) that lay haphazardly inside, Sam patted each item religiously, mentally checking the boxes of the list in his head: rock salt, shotguns, machetes, silver, knives, holy water. He popped open the lid of the first aid box and rooted through it, checking for the second time they had enough to tide them over, in case of emergency. It had been recently replenished after their last hunt, when a run-in with a pissed off poltergeist and brick wall had left Dean with a gash in his head and a pretty decent concussion. They'd used up all the bandages. Head wounds bled like a bitch. Satisfied, he clicked it shut and closed the trunk.
"Ok, we're good," he said, sliding into the passenger seat next to his brother.
"''Bout friggin' time," Dean replied, starting the engine, "Your makeup packed and ready to go, sis?"
"Take the first left," Sam said, as they pulled out of the motel parking lot, ignoring Dean's jibe.
Dean smirked as he turned smoothly off of the main road and onto a dirt track. They drove bumpily down the narrow road for a couple of minutes, the worn car radio playing an old Led Zeppelin tape. As Dean tapped the steering wheel in time with the beat, subconsciously mouthing the words, Sam smiled at his older brother and sifted through the pile of newspaper clippings, police reports and maps on his lap. Dean glanced over at the noise of ruffling pages.
"Sure this is the place?" he inquired, turning back to the road.
"Only warehouse in the area left to check," Sam replied, "Unless vampires have suddenly gone down the more traditional coffin in Transylvania route and haven't left a memo, this place is our best bet,"
Dean chuckled and then frowned at the map Sam was studying.
"Should be about another mile," Sam confirmed.
"Perfect," Dean responded, pulling to the side of the road and shutting off the engine.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked, confused.
"If these sons of bitches can smell us a mile off, what they gonna do when they smell the gunpowder from the arsenal in the trunk?" Dean questioned. "They're either gonna take off in the opposite direction, and that's if they're smart, or they're gonna get ready. And neither is of any use to us," he explained, getting out of the car, with Sam following suit. "So what we're gonna do is walk by smelling like two innocent giant hamburgers," he finished with a smile.
Sam raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Smart,"
He took a quick bow. "Hey, you're not the only genius in the family, college boy," he grinned, starting down the road with something of a swagger.
Sam shook his head and smiling to himself, set off after his brother. They walked side by side in silence for the majority of the journey, speaking only to verify their location. Their shadows followed their makers, elongated in the rise of the morning sun; Sam's larger still than Dean's, his lanky frame exaggerated even more than usual.
"I think this is it," said Sam, suddenly, pointing to the right at a small path leading to a ramshackle building.
"Bingo," replied Dean, clapping his brother on the back and checking his machete, which was artfully hidden in the back of his jacket for safe-keeping.
The brothers approached the dwelling with trepidation, silently stalking to the front entrance. Dean waved Sam behind him, who obeyed, machete raised in preparation. Pushing open the door slowly, Dean squinted into the darkness and exchanged a quick look with his little brother before slipping inside. A couple of seconds passed before Dean's arm appeared in the gap, gesturing for Sam to join him.
The room was almost completely pitch black, windows boarded up, the floor littered with beer and whiskey bottles and a dark substance that looked suspiciously like blood. The walls were strung with hammocks, in which around twelve or thirteen vampires were snoring. Dean turned around to face Sam, his eyes wide, lifting his arms as if to say 'dude, what the fuck?'
"You said there'd be three," Dean mouthed furiously.
Sam shrugged helplessly, "Or there about," he whispered back, feebly.
"There's THIRTEEN," he hissed, "1, 3," he added, awkwardly demonstrating the number on his fingers for Sam's benefit.
Dean shook his head in disbelief and indicated towards the door whilst Sam shuffled behind him in silent shame.
SMASH!
The brothers froze. Dean whipped round. Sam lifted his foot, sending a tinkling of broken glass onto the broken glass bottle beneath.
In an instant, all thirteen vampires were awake and alert. And fantastically pissed off. They surrounded Sam and Dean, who were back to back and both frantically thinking of a way to get them out alive. There was an almost awkward silence.
"This isn't the Playboy Mansion!" Dean exclaimed, trying for a charming smile, "Sorry to disturb you, we'll just be on our way," he finished quickly, grabbing a handful of Sam's jacket and dragging him towards the door.
"I don't think so," one of the vampires said in a low voice, stepping in front of the door, "Did you really think we wouldn't notice?"
"You didn't," muttered Dean irritably, "Until Gigantor stood on that friggin' bottle," he added, shooting Sam a look, who returned it with one that said 'Oh God, Dean, shut up'.
"Don't try your luck, boy," the vamp replied, stalking closer to Dean, "We're the most dangerous things you've ever had the misfortune to come across,"
Sam tensed up and tried to control his erratic breathing, the monster was now inches from his brother. He prayed for Dean, for once, to be able to keep his mouth shut.
Dean smiled. "I don't know," he started, tilting his head cheekily, "Edward Cullen didn't seem so scary, sparkly son of a bitch- probably never seen a vagina in his life,"
Sam groaned.
Wishful thinking.
The vamp let out a vicious snarl and threw Dean violently against the wall.
"DEAN!" Sam shouted anxiously for his brother who now had more than seven vampires on top of him. Sam swiped furiously at the monsters approaching him and managed to drop two, their heads rolling ungraciously to the corner of the room.
"DEAN!" he yelled again, desperately.
"SAM!" came his muffled shout, now completely invisible beneath the snarling, writhing bodies.
Just as Sam started forwards to aid his older brother, Dean scrambled out from under the pile and sprinted towards the door to the next room, pushing Sam in front of him. He leaned against the door which was banging open and shut from the force of the thrashing vampires. Sam shoved an old cabinet in front of the door with his shoulder, which shook precariously from the disturbance outside. Panting, Sam turned to look at Dean and his heart stopped. Dean was covered in blood. His face was shining scarlet and the slick liquid had collected in sickening pools in the crevices of his neck.
"Dean…" he stammered, rushing forward, "Jesus, are you oka-"
"It's not mine," Dean reported, grimacing as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, "Really, I'm okay," he added reassuringly, patting his little brother on the shoulder, who had collapsed against the wall, weak with relief.
"What now?" Sam asked, his eyes wide with concern.
"How many d'you gank?"
"Two," he replied, "Did you manage to get any from under there?"
"Definitely three, maybe four," he answered, rubbing his face with his hand. He glanced at the shaking door. "That's not gonna hold forever,"
There was a short pause.
"What do we do?" Sam questioned a second time.
"I guess we get the hell out there and fi-" Dean suddenly stopped, frowning slightly.
The door had stopped moving. The two brothers listened attentively, their ears pressed to the wall. It was silent except for the sound of a knife slicing through the air and the satisfying dull thunk of heads hitting the wooden floor. Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled looks and together heaved the barricade away from the door.
Every vampire lay dead. Blood spattered the walls almost artfully. Amidst the decapitated bodies was a person, facing away, admiring their work.
"Who are you?" Dean asked, stuck somewhere between awe and annoyance.
"Your knight in shining armour, Princess," they answered, twirling to face them.
A girl stood before them. She was tiny. Petite, but curvy, and wonderfully so. Creamy, ivory skin, cute button nose complete with freckles, and wild dark curly hair that bounced in springy ringlets. Her eyes were liquid amber, like sun shining through a glass of whisky. Blood droplets were speckled across her young face in a garish fashion. She couldn't have been older than 20. She wore ripped denim jeans, hanging low-slung on her hips, and a cracked black leather jacket over a bloody pink vest top. She was grinning.
"How did you-?" Sam began in a hushed voice.
"Save your arses?" She suggested, innocently.
Sam nodded, eyes fixed in wonder. She held up a couple of empty syringes.
"Dead-man's blood," she explained, "Like vamp poison, not enough to kill 'em, but enough to slow 'em down so you can get those heads a-rollin'" She spoke with an odd but pleasant British accent.
Dean had remained quiet through their short conversation, eyeing the stranger with caution.
"Where'd you get that from?" he asked gruffly.
"Dead man." She replied simply, with a raise of an eyebrow.
"Well, thanks, I guess," Sam smiled gratefully.
"Don't mention it, Sweetheart," she responded, winking and turning out of the door.
"Hey! Where are you-?" Sam shouted, bemused, "Wait!"
Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled looks and rushed out of the door after her, hastily picking their way through the mound of corpses.
Wincing at the sudden change of light, the brothers squinted down the road, attempting in vain to shield their eyes from the sun. The girl was strutting down the track, flawlessly skipping over the pot holes and swinging the blood spattered machete in a disconcerting childlike manner.
"HEY!" Sam sprinted after her without a backward glance. She kept her head turned forward, carrying on down the path, giving no indication she'd heard his call. Dean sighed and broke into a reluctant jog after his brother. Despite being light on her feet, the stranger's quick pace was no match for Sam's long stride and he had soon reached her, tapping her tentatively on the shoulder.
Stopping at the touch, she turned and (perhaps expecting a normal sized human being) with mild surprise craned her neck to meet Sam's eyes.
"Fuckin' hell, you're tall," she exclaimed, looking him up and down for full effect.
Dean, who had arrived just in time to hear her proclamation, snorted at her amazement. He had to admit though, his brother who was no doubt tall in any other circumstance, looked exceptionally enormous next to her. Whilst around shoulder height to Dean, she could have quite easily tucked underneath Sam's armpit.
"I- Well, I-, but you're- ," Sam stammered, taken aback.
"Gettin' light-headed up there?" she grinned.
"No, it's just, er," he started clumsily again, before catching sight of her growing smile and managing to pronounce an eloquent sentence, "I mean you just saved our asses and walk off like it's no big deal? We don't even know who you are!"
She looked into his pleading eyes. Biting her lip, she answered "I'm nobody," and with a casual shrug she began to turn away.
"Don't you want a lift back home at least?" he called, helplessly, still following her.
"Thanks, but this is me here," she shouted back pointing to a small red 69' Chevy Nova, parked neatly just off the track.
"This is your car?" Dean said suspiciously.
"Well, it's someone's car," she responded vaguely, leaning against the door.
"Are you even old enough to drive?" He questioned doubtfully.
If looks could kill, Dean would be a corpse. She wrenched the car door open and glided gracefully into the driver's seat.
"I'm old enough to kick your arse," she muttered under her breath, her head bent as she expertly hotwired the engine of the car.
The engine growling satisfyingly, she raised he head and hung out of the window, looking each of them up and down curiously.
"I'll see you boys around," she dictated, eyes flickering between them.
Sam and Dean watched her pull skilfully onto the road and speed off, dangerously fast. Dean's eyebrows flicked in bemusement and shaking his head he mumbled "Crazy chick," as he swerved across the path to the Impala. Fishing the keys out of his pocket, a sudden overwhelming urge to guard his little brother washed over him. He twisted round just in time to see the crouching vampire spring.
"SAM!" Dean bellowed, tackling his brother roughly to the ground. He lay across Sam and braced himself for the all too familiar feeling of tearing flesh, but the vicious snarl was stifled by the sudden revving of an engine and the sound of squealing tyres. Dean looked up in time to see the comical expression of pure shock on the monster's face before it was taken down by the skidding vehicle, its gory innards squelching messily across the road, collecting in the potholes in sloppy puddles. Sam and Dean watched in horror as the scarlet oil slick spun the car in precarious circles, the tyres whining in attempt to grip the road, but after several painful seconds, physics took claim and the car tipped onto its side and collided into the trees.
Sam and Dean dashed toward the mangled wreck with foreboding. It was a distorted, smoking pretzel; the windows shattered, the bonnet compacted into a metal concertina. There was a sharp grating sound and the two men stepped back in alarm. The girl stepped elegantly out of the debris, running her hands through her hair to shake free the small crystals of broken windshield that had accumulated in the curls. They stared at each other for a small moment.
"I guess I could use that lift," she reported hesitantly with a small smile.
Dean gestured silently to the Impala. Sam observed her walking steadily from the wreckage in disbelief. The brothers turned in unison as she slipped past them to the car.
"This is your car?" she asked, echoing Dean.
"Uh, yeah," he replied proudly, beaming at his wheels with adoration.
"No way…"she trailed off in a hushed voice, "A 67' Chevy Impala?" she queried, stroking the hood in respectful worship. She glanced back at her ruined car wistfully, "I liked that car," she sighed, and gazed longingly back at the Impala.
A small trickle of blood eased its way down her hand and beaded daintily at her fingernail.
"Hey!" Dean exclaimed softly, pointing to her arm and stepping forward.
She followed Dean's indication and seeing the blood jumped away from the car. "Oh crap," she breathed, cleaning the smear of crimson from the polished exterior with the sleeve of her jacket. Dean gave Sam an incredulous look who returned it, moving anxiously toward the girl.
"Never mind the car!" he cried (to Dean's mild annoyance). "Your arm. It's bleeding!" He finished, gently touching the scuffed arm of the jacket.
"It's fine," she waved him off with the other arm, "Just a scratch."
"Pretty sure it's more than a scratch," stated Dean, "I don't even know how you're vertical- you crashed into a friggin' tree."
"I know, I was there," she replied dryly, "And you're welcome. Again." She climbed into the back seat and stared at them impatiently through the window.
Sam and Dean meekly obliged and followed her into the car. Sam twisted round and held out his hand.
"I'm Sam," he clarified, "And that's my brother Dean,"
She grasped his hand and shook it, smiling uncertainly. While shaking Dean's hand, she frowned in sudden realisation.
"Sam and Dean?" she confirmed. "Winchester?"
Sam raised his eyebrows, "Yeah, actually. How did you know?"
"Your dad's John Winchester, right?" She shifted in her seat, taking the weight off her right arm.
"You know our dad?!" Dean turned so quickly he appeared to crick his neck. Rubbing it, he waited expectantly for an explanation.
She looked almost guilty. "No, I've just heard of him," she said apologetically, "He's one hell of a hunter if the stories are true."
"They are." Dean said shortly, turning back to start the car. Sam, discomfited, shot Dean a 'be nice' look. He loved his brother but sometimes he could be a dick, especially when it came to defending his family.
"So where to?" Sam asked graciously.
"Uh, Redwood Motel?"
"You're kidding," Sam said in amazement. He still hadn't turned back and the uneven track was making him jerk uncomfortably in his seat, but he kept his eyes fixed on the girl.
She bristled up immediately, "Don't look down your nose at me, Sasquatch, it's a classy fucking joint, for your information-"
"No, no, no," Sam interrupted quickly, laughing, "It's just- that's where we're staying."
"Oh," she said relaxing against the seat, "It's a shit hole, innit?"
Sam chuckled. Dean frowned at her from the rear view mirror.
"You British?" he queried.
She raised an eyebrow, "What gave it away, Sherlock?" she replied sarcastically, "Was it the British accent?" She added in mock defeat.
"Smart-ass," he muttered, fixing his eyes back on the road.
"It's a point of pride," she shot back, glaring at the back of his head.
Dean ignored her and turned effortlessly into the motel parking lot. As they rolled to a stop, Sam stepped out of the car, ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low roof and courteously opened the back door. She smiled thankfully and got out of the car, right arm tucked tightly to her side.
"Thanks for the lift," she chimed, lifting onto her tiptoes to pat Sam on the shoulder.
"Hey!" He called after her as she turned, walking towards her room, "Don't you want us to check your arm?"
She spun round to face him, "It's fine, I can do it myself," she insisted.
"Please?" Sam pleaded, breaking out his patented puppy-dog eyes. Dean, who was reclining against the Impala watching the display, bent his head and smiled, 'Low blow, Sammy," he thought to himself.
She thought about turning him down again, but something told her she wouldn't get very far. "Ugh, fine," the girl sighed, walking back to Sam, "But I'm only doing this for you, Sweetheart," she added insistently.
Dean grinned and held open the door of their room whilst Sam dug about in the trunk for the first aid kit.
The room was dark. But even the darkness couldn't dull the sickening yellow colour of the walls. This was complimented by an array of attractive lime green furniture in varying states of shabbiness. The bed covers lay untouched, no doubt hiding a collection of bizarre stains and worrying odours. As Dean flipped on the light switch, the flickering bulb threw into focus the rest of the grungy room. It contained two double beds, a minute grimy kitchen and a hideous scratching behind the walls accompanied by a pile of rat droppings that hinted away from the supernatural and more towards a small family of rodents marking their territory.
"Home crappy home," presented Dean, dumping his leather jacket over a wobbly wooden chair and reaching into the nauseatingly warm fridge for a beer.
"Okay, let me see that arm," commanded Sam, pushing her gently onto the edge of a bed.
She shrugged off her coat and peered down at her right side at Sam's sharp intake of breath. Her entire arm was crimson from the seeping gash torn jaggedly into her shoulder.
She pulled a face, "Eh, I've had worse,"
"It's gonna need stitches," Sam said anxiously.
"You have something for the pain?" Dean asked suddenly from behind her.
"Err," she scanned the room quickly and leant down to pat under the bed, making a triumphant cheer when she discovered a half full bottle of whiskey, "Yep," she answered, unscrewing the lid and taking a swig.
"That's mi-," started Dean irritably, "Are you even old enough to-?"
"In some countries," she said curtly, taking a deliberately large gulp, eyes pinned to Dean.
Sam started cleaning the cut with holy water and then peroxide for good measure. She didn't bat an eyelash.
"Ready?"
"Go for it."
Sam started to stitch, glancing up to see her reaction, but her face was blank- almost bored. As if this was a normal occurrence.
"So, uh," Sam said distractedly, focusing on making straight, even stitches, "We still don't know your name."
She took another drink.
"It's Magda," she said, "Magda Fletcher."
"Magda Fletcher?" Dean verified. "Not…" He reached for Sam's laptop and began typing furiously. After a couple of minutes of tapping keys Dean let out a harsh laugh, "You're on the FBI Most Wanted!" he grinned, turning the laptop screen around to show her mug shot- her winking cheekily at the camera.
"So are you, Winchester," Magda retorted, unfazed.
"What you down for, Maggie?" he smirked, "Steal a Barbie doll?"
"Murder," she responded simply, turning her back on him.
Dean stopped smiling. "Wait, what?"
"When I was 8 I saw a monster kill my mum," she said calmly, "And when I was 11, I put a bullet between its eyes."
There was a stunned silence.
"What was it?" Sam inquired quietly.
"No idea," she said, "Looked human. Which just made it harder to explain to the cops. So I ran."
Sam put the needle down.
"I came here. Learnt what I could, killed anything I could find. 9 years on, you pick up a hell of a body count." She turned to look Dean square in the eye. "So don't patronize me, Winchester. Because I may be younger than you, but I've hunted a lot more, and buddy," She laughed venomously, "I'm the best."
She stood up, swinging her leather jacket over her shoulder. Stopping at the doorway she turned to face them, eyes blazing, "I'll see you boys around."
And then she was gone.