Heather DeLani made her way down the staircase of the abandoned prison. She was surprised some other hunter hadn't investigated this one yet. Serial killer, Daniel Jacobson, was murdered by officers during a prison riot decades ago. His ghost had been haunting the prison ever since and the prison was eventually condemned. Over the years, many curious teenagers wandered into the building and died because of him. She had already done the research and knew for a fact that the bones were buried under the floorboards in one of the rooms in the basement, but she had yet to find it. With a flashlight in one hand and a loaded gun in the other, she continued to quietly make her way down the steps, hoping this would actually be an easy job for once.
Not too far away, Dean Winchester was looking through a cell. He had been working the same case, alone for once. He and Sam had an argument about how Sam didn't feel like joining him on this trip. Why did he want to stay behind reading old books when he could be out here actually doing something? Dean tried not to let him bother him, but he wasn't used to not having Sam there to back him up. It reminded him of when Sam went off to college. Despite how much he hated to admit it, he missed his brother's company.
Kneeling down to the ground, Dean looked at the dried blood on the corner of a cot. Now he just needed to find the bones, which meant research. It's too bad Sam didn't want to come along. "Bitch," he muttered to himself.
By that time, Heather had made her way down the steps and into the hallway. She looked into the room, seeing a figure. Instinctively, she raised her gun, but quickly lowered it when she realized it was just some guy hunched over. She could only see the back of his short hair. Maybe he was just a homeless man who needed a place to sleep for the night and didn't mean her any harm at all. Nevertheless, she kept alert and didn't relax.
"It's not nice to call people that," she said as she shown her light into the room. "Who the hell are you? No one is allowed here. It's dangerous."
Dean reeled and stood up, his gun aimed straight at her. "I could say the same to you," he commented slyly, his eyes narrowing as he watched her. She was pretty, but definitely not smoking hot. She had the pudgy face you would expect from a child rather than a grown woman and large brown eyes that seemed too innocent for the weapon she held so tightly. Her dark hair was tied up in a bun and she had long bangs that framed her chubby cheeks.
"Why are you packin` heat like that?" he asked, looking to her gun, which she continued to hold unwaveringly.
"I'm the night guard," she quickly lied. "Put your gun down, sir. You're on private property."
Dean wasn't buying that. "Lemme see your I.D.," he said with a smirk, his eyes watching her carefully.
Damn it, the one time she hadn't brought her fake I.D. with her. She grasped at straws, but couldn't come up with another lie. This guy seemed smart enough that he wouldn't believe another one anyway. Which was odd. Whenever she met an attractive guy, they usually weren't too bright. "Okay, fine. I'm not a guard," she said, lowering her gun slightly, "but you still shouldn't be here. It really is dangerous and I do have clearance to be here." A small, plausible lie wouldn't hurt. Would it? "So, why don't you get out of here before you get hurt?"
Dean knew it and he grinned victoriously. "The same could be said for you. Go home and paint your nails," he teased lowering his gun.
Heather had half a mind to shoot him just for that comment alone. "Fine. Go ahead. If you get into any trouble here, maybe then you'll regret not staying home yourself. But right now, I have some bones to burn and that definitely takes priority over a misogynistic jerk. See ya." She turned around and headed out into the hall. She probably shouldn't have made that comment about burning the bones, but it's not like he would have understood what she meant by that anyway.
Dean paused. Burn the bones?
"Wait, wait, wait," he said, leaving the cell and trotting up in front of her. She didn't have very long legs, which made it easy for him to catch up. "You`re a hunter?" He frowned. She certainly did not look like a hunter. Hell, she looked like she could barely hold that gun, never mind shoot it. "You`re hunting Jacobson?"
Heather crossed her arms, still holding her gun and flashlight. "Yeah..." she slowly answered.
Raising his eyebrows he spoke, he joked, "Aren't you too small to be a hunter?"
She rolled her eyes. Who did this guy think he was? She was five foot four, a perfectly average height, and her height never interfered with her ability to hunt.
"What about you? Do your ears hurt from being way up there?" she retorted. Then she walked past him waiting for an answer. "Again, I don't have time for the idiotic comments. He probably already knows we're here."
Dean kept pace with her. If she knew where the bones were buried, he might as well join her to make sure the job got done right. Not only that, but Dean didn't know just how experienced this girl was. If she was new to hunting, she might make a mistake and get herself hurt. He didn't want that, especially not by this Jacobson bastard.
"How much research did you actually do into this case?" Dean quipped in a tone that was more business-like and had lost the teasing tone from earlier.
Heather heard a rat skitter across the hall. Her flashlight had scared it away. "Daniel Jacobson, born 1932 and died 1967. Raised by a single mother. He started his serial killings at age twenty. He killed three women, all three of which were half-Hispanic and half Caucasian. He believed the races shouldn't mix and thus, he wanted to kill the products of those two races because he felt they were abominations. He was finally arrested and was incarcerated for a few years. It turned out one of the women killed was a cousin of one of the guards. The policemen organized a prison riot as a diversion so he could get his revenge on Jacobson. I did very thorough research. Alright?"
"Look, I'm not insulting you or anything here. I was just curious, alright?"
Heather looked away and continued walking. She didn't have the energy to continue arguing and defending herself like she always did. She just wanted to get the job done. Although she hated to admit it, it was nice to have this guy around. The fact that she fit Jacobson's type of girl had been unnerving her throughout this entire hunt and having someone else by her side eased those nerves, even if he did happen to be a bit of a jerk.
So she knew, Dean thought. Although he couldn't be certain, he thought the girl did look as though she were of Hispanic and Caucasian decent. Despite that, she had come on this hunt anyway. That either took balls, idiocy, or both. Dean smiled to himself ever so slightly and kept his gun close. He wasn't sure now if he was impressed by her stupidity or bravery.
Heather made a sharp left and looked at the numbers by the cellblock. This was it. If she was correct, the bones would be hidden under a compartment in the floor. The cops that had killed Jacobson did a good job of covering their tracks, but they didn't count on her being around to trace down the grave.
"So, what's your name?" Dean finally asked her.
Heather walked into the room and kneeled down on the floor. Then she started tracing her fingers over the floorboards as she murmured, "Heather DeLani."
Dean stood beside her. DeLani. He never heard of any hunters by that name. Of course, it was rare that he interacted with other hunters nowadays. "I`m Dean Winchester," he said. He half expected her to look up, eyes widened at the realization of who he really was.
But she didn't. Heather kept her head lowered, fingers carefully sliding against the floor. Sure, she heard the name and the stories tied to it, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of admitting that she's heard of him.
Dean looked rather deflated. "Have you heard of me at all?"
Heather calmly shook her head, her knee nudging her gun, which she had set down in order to handle the floorboards better. "Why would I have heard of you?"
"Well, my brother, Sam, and I have a bit of a reputation."
Heather shrugged a shoulder. "Sorry. Never heard of you," she answered.
Dean made another of his small smiles and knelt down by her. "What are you trying to do?"
"The bones. They're under the floorboards."
"Yeah? How do you know that?"
"Research, Dean."
She was beginning to sound like Sam. But how had she not heard of him before? Had she been living under a rock for the last few years?
Her thin fingers pried a floorboard loose and lifted it. Then she used her flashlight and held it over the hole. The old bones came into view.
"Could you hold the flashlight?" Heather asked Dean. She didn't really like asking, but he could at least make himself useful this way.
He took the flashlight from her and gave her a flirtatious smile, which she didn't notice because her attention was quickly drawn to the task at hand. Heather slid her small backpack off her shoulders and took out the lighter fluid, salt, and a matchbox.
Heather took the salt and poured it from the carton onto the bones. Instantly, the atmosphere seemed to have changed in the room. Jacobson was coming.
Dean kept a good grip on both the flashlight and his gun. For a ghost, this guy was rather lazy, seeing as he had yet to make an appearance.
"Might wanna hurry," he urged.
Heather grumbled quietly, "Maybe I'll just take my sweet time so Jacobson can at least get you out of my hair."
Even with that said, she quickly picked up the lighter fluid after having dumped out all the salt. Once she got the cap off, she started pouring it over the salt and bones. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench of the strong fumes.
At that very moment, Jacobson appeared a few feet away from Heather. His cellmate uniform clung to his large body. It was splattered with blood and even more blood oozed from his gaping mouth as he let out an angry cry, advancing towards her.
Dean didn't hesitate before firing his gun. Jacobson disappeared again, but the hunter knew that would only buy them a few seconds.
Heather's fingers fumbled with the matches, pulling one out and struggling to make it light.
Dean's adrenaline was pumping and he rose to his feet, staying close to Heather.
Jacobson came back for a second round. He appeared by Dean, swinging a heavy fist and throwing him against the wall.
Luckily, Heather's match was finally lit. Without wasting another moment, she let the match fall into the pit.
The ghost began to burst into flames, howling in anger.
Dean lowered his gun as the ghost disappeared for good.
"Well, that was fun," he grunted, standing up.
Heather took a deep breath as she settled her things back into her backpack and rose to her feet. "If that's really your idea of fun, you might want to get a less dangerous hobby." She pulled a strap over her shoulder. "For what it's worth, thanks for the help."
Dean nodded and she glanced at the bones again.
They stood in silence, watching the fire burn out. Finally, it was down to just a few scarce embers. It was safe for Heather to return to her hotel now.
"Well, I don't know about you, Dean Winchester, but I'm ready to get out of here," she said, taking her flashlight back from him.
"You have anywhere in mind?" he asked with another suggestive grin on his face. Heather crossed her arms again, giving him another getting-real-tired-of-your-shit expression. "What? Can't blame a guy for trying."
It was odd. Heather didn't show any sign of being attracted to him at all. Dean figured maybe she was either a lesbian or she was just too committed to the job to really notice him.
But Heather had noticed. She just knew how to hide her attraction and didn't really concern herself with dating, romance, or anything that could ever lead to it.
She walked past Dean, concealing her amused smile. As nice as this was, it was definitely time for her to get going. She held her flashlight out and illuminated the hallway.
Even if Dean wasn't the best of company, it was nice to have someone to talk to. She was worried she would lose her mind if she didn't talk to someone about all of this soon. Her usual partner, a witch by the name of A.J., was off taking care of a personal issue, and she had been very isolated for the past week.
"So, how long have you been hunting?" Dean asked, following after her.
"I'm from a family of hunters, so I've been in it for most of my life," she didn't feel like going into her strained relationship with her family so she quickly asked, "What about you?"
Dean cleared his throat. He shouldn't have asked her about it. How was he to know he would answer that question too? "Uh, I guess the same goes for me. I don't really remember how long I've been hunting with my brother."
"Do you two usually hunt together?"
"Yeah. Usually."
"Where is he now?"
"He, uh, decided he needed a bit of a break."
Heather nodded understandingly. "A.J. did too. She's my best friend. We've been hunting together for half a year. She's a really great person, but sometimes . . . Well, she's . . . quirky. And we need a break from each other now and then."
So she had a best friend. But she didn't say girlfriend, so she probably wasn't a lesbian. Then again, that didn't really mean she wasn't dating anyone either.
Dean was now more confused than ever and finally decided enough was enough. He knew he was overthinking it and he was done wracking his brain. The girl just wasn't interested in him . . . for whatever reason.
Heather walked up the staircase towards the first floor and ducked under a spider web.
"Where are you heading to after this anyway?" Dean asked, trying to start conversation again.
"To my hotel, I guess. I'll probably give A.J. a call tomorrow and see if she's done with what she needs to do. If she is, I'll be leaving town soon enough." She almost mentioned the small house she shared with A.J., the one they stayed in between hunts, but she knew better than to give strangers that kind of information.
"How often do you hunt alone? Don't get me wrong, you did an okay job, but hunting's usually safer in groups."
"We don't hunt alone too often." Heather turned to her right, going towards the back exit.
"Well, look, let me give you my number. If you ever need any help, you can give me a call, alright?"
Heather stiffened in her walk. "We do just fine on our own."
"I get that. Really, I do, but at least just humor me. Alright?"
Dean honestly didn't know why he felt like he needed to insist on this. Perhaps Heather just reminded him a little bit too much of Jo. Not only that, but there were every few female hunters for a reason. Even the best female hunters tended to die young while on a hunt. Heather seemed smart and nice enough; Dean didn't want her to be one of them.
Heather stopped at the doorway of the exit. "Fine. You're not too bad to have around anyway," she muttered, pulling her cell phone from her pocket.
Dean called out the numbers to her and watched her punch them in. After she saved it, she stuffed her phone in her pocket again and shoved the door open.
The clouds above made the night sky much darker than usually was. The Impala was in a corner of the parking lot, under the added shade of a tree.
Heather's 1997 F150 was just down the street, parked in an alley, but she could see it now.
"There's my ride," she said.
"That big truck?" Dean asked with an incredulous look on his face.
This girl really was more than just a cute face.
Heather nodded and smiled proudly. It was the vehicle she spent much of her childhood in and it was one of the few things she really loved.
With a small wave, she started walking away. "So long, Dean."
Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his head. He really could have done without being tossed against a wall like that, but ghosts just loved being dicks to people.
He walked over to the Impala and got in. The beautiful car purred as he started the engine. He was just about to drive off when Heather pulled up beside him, rolling down the window of her truck.
Raising an eyebrow, he rolled his window down as well.
"Take care of yourself. And please don't open hell's gates or start the apocalypse again." She grinned brightly and then sped away with AC/DC's "Back in Black" blaring on her stereo.
It took Dean a moment for it to really sink in.
When it finally did, his jaw dropped slightly. He contemplated chasing after her to ask her why she pretended not to know who he was, but he probably wouldn't be able to catch up with her now.
Maybe she would swallow her pride and call him for help sometime. He could ask her then.
