Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Summary: There was something about those Winchesters that compelled people to toss caution- -and oftentimes their lives- -to the wind in order to help them. Even if they didn't really want to, even if they didn't play for the same side, even if they knew better, there was just something about those Winchesters…

A collection of one-shots centered on the ones who were sacrificed in the Winchesters' cause: the good, the bad, the barely good, and everything inbetween.

Meg.

She kept asking herself what her stakes were in this battle. What did she care about taking down Leviathans? So they wanted to make the world their feeding ground—it had nothing to do with her. Her only concern was Crowley. In fact, Crowley obviously felt threatened by the Levis, or he wouldn't have sided with the two idiots. And that was a pretty damn good reason to let the Levis continue doing as they pleased. If she knew anything about monsters in general, it was that they craved the world. The chompers wouldn't be satisfied with simple coexistence—no, that was much too passive. They'd probably set about eradicating the demons sooner or later, and eventually make their way down the list to Crowley. If she simply laid low and waited, she might just live long enough to get her happy ending—that smug bastard's head rolling onto the ground. Or digesting in a Levi's stomach. She wasn't picky.

So why was she taking them out instead? Why was she helping the Winchesters? What did she get out of it?

Bullets in the chest, apparently; and blood splatters on her face, even if it wasn't all her blood.

She didn't put faith in much, but the Winchesters had beaten greater odds. The tall, dumb one had managed to put Lucifer back in his cage, after all. The bullets and the blood were her meal ticket—the favor she'd cash in once all this black goo business was over and done with. She'd put Dumb and Dumber back on track, set their sights on the only enemy who really mattered, and see him fall like everyone else.

So here she stood, smiling against the burning chest wounds as she felt her machete go into and through the neck of a Leviathan. At least the chompers were in more pain than she was, judging by their screams. It was pretty hilarious, if she thought about it, how the most powerful monsters in the history of Creation could be laid low by dish soap.

With the last of them dispatched, she turned around to make her getaway. She wasn't suicidal—best to leave the boss fight to the main players. Maybe she'd take Dean's precious Impala for a joyride. Leave the burned remains in a ditch somewhere for him to find. She'd blame it on the Levis, of course—reinforcements shooting at her as she made her escape; she'd taken it as far as she could before it could go no further, and she had no choice but to watch it combust on the side of the road.

She could already picture the outraged look on his face when he took in the scrap-metal.

Then she felt herself knocked back. When she looked up, she saw the men with black eyes.

"The King of Hell will see you now."

Right. What was she thinking? The Winchesters weren't known for happy endings.