Authors Note: Welcome to my way of dealing with the hiatus til January. This story is rated M for a reason so please do not go any further if you are under the age of 18 as required by law and the rules of this site. Was thinking on perhaps turning this into something bigger and more plot worthy so you'll have to let me know what you guys think about that. The full story is already written and edited so be assured that this has an end. Enjoy :)
The setting of the sun did nothing to dampen the constant flutter of anxiety in Heather's chest. It was a shame really to waste such a nice night standing sentry at the doors of a decomposing church. But what was going on inside the church was more important that any drink, flirtatious smile, or meaningless fuck that anyone in the world was having at that moment, or any moment before or after.
Close the gates of hell, they said. It won't be easy, we'll have to claw and scratch and deal and kill to get it done, they said. "They" were right she thought.
Henry Layken had always told his wife that if there was one hunter he felt something akin to trust towards it would be Jon Winchester. Heather was a bit softer and more forgiving than her father. If there were two people alive that she trusted with her life it was Sam and Dean Winchester.
A muted scream ripped Heather from her reverie. Her neck automatically craned back toward the noise. Sam was doing what needed to be done, even if the whole ordeal left a more sour than usual taste in the back of her throat. At 30 she had seen more than most hunters thanks to the sporadic companionship of the boys. Hunting was her life same as them, same as her father's, but she managed to accomplish something that mattered little to most hunters. Heather had held on to her compassion. She steadied her conscience with the assurance that once Sam was finished Crowley would be human; he would have a shot, however tiny, at forgiveness. It was a bit naive yeah, but nothing was 100%, solid to the core, undeniably evil. Sympathy for the devil and all that.
The last scream made five; three more to go. It was that thought that floated in the air about Heather's head as a soft breeze rolled by and she was sent flying forward, met by a hard thump and darkness.
"…rrr ok."
Heather blinked slowly, squeezing her eyes shut against the sharp throb in her head. Sam was knelt down in front of her with an expectant look. She managed a grunt that earned her a wry smile.
"Hold this." Sam instructed towards the rag against her forehead.
She obeyed and relaxed knowing Sam had overcome whatever had tossed her about like a ball of string. A concussion was likely, and she did her best to stay conscious, only dazing out, never falling completely asleep. A few brief moments of unexpected clarity let her hear Crowley and Sam exchange words. Crowley spouting off about HBO.
"I deserve to be loved!"
Heather's skin chilled and a pinch in her chest opened her eyes to look at the meatsuit in the chair. She glanced up at the back of Sam's head. By the finish of a slow blink her eyes had slid back to Crowley, his eyes catching hers for a still second.
Another hour and she heard him again; Crowley asking about forgiveness, then the tilt of his head, catching her tired eyes again as he surrendered to the syringe of Sam's blood. It was a wash of relief…until Dean did what he always does and stopped it all at the last second. Strangely Heather felt another wash of relief, this one with a totally different aftertaste. Hunting was her life, their lives. What would her life be worth if she couldn't hunt? What would she become with the gates of hell closed forever?
Her thoughts faded as Dean jumped behind the wheel of Baby and rushed his brother and her off to the nearest hospital.