esSummary: I was fourteen when I picked up my first book of Supernatural written by Carver Edlund. I was around seventeen when I discovered that the Supernatural was real, leaving me bereft of family or future. I was about eighteen when I discovered that the Winchesters were actually real. Needless to say, I pointed myself squarely in the opposite direction and spent the next seven years avoiding everything associated with them. Too bad it wouldn't work forever.

Ch. 1

I should have moved to Mexico.

Sometimes I ask myself, Morgan, why did you stay in America after you discovered the truth, that all that shit you had read as a pubescent teen was real? I mean, my family being possessed should have been my biggest clue how bad things were going to get. My mother was possessed by a demon, killed my father, older brother before turning to me, eyes gleaming black. My response had been to salt the hell out of her and babble off the exorcism chant through the sobs. I mean, come on, total nerd here, and the books had been good.

When I had run out of Supernatural books to read, I had still craved material to read, thus turning to ancient lore books. It had come in handy. Well, sort of, when it came to saving my life the first few months. Too bad lore books don't teach you enough psychology to properly handle someone who had experienced a traumatic event, and my mother had definitely been traumatized. She could remember killing the love of her life and her oldest most beloved child. All she had left was me, and I had always been the black sheep and a daddy's girl. It hadn't been enough for her to reconsider what she would do next.

Coming to, my mother had been so horrified and heartbroken she didn't hesitate to pull the trigger and blast her brains all over the ceiling in the living room, gore landing on the T.V. and staining my father's leather jacket hanging by the front door. Needless to say, I had more issues than Vogue. Thanks, Mom.

I looked down as I fingered the faded stain on the worn jacket that I wore, eyes bleary and barely able to see as the purr of an old engine filled my ears, lights flashing past in the dark as the old Impala flew through town.

I sighed remembering the night I had fled into the waiting arms of the world, now a high school dropout terrified by every little sound as she clung to her father's guns. It figured I would be thinking of the source of my downfall right before dying.

The only thing I knew how to hunt at that age had been deer, elk, boar, moose, rabbit, and waterfowl. That night I took all my books from the Supernatural series with me as well as all my lore books, all the salt in the house, money and whatever seemed useful. I had hesitated on the threshold of the house as I paused to look at my father's jacket, the old worn leather easily soaking up and accepting the blood of my mother, though the dark color masked most of it. After a moment I grabbed it before fleeing, never looking back. A year later, I would be well versed enough to be able to sniff out a demon, kill a vampire and hunt a werewolf.

It was a pretty rotten idea if you asked me, becoming a hunter, but at that point in my life, I had needed it with a desperation that had bordered on addiction.

Hey kid, you wanna kill a vampire? I snorted at the idea of a creepy hunter luring me in with the promise of a hunt like a dealer luring an addict. Must be the blood loss. Who was I kidding? I hadn't been working with a full set of crayons for years well before my happy life had crashed and burned all those years ago.

It wasn't for revenge, the hunting. The only way I would ever get revenge for my family would be to kill every demon in hell and that was beyond my power because it had been an average nondescript demon, not some superpowered character with an evil master plan. No, I hunted because I had just lost my mother, father, and brother gorily. I had just discovered that the supernatural was real and that potentially everything that had been written about was a real nightmare just lurking in the dark. I was depressed almost to the point of suicide. So, I gave myself a purpose. Something to work towards.

For me, hunting had always been a coping mechanism. Oh! I don't need to deal with this hurt and pain because I should be focusing on saving these jackasses from being eaten! See! No guilt! Just priorities, and I've got my priorities straight! Yup! Totally not procrastinating! And while I'm at it, this room looks dirty. Oh! I need to do laundry too! But first, to the rescue! Hang in there jackass, I'm coming to save you! No, don't put your hand th- oh, he's dead. Well, shit. I'm going to have to burn it all. Fuck, I'm out of gasoline. I'm going to have to go get more.

I needed it so badly or I would have drunk myself to death that first month. I still got a craving for liquor every now and then from that dark time in my life, and I had a feeling that that would continue for the rest of my life. Once I finished one job I would try to find another. I needed a goal to work towards so I could continue living each day one at a time until the pain slowly began to ease bit by bit. It was a wonder I didn't end up dead the first year, a first-rate fucking miracle.

I had scrounged to survive after that night, falling in with a few of the wrong crowds, either hunting or not,( though I would avoid other hunters usually after year one when I learned the truth about Sam and Dean.) All that sought to take advantage of me or to use me easily sensed fresh meat. After all, I was unmarked by scars or brands, doe eyed and pure, my naivety practically an aura that screamed clueless. They came running, descending on me like a pack of wolves and I was all but devoured. It wasn't long before I was quick to drawn, viciously merciless in a fight and wary but able to scam and con my way by aquiring the skills needed to get by. In the beginning, though, there had been a few times when I had done unsavory things to eat that day. It hadn't been pretty, but here I was. Dying. Well, guess it hadn't mattered much.

As I stared out the car window my expression soured further, seeing as I was in a great deal of pain and these unpleasant thoughts were not helping. It probably also had something to do with me being in the one place I never wanted to find myself; in the company of the Winchesters, or more specifically, Sam and Dean Winchester from the Novels by Carver Edlund.

Yes, here I was in the one place I had never wanted to be for the duration of my twisted miserable little life. In the back seat of the Winchester's Impala, sailing down the highway as they rushed to get me to a hospital. It's my fault for deciding to be a hunter, for slowly growing to crave the rush that came with the hunt and coming so close to death time and time again. I couldn't give it up if I wanted to.

It's also my fault for being too reckless (this time,) and over extending myself.

And finally, I shouldn't have taken a partner. I usually worked alone and for good reason. Unlike most hunter's, I didn't have any contact with Bobby Singer and they typically did. As I feared, my one time partner had done the one thing I never wanted when it looked like we were going to lose this battle. She had managed to call the one man I had never wanted to contact before she died, a certain Bobby Singer that had called the Winchester boys and sent them down to go pick up a job gone bad. Now my sorry ass was in the back of the car as they rushed to save me. I groaned, a mixture of pain and dismay.

"Sam?" Dean demanded in his gravelly voice as I caught the flash of blue eyes look over the front seat.

"Hold on, we're almost there," came Sam's soothing Alto as he doubled the pressure on my arm and my gut wound. He was probably keeping my gits from spilling out. Great. I groaned louder at the increase of pain but I was too weak to pull away. My eyelids began to droop.

"Hey! Don't fall asleep on me!" called Sam as he gave me a small slap on the face. My head flopped to the side leaving me disorientated.

"Dean, she's fading. She's already lost a lot of blood. I'm not sure she's going to make it," Sam called, my vision blurring further. It damn well figured. I had always known that if I had bumped into the Winchesters, it would mean certain death for me. I mean who didn't die from running into these two? That or they ended up getting dragged into a really fucked up time line, and I didn't feel like getting on the Radar or Angels, Demons, Gods, God or anyone else that might be troublesome. Hopefully, my death would be quick. Someone began to shake me a voice calling but it was coming from far away. I grinned knowing it was time for me to go, a reaper slowly appearing in my vision.

"Sup Reaper. You here for me?" I asked groggily still grinning. The reaper grinned as Sam began to yell at me, the reaper growing more and more pronounced as the rest of the world began to fade. Totally called it. Hopefully, death would be peaceful.