A/N: In this world, Sam and Dean are in their twenties. It'd be just weird for a nineteen-year-old girl to be in love with a thirty-two-year-old dude. I also stole some stuff from this very funny person at named Greeting'sAndSalutations [- that's a link!] on their "Guideline to surviving the Winchesters". Props to you! I also stole a line from Jo Harvelle, so don't yell at me...
People say that hunting down demons, vengeful spirits and any other worst nightmare is unimaginable. They say that any human could die doing what they do. But they haven't. Not yet, at least. I've been with them before, actually. They seem nice, especially the younger one. The oldest one is hilarious and they both love what they do. Both of them has been to Hell and back, both went to Purgatory, which is the heaven for monsters.
Dean told me that you're not a hunter unless you've died and came back. But still… they haven't been dead dead. Sam, the youngest one, was an "ex-demon blood junkie" as Dean refers to him. Sam had powers, like to exorcise demons. Azazel had these "plans" for him, but Dean shot him with the Colt. The Colt is a revolver made in 1835 for a hunter by Samuel Colt (see the name?). Locals of Kansas said it had thirteen original bullets but the boys used the last five. Good job, guys!
I'm trying to keep them alive. Ever since they saved me, Sam and Dean feel like family now.
Family. Haven't heard that word in eight years. Both of my parents died because of demons trying to take me out of my nursery when I was six months old. (Sound familiar, Sammy?) My mom had just gone to bed; my father asleep in the arm chair downstairs with a Yankee-Red Sox game on, drunk as hell. The front door had opened downstairs, then my nursery door. I'd started crying when one of them plucked me from my crib. My mom got up, went in then screamed until her heart stopped as a bullet pierced through her body. My dad died trying to save her. He got shot in the head, straight through the brain.
Sam and Dean Winchester saved me. They brought me back into hunting when a vampire nearly killed me. They taught me everything they know, joked with me, looked after me, loved me.
You know, it's kind of awkward now. I realized that I am in love with Sam Winchester. But the question still haunted me: Why can't I trust him or Dean?
Gunfire was all I heard. I barrelled out of the way just in time as another demon rushed out to tackle me. I clenched the handgun tightly in my hand, turning and firing at the demon. It's black eyes bored into mine and I collided into someone. The demon looked cute: short blond hair, pale skin. She was dressed in a floral babydoll with black sandals. The demon in front of me—dressed in a tux with red Converse—grabbed my throat, lifting me up and against a tree. My hands scrambled for my flask of holy water clipped to my pants. My fingertips grazed it, but never got it.
I felt the color drain from my face; the air to and from my lungs being cut off. I tried to say something rude, but the only thing that came out was a pained grunt. I gave up with the holy water and started clawing at the demon's hands. An amused smile crept up to his lips.
I was gonna die, being strangled by a possessed guy in a fancy-ass tuxedo.
I saw the outline of the demon's skeleton light up with a neon orange color just before I knew I was a goner. Yellow light came out of the it's mouth as it slid to the ground, letting go of me. The same thing happened to the three other demons that were waiting for me to finally die and not be another problem.
Collapsing to the ground with a huge gasp, I rolled onto my side, coughing and sucking in mouthful after mouthful of air. I felt Sam's hands on my forearms, rubbing them and lifting me up to my feet. He asked if I was
okay. I nodded, leaning over and barfing my brains out. Dean chuckled behind me.
"What? I'm pretty sure you puked after nearly dying," I muttered, coughing and getting my gun. He shrugged.
"Doesn't ring a bell to me, sweetie," he said, a smile plastered to his lips. That's because you're used to it, I thought, straightening and bending my back to stretch.
Sam picked me up, ignoring my protests followed by soft curse words even though I was perfectly fine with walking to the Impala. Dean punched him gently in the shoulder and smirked that cute smile of his. I've always loved the guy for being such an ass sometimes. I adjusted my black tank top as Sam put me in the back of the car. I took a deep breath, my throat still throbbing from the demon's grip. Dean got in as his baby brother slammed the door shut and jumped in shotgun. The fact that I felt bad for abandoning them on this hunt was eating me alive. But something out there told me that I had to go see. I swear I'd seen someone out there. I wanted to ask them if they'd seen the spirit of the woman. She died of a possession that led to a tragic and fatal accident. I ignored the gnawing pain in my neck, resting my head on the top of the seat.
"Why'd you leave, Sienna?"
I lifted my head to see Dean glaring at me through the mirror. Dean Winchester, the only guy I think is adorable and hilarious has such major mood swings. "I didn't. Something went inside me and made me walk out here," I lied. I hated lying to either of them, but they wouldn't believe me. I even fought telling Sam. Dean rolled his eyes.
"What have I always told you?" His voice shook. I could tell he was fighting to not cry. He loved me, I think. Loved me like family. Loved me as much as Sammy.
"Never leave."
"And did you?"
"Yeah…" I looked away from his eyes, now pooling with tears. I looked out the window, resting my head and falling asleep. I woke up screaming in a motel room somewhere in Wichita. Sam sat up, jumping out of bed. A blade was in his hand, knuckles nearly white. I blushed, looking away as I realized Sam didn't have a shirt on; just sweat pants.
He walked over, sitting down next to me. He set the knife down. "What'd you see out there, Sienna?" he asked, jaw clenched. I cleared my throat, my hand running over the same tattoo that the boys had just below their collarbone.
I cleared my throat. Ran a hand through my hair."My mom, Sam. I saw my mom," I blinked back tears. "I saw the bullet hole in her stomach. The blood through her nightgown…" I sobbed, my shoulders shaking. Sam rubbed my arm with his thumb, tracing circles on my skin. He laid down with me in that crappy bed, hand wrapped protectively around my waist.
The lamp turned on in the morning, blinding me as Dean put on his boots. "Get up, sleeping beauty," I pulled the covers over my head, moaning and closing my eyes. See, I like to sleep. And when Dean wakes me up, DEAN won't get any pie (I make a mean pie). And we all know what happens then. I'll deal with it when we cross that bridge. I smiled as he sighed. Opening one eye, I looked over my shoulder through the sheets.
I rolled out, trudging to the second dresser and getting out a tank top, jeans and my combat boots from the floor. I knocked on the bathroom door, practically yelling at Sam to hurry up and get out. He came out a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around his hips, the rest damp with shower water.
Quickly, feeling a huge wave of heat warm my cheeks, I shut the door, turned on the shower and stepped in after stripping my clothes. I let the water run down my face, the visions of seeing my parents' bodies ripped to shreds and blood. Blood was everywhere. All because of me… all because of my stupid choice to lead a demon to the house. I shoved the thought aside, wiped the tears away and got out, nearly shrieking at the
sudden coldness in the room. I got dressed, scoffing as my shirt stuck to my damp skin. That, ladies and gentlemen, is one of my major pet peeves. Barely bothering to even dry my hair, I put it up in a towel and brushed my teeth. I bent down to spit in the sink, glancing in the mirror and seeing Sam looking at me. I held
down my hair as I spit out the water and toothpaste into the sink.
"What, Sam?" I spat, slamming my toothbrush in the plastic cup along with the boys'. He squared his shoulders as he got up, grabbed his wallet and went for the door. I grabbed his navy green shirt, pulling him down and kissing him on the cheek. We looked at each other, then looked away.
"Beer all around!" Dean shouted. I rolled my eyes, took out the towel and threw it at him, wringing out my hair. Grasping the hair dryer, I dried the rest of my wet hair and let it fall in long ombre ringlets. I put on a dash of mascara and some lipgloss, grabbing my knife, sliding it in the belt loop with the sheath and waltzing out of the room.
I went to the vending machine, I slid in some money and bent over to get a KitKat out of the slot. I heard footsteps behind me. I spun around, drawing my knife, the blade towards my chest. Sam flinched, pointing a finger at me. "Don't do that." he said, a serious tone in his voice. I cleared my throat, blushing.
Sighing, I put the knife back in the sheath. I unwrapped my chocolate bar, threw away the wrapper and broke it in half. I offered one half to Sam, who shook his head. I shrugged, saying, "You're loss," and eating the other piece. I made a mental note to give the other half to Dean.
Minutes later, I was pushing Sam out of the way to jump in shotgun. I laughed as he got in the back seat, tossing my head back. "What is it again?" I asked, propping my elbow against the window.
"Spirits. Swarms of 'em in Lincoln. Garth said that three people died, all with no living families. All are female, too." I winced. Lincoln's my hometown; where my parents are buried. Where I was almost raised by demons at the age of fourteen. Wonderful, I thought.
Sam put his feet up on the seat, kicking me in the head. I turned around, swatting at him. He chuckled, smacking me on the head and smiling. I scoffed, turning back around and looking out the window. Four hours later, we park in a motel.
I got out, stretching my back and grabbing my duffel bag. The only stuff I really pack is my gun, knife and clothes. Usually, I kept my makeup—cheap, but I make it work—in my satchel, along with ammo. I pulled my hair to the side as we walked in, the carpeted floor thumping as my feet stop at the counter.
"One room. Two queens, please." I said, giving the teller a few hundred bucks and picking up my bag. I grabbed the key from the man's hand, grunting as I hefted my bag over my shoulder. Dean and Sam followed me down the hall. I mumbled our room number, my eyes scanning the doors for ours. I stopped at the last door to the right, in front of the fire exit. I always make sure to know all the exits, in case of an ambush or whatever.
I pushed open the door, immediately throwing my bag on one of the beds and walking to the kitchen for the salt. Dean whispered, "So proud of her," I scoffed, opening the box and going to the window and door and pouring the contents on the sills.
I walked to the bed and threw myself on the floral sheets. I bent over at the edge, picking up Dean's duffel bag and emptying out the guns and rifles. I pulled the slides off the pistols, then unhooked the ejection ports from the shotguns and rifles. my older sister, Jessi, taught me the terms and the anatomy of guns and rifles. I grabbed the iron rod and a cloth, and began cleaning the oil out of the barrels.
My mom was the last person I'd expected to get me into hunting things. She was so… scared of everything. A knife pointing away from the counter when I was done helping her cook before she and my dad were murdered. A broken vase that I'd hit when I was playing Wii. But not the things I hunt. All she's afraid of are having her baby girls being hurt or killed.
I looked up and saw Sam and Dean staring at me.
"What? I may not have been hunting with you guys for very long, but I know how clean my weapons." I said, crossing my legs across my lap. Sam walked over, grabbed another gun. Looked through the rear sights. Cocked each weapon. I like that about him. How he seemed to help in every way he could.
Dean walked to the fridge, cursing softly as he grabbed the keys and slammed the door shut. About time, I thought. I jumped up from the bed, running to the door and shouting after him, "Get me a friggin' beer!"
Dean gave me a thumbs up before rounding the corner. I shut the door and stopped when Sam was in front of
me. He was just… staring at me. I gave him a look, pushing passed him and settling on the bed. I picked up the rod and began cleaning the guns again. I felt uneasy around him now. Like something was off about him. I started mumbling things in Latin. Dean says I tend to do that when I'm scared, confused or angry. I'm pretty sure I got that from my mother. The other fact that I enjoy being around Dean when he's being his smartass self or drunk. He's especially funny when he's drunk.
The door opened. It wasn't Dean.
I nearly fainted. It was Crowley, the one who tried kidnapping me when I was eleven. "Crowley, get out." Sam said. He knows—I jumped up, tossing the thought away. I threw a hand at the king of Hell. "You know this bastard?" I demanded, bouncing off the bed and grabbing my knife. Sam shrugged, giving me an innocent look. Dean walked in, two bags of Burger King in his hands. He set them down casually, drawing his knife and almost slitting Crowley's throat when the window crashed behind me. Demons, three of them, jumped through, grabbed my arms and planted the barrel of a gun to my chin.
Sam's face changed from anger to fear. I could tell if he was debating to move towards me and let the demon pull the trigger or go towards Crowley, and let his men take me with them. I gritted my teeth and—
"Sienna… Sienna… Sienna," Crowley's voice changed. It changed from his British accent to Dean's deep voice. His breath smelled like liquor. "Come on, wake up. Time to go." Hands were shaking me awake. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and looking at the clock. Dean sighed, standing up and walking back to the sink. I looked at the clock. Five-thirty in the morning. I've been asleep for thirteen hours. I got up, took a shower and put on a flannel tank top, jeans and black sneakers. I dried my hair, putting it in a side braid and sliding my knife and its sheath into my belt loop.
Dean held the door open, tossing me an apple and a granola bar. I nodded, ripping open the bar and taking a giant bite. Sam fell behind, scratching the back of his head. "You okay?"
I smirked, something rude coming to my head. "Only on Tuesdays," I said. Sam froze, giving me a look. I smiled, my cheeks warming with a blush. He laughed, pushing me away when I tried to do a fly thing where you rub your thumb against the side of your index finger. Suddenly, I looked away, closing my eyes. I don't know why I couldn't look at him. I winced as a flash of images went reeling underneath my eyelids. Sam was drugging me, bleeding black goo. He was smiling, the needle in my neck plunging the drugs into my blood.
I had a vision that Sam was a Leviathan.
Leviathans are hideous creatures that came from heaven. Before God made angel and human, He
created these beasts. Sometimes, they are called "The Old Ones". Ways they can be killed is by decapitation
and keeping the head as far away from the body as possible. They can also die from cleaning chemicals.
Anything that has borax in it. Witchcraft can kill them, apparently. And the Blood of the Fallen, which is the blood of a fallen angel, ruler of a fallen humanity and the father of fallen beasts, like an Alpha. No biggie.
In other words, they're basically unkillable if you don't try those. They can also Shift. Yes, they're Shapeshifters. They can also possess someone, like a demon. They have super strength like a demon; have healing slash endurance of angels and, whoopty doo, to top it all off, they can kill angels.
I climbed in the Impala, taking out my knife, twirling the blade around in my fingers. Sam got in shotgun, Dean on the driver's side. We drove out of the parking lot, turning the corner and going to downtown Lincoln. I winced as we passed the familiar apartments on the highway southwest of Gretna. I've liked the place; how cozy it is. I remembered how nice people were when I was younger. I loved this diner by my house. Best pie ever. I planned to take Dean there sometime while we were here.
Remembered my house. "A hunter's paradise," as my mom would say. In our barn, we had rows and rows of everything and anything to kill whatever type of unearthly thing out there. I had a horse, too. Died of cancer in her hoof.
We got out of the car in the parking lot of a motel. I went to the trunk, got out my bag and my guitar
case. I saw Dean roll his eyes. "Really? This is the only thing that keeps me calm. Unlike you, I didn't have the
Mark," I muttered the Mark part, for his sake. I felt horrible when he gave me the cold shoulder. Sam wouldn't talk to me, either. I scoffed, rolling my eyes as I jumped on the bed, landing on my butt. I leaned down, hefting my guitar case onto the sheets. Clicking open the metal clamps, I took out the acoustic guitar, running my hand along the smooth wooden surface. My fingers tapped the case for the pick.
I groaned.
"Be right back," I said. Sam and Dean said nothing. "Not that either of you will care."
Yanking open the door, I stepped into the parking lot. I went to the car, lifted open the trunk. Took out my flashlight, moving the beam in the trunk, in the arsenal. I didn't see my guitar pick, the classic pick my dad gave me before he turned into an alcoholic. He used to be in a band when he was in college and he had his guitar pick which let him meet some really famous bands like Skillet whenever he performed.
Who wouldn't want to meet Skillet? He told me John Cooper himself gave him that pick. I never believed him the day he said that. But I still kept it when I played.
I rolled my eyes, turning around. I gasped as Dean was standing there. I exhaled, my hands inches away from my gun. "Oh! Um," I said, my hand automatically scratching the back of my head, "Listen, um, I'm sorry for taunting the Mark. I can't imagine how that went down. With Sam being worried sick about you twenty-four seven." I gave a quick smile.
Dean nodded. "Fine. It's alright. How are you doing?" he asked. My hand reached for my knife. This was not Dean Winchester. "Y'know what I think? I think that you just slow us down. Sound familiar?" No, this is so not the Dean I know. He'd never say anything like that. I clenched my teeth, trying not to yell that that isn't true.
I flung my blade up, trying to slice it at Dean's head. His hand caught mine, me throwing my knife like a Frisbee and missing. I did manage to embed it in the door to our motel room. I wondered if Sam were jumping up, grabbing his gun, running to the door. He scrunched my hair in his fist and slammed my head on the trunk of the Impala.
Falling to the ground, I groaned and watched Dean Winchester the frigging Shifter, take out a needle, jabbing it in my neck and plunging the contents into my blood. My vision became blurry, the world coming in and out of focus. I tried crawling away, the drugs starting to take effect. Dean lunged at my out-stretched arm and lifted me up, into the trunk of the car. The door to our room opened, Sam's face setting with a look of rage and fear. I started saying something, but the words became lost in the echo of all the sounds beginning to fade, the darkness of the trunk taking over.