Raggles here! I's actually doing this for PULL, a program started by my very bestest friend Bookaholic711. She is FANTASTIC. Please check out the program on her profile.
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Fiction: the act of feigning, inventing, or imagining. See: no ownie ownie. In case being on FanFiction wasn't enough evidence for you.
1:
The car was alone on the street, which was dimly lit and generally empty, except for the dump of a car. A young man slipped down the narrow sidewalk and into the light of one of the pathetic street lamps.
"Who's the kid?" Ellen Harvelle, a young mother straight out of the police academy, asked to her partner inside the safe confines of the stakeout car. John Winchester, a veteran and ace detective for 20 plus years, sat beside her. "You said that this was Demon's territory. He's gotta be a player."
The man stopped and lit up a cigarette. Taking a long drag, he peered over his shoulder and shrugged in frustration.
"Yeah, that's Sam."
"He don't look like much, to tell you the truth, John."
"Don't let him fool you. He's genius, but god, he can be vicious. Ever since his brother died…"
The subject in question inhaled once again and shot a furious glare over his shoulder. Ellen was right, he didn't look like trouble. He had to be over six foot and lean with hair that curled just right. He wore a normal blue t-shirt over baggy jeans, and was lost somewhere under the unzipped hoodie.
She turned her attention to a few figures half concealed in the shadows.
"Looks like he's being tailed."
"Yeah," John replied, cryptic as ever.
"And?" Ellen prompted.
"They're called the 7 Sins. They're Sam's personal body guards." Ellen raised one eyebrow.
"See, Sammy's like the little demon prince... Ol' Lucy himself appointed the sins for his protection. Fitting, huh? Boos man named himself Lucifer."
Ellen barked out a laugh. "So who's the chick?"
Following Ellen's line of sight, John spotted the query. "That's Ruby, I think, she was blonde last week. She's basically like Sam's personal babysitter. Little Sammy does something Lucy doesn't like, and Ruby swoops in and mops up the mess. Like a frickin' tutor, she is, and he gets away with a little rap on the knuckles. You'd think he'd at least try and teach the kid a lesson."
After a quizzical look from his young partner, he delved into greater depths.
"Even Satan himself doesn't stay young forever. Rumor has it that the kid gets the whole gang for his big one-eight."
"Ah, shit, he's not even legal, yet?
John produced a bottle of Jack. He took a swig and then passed it to Ellen. "Nah, but he's caused enough trouble as it is. Can't wait until he's an adult," John added with sarcasm.
The figure in question inhaled, long and deep.
"Shouldn't we bust him for underage smoking?"
"Nah," John said. "Be more trouble than it's worth. His dad would probably start a gang war."
She reveled on that for a moment. Deciding that John knew best, she turned her conversation to the more important matter at hand.
"You think that he's responsible for the Angel deaths?"
"I suppose. He's real loyal to his father. Do anything to guarantee his support. Get in good with dad and get anything. The Detroit Demons and the Angels of Hamtramck have been rival gangs since the beginning."
"Yeah, heard about the Angels. Not so angelic, are they?" John shook his head, no. "There have always been rumors about them. Who really runs it?"
"Honestly? We have no idea. He calls himself 'God', go figure. But we have no clue about his real identity." Ellen nodded and took a long swig of the whiskey.
"Tell me what we know, Harvelle."
"Okay," Ellen started. "Three murders. All died from round stab wounds to the neck, all members of the gang Angels of Hamtramck. Someone's killing Angels. I would put my money on the Demons."
"It's a good hunch. Sam's real messed up about his brother. Died in some freak dog fighting accident. One of the dogs turned on him, real mess. Almost three years ago. Actually, Sam was a good kid back then. Real promising future; got a full ride to some college. But after his brother's death, he just tried to fill up some nasty ass shoes. Being the only son left and all… Pass the Jack."
"Here. So what? Kid freaks after his brother dies, goes all 'Daddy's boy' and kills some of dear old dad's rivals? I don't get it? What's the real motive? He must have more dangerous enemies than some trivial little Angel nobodies."
"Yeah your right. Well I got a hunch, it ain't much, but we'll follow up on that later."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah? Any Intel into who's next?" John asked.
"Yep. Word on the street 'round here is that a couple of low life angels are gonna be next, no real reason, though. We got a couple names: Joshua, Raphael, Jessica, and a Dean. No other information."
"Figured, ain't no one gonna give us more than that. Dean… haven't heard that name in a while."
"Why? Who is he?"
"He's like Michael's numero uno. Need someone whacked; Michael calls in this guy. Real good, real pro. Bad at following orders; kid doesn't give a shit unless it's his daddy talking, but that hasn't been a problem for a few years now. He bit it when the kid was fifteen. Worked that boy into the ground. Shoved him into the streets too early, if you ask me."
"Ouch," Ellen said, swishing the half empty bottle of whiskey around before returning it to the center console. "I still don't get it. What's Dean got to do with anything? Is he good enough that this Sam kid would want to kill him?"
"Something like that," he paused. "They have a past."
"What kind of past?"
Deciding that they were drunk enough, John started the car and headed back to the station.
He spotted his prey, easy. Just out of high school or in college, maybe. It was dark out, in some back alley, sometime around 2 AM, when he found her. He paused for a second, unsure, but the warm reassurance of two small feathery wing tattoos on her lower back pressed him forward.
She was perfect; he slipped from the shadows.
"You," she said.
His surprise was evident from his expression.
She scoffed, "You're quite famous you know."
He was rather bored with the current predicament and pulled a long silver blade from his suit sleeve. It was long and round, not anything that would normally be considered a sword, but nothing else really fit. It was beautiful, really, the man thought, shame he had to get it dirty.
"Well, in that case, I'm going to offer you a choice. You can take it or die."
Madison MacManus's patience was running out. In fact, it had run out, say, sixteen and a half minutes ago, when Madison's third call to her best friend's cell went to voicemail. She had a good guess of Jessica's last whereabouts: her skeezy boyfriend's half-way apartment in downtown, near the slums.
She didn't have to look far.
Jessica Moore lay on the dirt floor of a back alley, not moving. In fact, she was lying in a spreading puddle of her own blood. The hole in her neck, the one that had slowly sucked her life and breath, dribbled blood determinedly. Her ever lovely blonde hair lay flat around her head, like a messed-up halo.
The name of her attacker sat uncalled at her lips.
Madison opened her mouth and let out a scream.
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