Hey guys! So Sarah is my own character that I've made up. I'm not too sure how I'd like to take her from here, so give me some suggestions. :) Also, I'd like to thank DeansBabyBird, WallflowerSoul, and Domofan19 for reviewing my last fic. Thanks so much!


My name is Sarah Singer, and my story begins the 21st of December, 1988. My birth father was a hunter whose wife died. Only five years after her death, he had an affair with a waitress whom he met while he was out on a hunt. He came to see me once after my birth. However, my true father was Bobby Singer. When my mom died when I was only three years old, my father took me to him, dumped me there, and left.


It's fucking hot out, and Bobby's making me shoot cans when I could be sitting inside in my (slightly) air conditioned room.

"Sarah, pay attention! I'm not sitting out here in the boiling heat to watch you daydream!" I could hear the annoyance in Bobby's voice from where he was sitting in one of the cars.

"Well maybe I would pay attention better if I was allowed to take a break!"

Most normal 17 year old girls would probably be lounging in their rooms on a day like today, but no, here I am, the hunter's daughter, practicing shooting in 100 degree weather.

"Get the next fifteen in a row, and I'll let you take a break."

I grin to myself, and squeeze off fifteen shots.

"That was only fourteen. Do it again." Bobby calls out from the pickup.

"But I was only one off! Come on, just let me take a break!"

Bobby rolls his eyes.

"Next time, you better get sixteen."

I thumb the safety on the gun on, and head inside. I don't know why, but I've never really decorated the room. If someone didn't know any better, my room might be mistaken for a forty year old's room. Plain quilted bedspread, brown wallpaper, dresser and mirror, and a side table are the only things that decorate the sparse room. I plop down on the bed, and bury my face in the pillow. It still smells like unwashed men and gin. I really should be used to this by now; showering only when I smell my own B.O., working my ass off for people that don't appreciate it, shooting things until one in the morning. But it's hard. Some days I wonder what it would be like to be a normal teenage girl who doesn't know what a windigo or a demon is. I guess ignorance can be bliss. But I long ago accepted that this is what my life is going to be like, whether I like it or not, so instead of sulking, I toss the raunchy pillow off the bed and lay on the bare mattress. It's not long before I fall asleep.

Bobby wakes me up in a hurry.

"You gotta go."

"Down to Dylan's?"

Dylan was a hunter who lived down the road. Every once in awhile, Bobby would send me down to Dylan's and have me stay there for any period of time, from a few days to a week. It's been like this ever since I was little, when I would split my time between here and there. It's always bothered me, running from one place to another at the drop of Bobby's hat. But when I asked him to explain why I was leaving, he claimed "that there was a case that needed a lot of room". Even I could smell that bullshit. But I go along with it. I guess its my way of paying Bobby back for his 14+ years of hospitality.

He tosses me the keys to the pickup.

"Get a move on. You need to be out of here in five."

I throw a couple things into a bag and run out, but not before quickly kissing Bobby on the cheek.

"Call me once you're at Dylan's?"

"You know it."

I'm halfway to Dylan's when it happens. Two idiots in a Chevy Impala carelessly swerve into the lane I'm driving in, causing me to swerve and the truck to head off the road. The last thing I remember before blacking out is some guy singing in a falsetto.

Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more.