The righteous seek not revenge, but forgive their enemies.
For when are the Fallen justified in the pursuit of vengeance?
They that would persecute the innocent do not fall,
nor are they condemned by others,
but in the blindness of anger and hatred,
by their own hand are they cast into the eternal agony of Hell.
Katherine Arandez
Dean Winchester stepped out of the Impala into the muggy Missouri night, divided between his reluctance to leave the cool sanctuary of his car, and the urge to make a break for the hotel room. His plan to crank up the air conditioner and maybe pump a few dollars into the massage feature he hoped these beds were equipped with was all that kept him from collapsing on the blacktop in the hopes that someone would run him over before he drowned from the humidity.
"Bring me back pie," Dean told his younger brother, Sam.
"I'll try," Sam replied, rolling his eyes in exhasperation at the frequently made request. He started backing the car up, and Dean frowned at his quick escape.
"I mean it Sammy! I want some pie!" he yelled after the car. Dean snorted, doubtful that he would actually get any. Someday, someone needed to write a fairytale about him and pie, he thought as he unlocked his hotel room door. It would have to be one of those wishy-washy tragedy tales. Like Romeo and Juliet, or something.
Dean strode into his hotel room, and locked the door behind himself. He immediately turned on the AC, standing in front of it to intercept the first blast of stale, warm air. He wrinkled his nose, and stepped out of the way, knowing from experience that it would take the old, groaning contraption a few minutes to spew air that was anything close to cool. Dean glanced at the bed that beckoned invitingly. He rolled his shoulders and stretched with a loud groan. This would be the first night in a while that he slept in an actual bed, and hopefully most of his assorted aches would disappear by morning. Before he settled in for a good six hours rest, however, Dean wanted to cool off. He knew that he was not yet quite exhausted enough that he could lie in a collecting pool of his own sweat without it bothering him.
Dean made his way to the sink in front of the bathroom door, and splashed some water on his face, shivering at the cold. He straightened and wiped his face off, exhaling in relief. It had been a long day, and he was more than ready for a good night's sleep.
Almost before he finished the thought, however, Dean's eyes were drawn to a tiny movement in the mirror. His heart missed a beat as he made out a dark figure standing in the bathroom door directly behind him. Eerie green, slightly luminous eyes met his in the pristine glass of the mirror, sending a chill down his spine. A second passed, during which the only sound in the room was the water still pouring from the faucet into the sink. In the silence, the formerly quiet rushing of the water was little more than a whisper, but now it seemed louder than a waterfall.
The instant was shattered as the figure in the bathroom reached for Dean's arm. His reaction was immediate, and violent.
Dean grabbed the gun from the waistband of his pants and turning to level the weapon at the fugire. Whatever it was moved much more quickly than he could though, and he was on the floor before he realized what was happening. The intruder had a foot on the wrist holding the gun, trapping it expertly.
"Dean, calm down," they said, too softly. Dean didn't hear them over the pounding of adrenaline in his ears. His free hand acted almost of it's own accord, curling into a fist and flying toward the intruder's leg. They dodged the blow so quickly that it was almost as if their leg had never been there to start within the first place, and retaliated by grabbing his hand and slamming it to the floor. They crouched, and with amazing speed and agility, bent themselves around so that one foot stayed Dean's left wrist, their left hand held his right down, and their left knee pressed down into his chest, effectively immobilizing him.
"Dean, it's me," they said, loudly enough this time to catch and hold his attention. Dean stilled beneath them as he examined their face for the first time in the dimly lit room.
It was a girl who looked like she was in her early twenties. Her bushy, light bronze-colored hair fell halfway down her back, and the hazel eyes that were now fixed on Dean's seemed to shift as he watched, their hue leaning toward brown, then blue, then green.
She had aged since the last time Dean had seen her, but he still recognized her immediately.
"Alice!" he exclaimed. She grinned at his shocked expression.
"Hi Dean. It's been a while, hasn't it?" she said casually. Dean just stared at her, stunned into speechlessness.
Two Years Earlier
A motel room sought to give the impression of emptiness. It's wastebaskets were empty, the bed was neatly made, the carpet clean as though it had been vacuumed only minutes ago. Despite it's pristine appearance, however, the room was not unoccupied. It housed a young girl, who had rented it three days ago. This girl was currently dressing herself from a refreshing shower. Her attire was black, from her socks and combat boots, to her jeans, right on up to the t-shirt she was pulling on.
When she finished dressing, she meticulously cleaned the shower, collecting hair from the drain, and leaving it in a pile on the sink, next to a gun. After scrubbing down the tub, she pulled a lighter from her pant's pocket, and ignited the mostly dried wad of hair, letting it burn away to nothing in the basin of the sink.
She glanced around the bathroom, and smiled, satisfied with her work. She would have left the room, perfectly content and ready for whatever her next task might be, had it not been for what happened next.
As she opened the door to leave, she was stopped by a bright flash of light, which died down almost as suddenly as it had come into being. She immediately withdrew, leaving the door ajar and grabbing the gun from the sink. She forced herself to keep breathing evenly, but quietly, as she stood stone still, listening intently to the sounds in the main part of the room.
"What the hell just happened?" she heard a man ask in the other room.
"How am I supposed to know that?" came another male voice.
"Well where are we?" the first man enquired.
"Again, how am I supposed to know?" the second replied.
"Whatever. Look around, see if you find anything that can tell us where the hell we are," the first said.
"Looks like a cheap motel," the second said.
"That's great, Sammy. Real perceptive," the first said. "I meant in a more general sense."
"Okay, you take the dresser, I've got the nightstand," the second, Sammy, said.
From her hiding place, the girl heard drawers opening and closing. She held her breath, knowing she would have to act soon.
"Nothing over here," Sammy said. "Just a bible and a pizza menu."
"So far I've got nothing eith- Oh. Hey, Sam, come check this out," the first man called.
The girl grit her teeth. They had found them.
"What do you make of that?" the first man asked.
"It looks familiar. I've seen this knife before somewhere, but I can't remember where exactly," Sam said.
The girl burst out of the bathroom, training the gun on the two men standing no more than six feet away from her.
"Don't move," she barked. They froze, and turned to look at her. Both were holding stakes, which immediately raised her hackles. The taller of them was holding one of her knives, and she had to talk herself out of shooting him on the spot just for touching it.
"Whoa, careful with that honey," the first man said, taking a step toward her. He was the shorter of the pair, and wore a leather jacket and jeans. His hair was also shorter than the other man's, and his eyes were bright green, in contrast with the deep brown of the taller man's eyes. The girl turned the gun on him, aiming with expert precision, though as close as he was, one would have to be a most terrible shot in order to miss him.
"One more step and I will shoot you in the nads," the girl said threateningly. Shorty held his hands up, and took a step back.
"Okay. No need to get violent or anything," he said placating.
"Put the knife down, slowly, and then close the drawer," the girl instructed the tall man, Sam. "And both of you, drop the stakes."
They did as she said, but despite their cooperation, the girl had not relaxed a bit.
"How did you find me?" she demanded.
Sam looked at Shorty, and then back at the girl.
"Ahh... we uh..." he stammered.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding," Shorty said with a forced smile, backing toward the front door. "You see, we were just about to leave, so..."
"Shut up, and stop moving, or I will shoot your ass," she said. "This is the last warning you're going to get before I start putting holes in you."
He stopped moving, and settled for watching the girl warily.
"Look, we don't want any trouble," Sam said.
"Well it's a bit late for that now," the girl snapped. "Take your clothes off. And don't try anything".
They hesitated.
"Do it!" she yelled.
They did, tossing their clothes in a heap on the floor at their feet, shedding weapons as they went. The girl had expected a few knives, but the further they went, the more alarmed she became. These guys were armed to the teeth - Each carried no less than two guns and three knives, concealed in their waistbands, pockets, and socks.
"Uck, please leave those on," the girl said when the short one went for his underwear. They stopped, left standing in their socks and boxer shorts, clothes and weapons piled before them. Keeping her eyes and gun trained on the two men, the girl leaned down and grabbed a length of rope from under the bed. She tossed it to Shorty, who caught it. The girl nodded at Sam.
"Tie him down. And do it right," she ordered.
Shorty cleared his throat. "Look, aren't you a bit young for this kind of stuff?" he said. "I mean, tying naked men into chairs? Or even being anywhere near naked men for that matter."
"Youth is a state of mind," the girl replied. She pointed at Sam. "Tie him down, now."
Shorty glanced at Sam, who exhaled loudly and sat in the chair resignedly. Shorty tied him down, before turning back to the girl, who had moved to the dresser. She opened a a drawer and pulled out another coil of rope. She nodded to a spot on the floor, a good ways away from the chair Sam was tied into.
"Sit down," she instructed Shorty. He did so, and she tossed him the rope. "Tie your feet together," she told him.
He did, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. When he was done, she stared at him uncertainly for a moment, realizing she had boxed herself into a corner.
Shorty seemed to realize her dilemma, and chuckled.
"You know, a guy tying his hands together is the kind of thing I would pay to see," he said.
"I could always just shoot you," the girl said. She really did not want to risk going anywhere near this guy and having him take her gun away. But what to do? The easiest solution was the pair of handcuffs currently in her possesion, but they were stashed outside in the car. She couldn't just leave Shory here alone while she grabbed them. She had no doubt that he would immediately untie himself and his colleague, and who knew what would happen then.
"You're not gonna shoot me sweetheart," Shorty said cockily.
Oh yeah? The girl thought. This bozo had no idea who she was. She shifted her aim from his head to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger without a second thought.
Shorty cried out in pain, falling over as he pressed his hands to the wound.
"You shot him!" Sam yelled.
"He'll live. Keep your mouths shut, and it won't happen again," the girl said curtly. She sprinted out of the room, to the car she had stolen a week and three cities ago. Seeing it reminded her that it was past time to ditch it. Keep it any longer, and she risked the authorities catching up to her on it's account.
She would have to worry about ditching the car later. For now, she just opened the passenger side door, which was unlocked. She could not afford to lock the vehicle, since she did not have the keys to the car. She rummaged through the glove compartment quickly, pulled out the handcuffs, and sprinted back into the room. Unsurprisingly, Shorty was making his way over to Sam, grimacing as he tried to keep pressure on the gunshot wound. Unconcerned by his proximity to Sam, the girl tossed Shorty the handcuffs.
"Put your hands behind your back, and put them on," she ordered.
Glaring at her, Shorty twisted his arms around behind him. He groaned in pain, and struggled with them, but ultimately succeeded in fastening then. With his arms pulled behind him, his wounded shoulder bled freely, a slow, sure red torrent cascading down his chest to the floor. Shorty's condition concerned the girl. If he died, she would have to clean up afterward, which would involve intense scrubbing, and body disposal. All tedious work that she would rather avoid. Even if he lived, she was going to have to do something about the blood on the rug. It wouldn't do to leave a bloodstain that made it look like someone had been shot in the hotel room, even if that was what had happened. Still, there was little the girl could do about it now. She stepped over Shorty to get to Sam, and pulled on the ropes to test the knots. Satisfied with them, she grabbed Shorty under his arms, and pulled him into a corner, well away from Sam. She then made her way to the pile of clothes, and dug through their pockets.
"So, do you have a name, or should I just call you crazy?" Shorty asked.
The girl rolled her eyes.
"You already know my name," she said with conviction. Why would they be in her room otherwise?
She pulled an id out of one of Shorty's pockets. "Don't play dumb with me Mr... Santiago?" the girl frowned, fishing through his pockets again, until she pulled out another, and then another of his fake ids. She smiled, and held them up for him to see. Standing, she dropped them to the ground.
"So... she did send you after me," the girl said. She opened the dresser drawer that the men had been going through when she stopped them. It contained three knives, one silver, one black and one gold. Each of their blades was engraved with symbols, and besides their symbols and color schemes, the knives were identical. She took the silver one, and approached Shorty, pressing the blade against his throat. He swallowed, his eyes darting from her, to Sam, and back.
"I'm guessing that you two are related somehow," the girl started. "That's how she works isn't it? So what are you? Brothers? Lovers? Father and Son?"
"Dude, you are messed up in the head," Shorty said. "Did your mama drop you or something?"
Irked, the girl pressed on the blade more firmly to his skin, the added pressure sending a drop of blood trickling down from his neck, leaving a thin trail of it's own, until it joined the unstemmed flow of blood from Shorty's shoulder.
"You're going to tell me everything I want to know," she told Sam without taking her eyes off Shorty. "Or I'll gut this one slowly while you watch. And you," she addressed Shorty. "You keep your mouth shut unless I'm talking to you."
"Alright," Sam said placatingly. "Whatever you want to know, I'll tell you."
"Your names. Your real, names," she said.
"My name is Sam Winchester. That's my brother, Dean," Sam said. "And you have to believe me, we have no idea how we got here, or who you are, or what you're talking about."
The girl straightened when she heard their last name, taking the knife away from Shorty- from Dean's throat.
"Winchester? Are you bozos related to John Winchester by any chance?" she asked, her tone changing from threatening to quizical.
Sam looked at Dean, who raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah, he's our father," Sam replied.
"Really? I didn't know he had kids," the girl said. "In any case, where is the bastard? I've been looking everywhere for him."
Sam stopped, unsure of what he was supposed to say.
"He's dead," Dean said in his brother's stead.
"I'm sorry. What got him?" the girl asked, sitting down on the bed.
"A... demon," Sam supplied. The girl got the feeling that at best, she wasn't getting the whole story, and at worst, she was getting a half-truth. She didn't really care that much, either way.
"That sucks," she said. "He owes me two hundred bucks."
"Gee, you're the sensitive, consoling type," Dean muttered. She ignored him, and picked up one of the stakes that Sam and Dean had dropped, examining it.
"So, you're hunters," she said, stating the obvious. Hunting was a business that had a tendency to run in the family, and John Winchester was a hunter, in spite of what the girl could say about his level of expertise, or rather, lack thereof.
"Yeah," Sam confirmed.
The girl looked them over again, and snorted in derision.
"No offense, but you guys suck if you can get tied up this easily by a 14 year old," she said.
"Hey, you had a gun on us," Dean protested.
"So? I've had guns on me. I've always gotten away," she retorted.
"Right," Dean said skeptically. "You know, I would love to sit around all day and trade war stories, but it's cold in here and I'm bleeding, so maybe if you could untie us, and direct us to the nearest drugstore-"
"Oh shut up," the girl interrupted. "I'll fix your arm, fine, but you idiots aren't going anywhere."
"Uh... why not?" Sam asked.
"One reason. Your Dad owed me two hundred bucks, like I said. In case you didn't catch on when I said I was looking for him, I want to cash in on that. Since he's not around to pay it off, you guys are going to have to instead," she explained.
Sam and Dean shared a a glance that immediately told the girl they were going to be difficult about this.
"Okay, two problems," Dean started. "First of all, we're working a case, and the thing we're hunting is pretty dangerous."
The girl held up the pine stake. "Let me guess, trickster?" she ventured.
"Yeah," Sam said, a hint of surprise in his tone.
"I've killed two of them," the girl said.
"You're a hunter?" Dean said, his words saturated with cynicism.
"Of sorts," the girl replied. "In any case, I'm probably better than the two of you combined."
Dean's expression turned to one of indignation. "Hey, I don't think-"
"Well," Sam interrupted Dean, "we'd really like to pay back our Dad's debt, but as Dean said, we're working a job, and we don't have two hundred dollars between the two of us."
"That's too bad," she said. "I always collect on my debts. Always. And I have a quick, easy way for you to pay this back, without dropping a penny between the two of you," she said.
Dean chuckled. "Ahh. See, that sounds real interesting, but maybe some other-"
"Or," she said loudly, cutting Dean off. She walked back over to him, and ran the blade of the knife along his jaw. "I could carve some nice pictures into someone's skin."
"We don't respond all that well to threats from little girls," Dean growled. His tone didn't match his appearance in the slightest. Blood loss was starting to take it's toll on him. He was pale, and beads of sweat were forming on his brow.
"What do you want us to do?" Sam asked.
"I need you to kill something for me," the girl said.
"Are you both ignoring me?" Dean demanded.
"Just sit there and be quiet like a good little boy while your brother and I do business," the girl said.
"What do you want us to kill?" Sam amended.
"Not us. Just you." she corrected him. "I'll be keeping Dean here with me for safekeeping."
"You mean you'll be holding me hostage to make sure Sam doesn't cut and run," Dean snapped.
"Yeah, you could put it like that too," the girl agreed.
"Why don't you let me go kill this thing, and keep Sam here?" Dean asked.
"Because it looks to me like Sam is going to be more inclined to just kill it, and less inclined to try to come back here and try to kill me. And also, you're wounded," she explained.
"And who's fault is that?" Dean snarked.
"It's your fault for being a smartass," the girl retorted. "You're still being a smartass, and you'd better cut it out, or I will."
As she spoke, the knife caught the light from the bathroom, which glinted wickedly along it's razor sharp edge.
"Alright, can we stop arguing, and just get this done?" Sam asked in exasperation. "What is it you want me to kill?"
"See what I mean? Cooperative," the girl told Dean, before turning to Sam. "A demon. It's been on my ass for a while now."
"You want him to kill a demon? That would be a neat trick," Dean snorted.
"All you have to do is shoot it. It's locked inside it's host, and their lives have been tied together. If one goes out, so does the other," she said.
"Why do you want it dead so badly?" Sam asked.
"That's my business. I just want it gone," she said.
"If you're such a great hunter, why don't you go do it yourself?" Dean asked smugly.
"That's also my business," she snapped.
"Okay, if I kill it, you'll let me and Dean go?" Sam asked.
"Not only will I let you go, your family will be debt free in my eyes," the girl said.
"Whoop dee doo," Dean said sarcastically.
"Fine then, I'll kill it," Sam said.
The girl smiled. "Good," she said.
She aimed her gun at Dean, and approached Sam, gripping the knife in her other hand.
"I'm going to let you out. If you try anything, I'll shoot him before you can lay a finger on me," she told Sam. She slashed the ropes on his right arm, and then stepped back, letting him free himself from there. He stood, and she trained the gun on him, nodding towards the pile of clothes.
"Get dressed. She's in a super eight motel about ten miles south of here," the girl said.
"Can I have a gun?" Sam asked.
"Are you going to shoot me?" she countered.
"No," he said.
"Look me in the eyes, and promise me that you aren't going to shoot me if I give you one of my guns," the girl said.
"I'm not going to shoot you if you give me a gun," he said, looking her in the eyes.
She nodded, seeming satisfied, and walked over to Dean. She pressed the blade to his throat again, and slid the gun across the floor to Sam.
"Room 218," she said.
Sam paused, a hint of distress creeping into his expression as he looked his brother over.
"Will you stop that bleeding while I'm gone?" he requested. "I don't want to come back here and find Dean dead."
"I'll take good care of him for you," the girl promised. "Now get out of here."
Sam looked back at them one last time, before he left through the door and closed it behind him. The girl got up and locked it, peeking out the curtains to make sure Sam was leaving. She watched for a few minutes, before she turned back to Dean.
"Now what?" Dean asked.
"Now we wait for your brother to get back," she said simply. She eyed his wound. "I can patch you up while we wait."
"You haven't got any hard liquor lying around by any chance, do you?" Dean asked.
"I do, actually, but I don't intend to waste it on you," she snarked.
"That's cruel," he countered.
"Don't worry. You'll be just fine," she assured him.
She gripped him under the arms again, and he bit his lip to keep from groaning in pain. She moved him next to the chair, facing towards the window, and then disappeared behind him. He could hear her going through the dresser drawers.
"So, do you have a name?" he asked for the second time since they had met.
"Alice," she replied from the bathroom. He was surprised that she was telling him, considering her first response.
"Alice what?" he pressed.
"Just Alice," she replied.
"How'd that come about?" he asked.
"I got divorced. How do you think smartass? My last name sucked, so I dropped it," she snapped.
"Ouch, sore topic," Dean said, sensing that he'd stumbled upon something of interest.
"Whatever. It isn't important. What's important to me is that your brother is out there right now, solving my biggest problem," she said, from directly behind him. "And everything else, I can handle."
Dean was about to respond, but he suddenly found his neck in the crook of her elbow. She held him flush against her, and pressed a rag over his nose and mouth. Dean smell something sweet, so sweet it made him want to throw up. He held his breath, and struggled against her hold, recognizing the sicky odor of chloroform.
"Stop moving, or I'm going to make you," Alice warned. He almost wrenched himself from her grasp, but she growled and tightened her grip, blocking his windpipe. When she released the pressure a moment later, Dean couldn't stop himself from taking a deep, ragged breath. As soon as he did, he started to feel numb. His struggles subsided, despite his efforts to keep fighting. Alice slipped a thick rubber band over the rag, and stepped back, watching him as he slumped to the floor. Dean fought unconsciousness, tried to lift his hands to get the rag off his face, but he couldn't even feel his limbs anymore, much less tell them what to do.
"Don't fight it. It's going to make it easier for me to fix your arm," Alice explained, her tone surprisingly soothing.
Dean had no intention of giving up, but he didn't have a choice anymore. As the chemicals saturated his system and did their work, his eyelids slid shut, and he slipped into darkness.
