Supernatural: Girl Intercepted (Part 1)
"You're sure? You've found her?"
Garth stood up from his motel desk, and reached for his car keys. His skinny frame belied the fact that he possessed a courage that had been tested many times.
"Where is she?" He scribbled something on his complimentary, and somewhat coffee-stained, motel note pad, ended the call and proceeded out the door.
The past few weeks had seen an apocalyptic sequence of events that had tested the courage of many. Angels had fallen and were now walking the earth disguised in their rather crudely termed 'meat suits', and the last that he'd heard from the Winchesters was more than 6 months before that. But that didn't mean that he wasn't keeping his ear to the ground to hear the rumours about what they'd been up to. Word was that Sam was possessed by an angel – and an apparently malevolent one at that – and that he'd now abandoned his brother, killed the prophet, Kevin, and was God-knows-where.
The Winchesters had a habit of attracting the worst kind of luck, and where Garth was going, he was hoping he'd find someone who would turn the tide of the battle in their favour. Despite her hunter heritage, she had lived a pretty ordinary life, and Garth knew that her father had wanted it that way. Evidence – birth certificate, early family photographs and hospital records – had been incinerated in a bid to protect her. But Garth had a way of sniffing out the truth, persistently etching away at the walls that had been built to keep secrets hidden, and he had found her.
It took him nearly a day's drive to get to Montana, and with no recent photographs to go on, he knew that finding her would require some more legwork once he was there. He did have a name though – Christine Metcalf.
As he drove into the town of Kalispell, despite the population board reading "20,127", a manageable size for his experience, he had a feeling that 'needle in a haystack' would apply. He had learned that she had found out her true identity, thanks to a drunken confession by her adoptive, and somewhat abusive, father. The Christine Metcalf that had once resided in a quiet Chicago suburb had disappeared years ago. Garth could only guess that she went in search for the truth. But her biological father knew how to cover his tracks with precision and she must have hit a dead end. With no high school education and no money, she eventually ended up as a stripper in a small Montana town.
This town was not without its hunter contacts though, and when Garth had found a small photo of, what he had guessed to be, a fourteen-year old girl flashing an awkward smile beneath a stern and familiar brow for her yearbook photo, Garth's curiosity was peaked. Turning over the photo, there was a photo studio's stamp and one other word written on the back – 'Christine'. It was a start. Almost a year-and-a-half down the line, and here he was… Kalispell.
Experience dictated that the best places to start his search were the bars. Beer, peanuts and pretzels were a good combination for getting people to talk, so he felt inside his pocket to make sure that the money clip clamping the $1,000 he was about to 'invest' was still secure.
Five bars and about a keg of beer later, Garth stumbled onto the sidewalk with the name of a club that a jovial bar patron had last seen a woman named Christal Dreams dancing at. He swore that the innocent girl, and the more seasoned and world-wise stripper were one and the same person. He also added that he'd once heard her talk about Chicago.
When Garth had visited the Metcalfs in Chicago, it was very obvious that the ordinary and uncomplicated life that her father had intended for her was eroded away by the reality of the childhood Christine had had. The house itself was adorned with tributes to an overachiever in all that she had attempted. The adoptive parents used stereotypical statements of praise for their little Christine – 'straight-A student'; 'our pride and joy'; 'couldn't be more proud than if we were her biological parents'. They were too nice. And no family was that perfect. Garth was immediately wary of this idyllic familial staging. He had been particularly drawn to one photograph. The picture was of a slim and athletic teenager with a smile stretching from ear to ear. She was posed hoisted above the shoulders of a male cheerleader, both wearing the school colours of red and white. Her dark hair was neatly tied back into a ponytail. She was the epitome of the typical American teenager. Why would she want to leave this seemingly amazing life? He had gotten his answer from one of her friends. Her adoptive father was not only a drunk, but, in his drunken stupor, would make sexual advances on her. When she, as Garth had gathered, defended herself, he had blurted out that she should go and find her whore of a mother and good-for-nothing daddy, 'cause she was no child of his. She was beautiful and he had noticed, but she was not going to play victim. A swift kick to his groin and her bags were packed and she was gone. Garth couldn't help but think, 'like father, like daughter'.
Her biological father was also a dab hand at keeping knowing how to handle himself around less desirable forces – although the forces he had usually dealt with were monsters, demons, and the occasional angels. Garth idolised her father, and felt it his responsibility to reunite her with who she really was. Walking onto the 'Shady Lady' club – a dubious name that aptly described the type of seedy establishment it was, it wouldn't take him long to find her in the crowd.
She wasn't the same all-American-girl cheerleader that he had seen in the photograph, but there was no mistaking her father's stern brow. He had found Christine Metcalf. He had found Bobby Singer's daughter. And if anyone would be able to help the Winchester's, it would be a Singer.
Christine gyrated and tantalised the male clientele, and money was slipped into her bra and underwear, or between her thighs. She had a dancer's figure, and all men, Garth included, worshipped her while she was on the stage.
Backstage, after her seductive performance, she sat down in front of her Hollywood-style dressing room mirror and quickly removed her makeup. Her thoughts focussed on the rent money which she had just earned, so that she could get her landlord off her back. This would settle her debts so that she could leave town with a clear conscience.
"Excuse me. Chrital Dreams?"
"Oh God. Dale?!" she called out for a rather heavy set man lurking in the corner of the backstage area. "Please can you get this asshole back to his table."
"I've been looking for…"
"Hey. Newsflash. You're looking in the wrong place," she said, looking at what she perceived to be the usual horny guy who wanted to try his luck.
A jumble of words were exchanged, as Garth struggled to free himself from Dale's vice-like grip, and, realising he was getting nowhere using the subtle approach, Garth exclaimed desperately, "Your name isn't Christine Metcalf. It's Christine Singer."
There was silence as she stared at this wimpish-looking man reflected in the mirror. Her eyes hadn't been diverted from her reflection, and from the task of removing the mask that she hid behind for each sordid performance. But now her focus was away from demasking her face, and intently focussed on this stranger who had brought her answers.
"What did you say?"
"Your biological father's name is Robert Singer."
She motioned for Dale to let him go so that he could have his say.
"I knew him as Bobby."
There was a pronounced silence as she wrestled with the validity of what he had just said.
"What's your name?"
"Garth."
"Well, Garth, what do you expect me to do with this information?" She put on a new mask – one that didn't require make-up or seductive lace underwear – bravado.
"Do with it what you want. It's what you've been searching for." Garth caught his breath after his David-and-Goliath encounter with a bouncer named Dale. "It's the truth."
Christine looked back at her reflection in the mirror.
"Well, whatever truth you're selling, Garth, I ain't buying."
"I'm not selling anything. I'm giving you the answers that you've been searching for." Garth's phone beeped. A message from Father Peterson – an ally in his quest. Harry's dead. He knows where you are. He's on his way. Get her out of there. "Shit," he mumbled under his breath.
"What?"
"Look, I wish I had time to sugar-coat this news, but I don't. We have to leave now."
"No way. I'm not leaving until you give me a reason to believe you."
Garth didn't have time to play lawyer. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, weathered photo of Bobby that he had saved from the wreckage of his house. "This is how I know that what I'm saying in the truth." Garth turned around looking for the quickest way to get out of the club. Christine reached out and picked up the small picture of a rather stern-looking man in his late 50s. She recognised the brow – it was the same as hers.
"Why do you say you knew him?"
Garth paused. "He died about a year ago… I know you have no reason to trust me, but if you come with me now I'll explain everything on the way."
Garth knew that he was not just going to tell her about her mother and father. He was also going to have to tell her the truth about her destiny. Like the Winchesters, she was a cog in the wheel that was the 'grand plan'.
A few days before he had been murdered by the angel that had possessed Sam – Gadriel – Kevin had phoned Garth. He had had a vision. And, as the prophet, his visions were to be taken very seriously. He had seen a child, conceived of human parents, but possessing a supernatural bloodline as well. Garth had initially assumed that he was referring to Sam. But Kevin was adamant that the child was a girl. Her father was human and her mother also human, but possessed by an angel at the time of her conception. The angel had remained dormant within the mother so that the child would flourish in her womb. It had remained in the mother long enough for her to survive the birth. However, the possession by the angel had left the mother vulnerable to possession by more sinister forces. Not long after the child's birth, the mother was possessed by a demon who, in a bid to secure the child and prevent her destiny, attempted to kill the father as he protected his daughter from what he perceived to be a wife gone rabid.
Kevin had recognised who the father was. He had not been killed, but had, instead, killed his wife expelling the demon from her lifeless corpse. It was Bobby Singer. He had no idea that the child possessed an angelic lineage at first, but once he had found out and understood the implications – she was a Nephilim – he had made the decision to bind the powers within her using an ancient binding spell, and sent her away in the hopes that she would be able to lead a normal life.
At this point, having heard the story that Kevin had told him, Garth's quest to honour his mentor had now become part of a much larger, and far more sinister, plot. Metatron was also privy to this information, and, knowing that such a being would threaten his plan, had set out to find her and kill her. The will of the angle-human alliance was so strong within her blood that she could literally undo his work. Children with similar lineages had been recorded. The Winchester's had even encountered a child with demon-human parentage – a boy named Jesse. His will was more powerful than human, angel or demon. Christine would be the same.
Garth looked at Christine, aware that, at any moment, Metaron would be there. He was also aware that, should they encounter him, with the binding spell in place, there was very little that either of them could do against an angelic force. His eyes pleaded with her to trust him.
A commotion arose beyond the backstage curtain. Christine stood up, startled by the sound of breaking glass and the frantic screams of patrons. Metatron had arrived. "Please, come with me." Garth gestured to the black curtain separating them from the front-of-house. "Whatever's beyond that curtain is after you. I need to get you out of here now."
She grabbed her bag and followed him.
