Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and any of its characters, however I do own the ones I have created in this story. Places, characters, episode references etc. belong to the almighty Kripke and those at the CW. Comments/reviews are greatly appreciated and hopefully this is an enjoyable piece to read! Many thanks,
~LivwritesWinchester
A Demon, A Dollar, and A Bottle of Whiskey
Chapter 1
The evening air nipped at her exposed skin. Her sleeveless arms were pricked with goose pimples as the dropping temperature made her blood run cold. Up in the sky above, she could see the stars, but the glow was dim; not bright like she had remembered them once before as a child. The overgrown grass that surrounded her was limp, and dead. It crunched beneath her feet when she walked and it snapped. Not like the grass that she had remembered once before as a child. The narrow dirt path that ran over the field led to a house, her house. Exactly like the house she had remembered once before as a child. Beginning to walk over the dead grass and over to the path, she saw him, hanging onto the jetty that led onto the lake. "Dad!" She tried to call, but no sound left her mouth. Running towards the lake she kept calling. "Dad! Dad!" Still, no sound. Quicker and quicker she ran, gaining speed until... Something rough twisted around her left ankle making her smack against the ground face first, ripping a cut into her cheek and making her feel dizzy. Only meters away she could see her father loosing grip, plunging down into the black depths of the lake. A ferocious splash, then he was gone. She struggled against the restraint around her ankle and she looked to see it was a tree branch. She kicked and thrashed her legs against the ground, trying to get the branch off of her. "I wouldn't struggle" an anonymous voice spoke from the shadows around her. Ignoring the advice, she continued kicking until she felt a swift snap in her ankle. She screeched in agony now realising that her ankle had, in fact, broken. "Shit!" she hissed through her teeth.
"I told you, Harriet. Don't struggle. Now you've broken your ankle." The anonymous voice said, and a dark sullen figure began to emerge from the darkness in front of Harriet.
"Show yourself! Who are you?!" Harriet commanded. No answer. No answer, except a pair of piercing ember eyes looked down at her, belonging to a man and a malevolent smile. The man tutted.
"Hiya Harriet. Me and you need to have a chat"
"Why am I here? Why are you making me watch my Dad drown? Again" Tears began to well in Harriet's eyes and one slowly rolled down her cheek, dribbling into the large gash there and making it sting.
"I've got a job for you. Ya see, I need you to track down someone for me. Goes by the name of Sam"
"Give me one good reason why I should do squat for you, I don't even know who you are!"
"I can bring your Dad back. And your Mom. And Greg..." Harriet's heart skipped a beat. Her stomach flipped and she felt ill. The tears fell full force now, her mascara leaving long black drips under her eyes.
"Greg? You can bring him back? No... no... I know how this shit works. It's like damn clockwork with you demons isn't it?"
"What a clever girl you are... So if you know I'm a demon you know what I can do..." The yellow eyed man clicked his fingers, and beside him appeared a grey haired man, a short plump woman, and a tall, muscular man. Mom, Dad and Greg. Harriet felt a lump in her throat. The figures turned from ordinary to angry, around their eyes were red circles. Their skin was ghostly pale. On her Mom's head was a clear bullet hole on her forehead where she'd sent a bullet straight through her own skull. Her father began to cough up water continuously, the murky water running from his mouth, hands, drenching his clothes and pointing a wrinkled finger in the direction of Harriet. "Dad-" Harriet couldn't finish what she was saying, as she started spitting water and was struggling to breathe. She was drowning from the inside.
"Find Sam Winchester" yellow eyes instructed.
Harriet took a deep breath in and shot upright in her bed. Taking long and deep breaths she looked around, realising what she had just experienced was a dream. Harriet raised a hand to her face checking for a wound, then checked her ankle. Bone still where it should be, inside the skin. She was back in the same motel she had been in for the past three days. Rubbing her face, Harriet felt sweat. It must have been some wild dream. Harriet picked up her digital watch and looked at the time. Two fourty-five. Too scared to go back to sleep, Harriet got out of bed and put on a cold shower.
Facing the mirror in the bathroom, Harriet stared at her reflection. She didn't feel the same as she had when she went to sleep. She felt as if there was nothing inside of her. Like she was soulless. Like she was dead. She couldn't shake the voice out of her head; 'find Sam Winchester'. Turning off the shower, Harriet stormed towards her cell phone sitting on the coffee table by the fridge. Forget the shower. She had some calls to make. Inquiries. She flipped it open and scrolled through her contacts. Clicking on one the dial tone began to hum and a voice answered on the other end of the line.
"Harriet what th'hell ya callin' for at three in the mornin'?"
"Hey, sorry for the call but... I've had some information brought to light. Bobby Singer, do you know anyone called Sam Winchester? I gotta find him fast. I have someone who wants him"
Harriet never planned to get into hunting. If you'd asked her twelve years ago what hunting meant, she would have answered something along the lines of killing animals like deer and birds. Now, however, Harriet O'Neil would answer you with: 'Hunting evil. Demons. Monsters. Ghosts. The bad in the world being fought by the good'. That's what kept her going through it each day. Thinking that she was doing good, by fighting the bad.
January, 2004
It was almost midnight and Harriet was on a stakeout. She was in Tennessee, and had bumped into an old acquaintance who needed help on a hunt. He and his Dad had come to town to hunt a poltergeist; an angry son of a bitch that had a nasty temper and a taste for brunettes. Being that Dean and his Dad had fucked her over more times than she could count on her fingers and toes combined, she straight up refused to help them both. Dean and John Smith. How original. It would be too soon if she saw either of them again. Dean had 'hit it and quit it' with her more than once, which she didn't really mind; she wasn't looking to get attached, and John. John was an old fart with about as much emotion as a plank of wood. She and a friend had tackled a werewolf in Wisconsin, and John had joined in the fun. Harriet's friend had been bit, and John shot her. Without hesitation. Without emotion. Without regret.
So, here she was. Alone. Outside the house of The Russell's, the family caught in the middle. A loud smash alerted her immediately and she ran to the front door, bursting through it with abnormal force for a woman her size. She'd already placed various duffle bags of equipment around the house, but on entry found one open. "Mother fucker" she knew who it was immediately. Storming through the threshold and into the main lounge she saw him, Dean Smith, pinned against the wall.
"You bastard! I told you this was my job! What are you doing here?!" Harriet was furious.
"Hey sweetheart" he said, still sprawled on the wall. He was breathing heavily, and then was screaming as the poltergeist began to inflict mounts of pain on him.
"Dean?!" Harriet ran to the duffle by the door trying to find salt or anything to stop the entity.
"Dad! DAD, HURRY UP AND KILL IT!" she heard Dean scream from the room. Oh shit. John Smith too? Those manipulative, lying bastards. They said she could have this one, that this was hers. She shouldn't have been so trusting. First rule on Harriet's list: Don't trust anyone.
She heard bangs and crashes up stairs and the familiar roar of a shotgun. Then there it was. The scream and the black smoke and flecks of orange and gold seeped through the ceiling. It was gone. Sauntering round back to the lounge she looked at Dean slumped against the wall and passed out. Thundering sounds of steps down the stairs signalled John's entrance, and his voice immediately made Harriet tense.
"Harriet O'Neil. Get away from my son"
"Cool it, John, I'm only checking he's still alive. Not that you'd give a shit if he was or not, but hey a girl can't complain if you shot her friend in the head!"
John turned back around and hit her. Harriet crashed to the floor and she lay there, holding her cheek, licking away the blood that tinted her lip.
"Shut your damn mouth. How dare you say to me that I don't care about my son" his tone was stern; cold.
"Dad?" Dean's faint voice questioned. Harriet looked over to him, and his eyes met hers. "What did you do to her?" John stayed quiet. Harriet began to return to her feet, when a calloused hand gripped hers an pulled her up the rest of the way. "Hey, you alright?" Dean asked her, wiping away the blood and tears.
"I'm fine. You?" He shrugged, as if to say he'd be alright. He still had her hand in his, and he was stroking it with his thumb. What was going on? It was weird, because in fact, she liked it. She awkwardly pulled her hand away and coughed in her throat.
"Well. Thanks for lying to me. Again. I'llbeoffnow."
"Harriet. Stay"
"Oh totally I'll definitely stay with you two" The words were laden in sarcasm.
"Please, I really want you to stay" Dean pleaded. Harriet didn't know what was wrong with him. She liked it though. Really liked it.
"Gimme two minutes to get my shit" and she ran to her car. In the broken doorway John and Dean stood. They looked at each other and smiled, the inky black diffusing in their eyes. Demon black, and Harriet had no idea.