Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, only my own characters.
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The soft hum of an engine woke her, and she cracked her eyes open, closing them rapidly as a patch of sunlight blinded her. Moaning, she opened them again, and Sam glanced back at her. "How're you feeling?" he asked as Dean glanced back, one hand on the wheel of his precious Impala.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he grinned.
"Where are we?" she groaned, sitting up and staring about her. A gasp wrenched from her throat. They were out of the hilly valley that surrounded Cains and Douver and had entered a long swath of plains, with a never-ending horizon of grass.
"Oklahoma," Dean smirked. "Home of the grand nothingness."
"You were out for four days," Sam explained. "We were getting kind of worried."
Her stomach gurgled, and she felt hungry. Four days indeed. More like four months. "Did he leave?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," Sam said quietly, and she closed her eyes.
"Why are we in Oklahoma?" she asked, struggling to sit up. Managing finally, she leaned against the seat, tilting her head up and feeling filthy.
"Got word of a series of decapitations in Gozola," Dean replied. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow resting against the seat. He looked completely relaxed and at home, radiating a restless peace. Sam was less comfortable, more because she picked up that they hadn't spent the last four nights in a bed but had stayed in a car. Both showed no aggression to her, which she guessed was a good thing.
"Eyewitnesses said it looked like a man on horseback, although he didn't seem to have a head," Sam added.
"So what do we do when we get there? Kill it?"
"You got it," Dean smirked. "Apparently it's got a sword. Maybe you can duel with it."
"Maybe," she mumbled, and sunk back down to sprawl across the backseat. It wasn't very comfortable, but she finally managed a position that didn't hurt, and slept.
"Hey Sleeping Beauty, wake up," someone said above her, and a hand gripped her shoulder, shaking her. Her survival instincts kicked in and she lunged for her attacker, hands gripping about his neck.
"Shit!" Dean gargled and she felt hands trying to pry her off. Opening her eyes, she realized what she was doing, and released him quickly. He leaned back against the dash, looking sullen. "What the hell was that? A freaky love tap?"
"You shouldn't have shaken me," she replied, yawning and feeling a little better, even if her muscles were stiff. "It's a reflex."
"Then how do we wake you up without getting a bloody nose?" Sam asked, watching as his brother dabbed the bloody appendage.
"I guess you could just squeeze my shoulder or something. But get back really fast." She realized finally that they had stopped, and looked around. "This Gozola? It looks pretty small." There was a parking lot, some stunted planted trees, and three buildings. One was a kiosk with a big sign that said "Information," and the other was a bathroom. The last could have been a coffeehouse, but it was empty.
Dean shook his head. "Rest area. I wish these things came with showers, because you smell like something died."
"Sorry."
He grunted and got out of the car. Leaning back in, he said, "If you two gotta go, then get your asses out of the car, because when I'm coming back, I'm going with or without you."
Chandre scrambled out of the car, and followed them towards the bathroom. Luckily there weren't that many people at the rest area because those that saw her looked at her funny. Staring at the blurred mirror, she grimaced at herself. Her face was puffy with sleep, and her hair was a red mass of craziness. She managed to tame it somewhat, and came out to see Sam and Dean already in the car, waiting impatiently. Climbing in, she asked, "Where're my knives?"
"Your arsenal is under the seat," Sam replied as Dean gunned it onto the freeway. "But we put the gun in the trunk with your ammo, along with your backpack."
She pulled out her sword and examined it closely, holding it low so that the people in the other cars couldn't see it. Running her hand down the smooth metal, she checked for any nicks. Finding none, and no rust, she smiled with relief. The gun would have to be cleaned, though.
Dean was still driving steadily when she drifted back off to sleep, joining Sam, who had cushioned his head against the seatbelt.
"Rise and shine, sleepyheads," Dean called, and she cracked open an eye to see that it was still sunny, but the sun had shifted a little. "There's a town in a couple of miles. Hungry?"
"I could eat a house."
They saw the town long before they reached it, and Dean pulled off, heading straight to a drive-through McDonalds. Chandre got four hamburgers, to the slight surprise of the guys, who each got two. She was finished quickly, and lay back to sleep, letting her body heal.
It was dark when she woke up next and they had pulled in front of a small motel, which Dean grumblingly admitted was the only one in town. Sam got the rooms and Chandre helped take the things inside, but was practically shoved into the bathroom and ordered to scrub like mad. She managed to grab one of her knives before she went in, and washed thoroughly, using the entire dinky complimentary shampoo and conditioner bottles and half the bar of soap, leaving a thin sliver when she climbed out. Examining her stomach, she smiled slightly. Time for the stitches to come out. Carefully she began to rip them apart, wincing with each one. Her arms came next, and then slowly she did the neat line on her shoulder. It was almost too late to take the stitches out, so they hurt a lot more than they should have, but she didn't mind. With a couple more meals and another full night of sleep she'd be back in business.
Someone banged on the door, and she jumped, almost dropping the knife and gouging it into her skin. "You done yet?" Sam called.
"Gimme ten more minutes."
"You've been in there an hour," Dean yelled back. "What could you possibly be doing in there?"
Chandre stepped out, wrapped in a towel with her dirty clothes in her arms. "Taking out those stitches," she replied calmly, and dumped the clothes in a pile. Dean and Sam stared at her, and she took the momentary shock at the blood trickling from her shoulder to grab her bag and dash back into the bathroom.
Dean roused first. "Hey!" he yelled, banging on the door. "You can't take that again! I have to pee!"
"Piss in a bottle," she called, laughing as he growled in frustration. Quickly she dressed, finally comfortable in clothes that were her own and fit her. Keeping her hair wrapped in its towel, she came outside, ducking under Dean's arm as he raised it to bang against it again. He moved inside without a word.
Sam was sprawled on the far bed, watching the scene and snickering. Before him sat a computer, which he had probably been working on. The TV was also on, but she didn't recognize the program. Not that she would, she supposed, sitting on the opposite bed. "Are we going out tonight?" she asked, parting her hair and combing it. Her shirt would be wet, but that was okay. It would dry.
"The Headless Horseman only strikes at night. I was hoping we could catch him in the act and make this quick," Sam replied.
"'The Headless Horseman'? That is the stupidest name I have ever heard," Chandre said.
"It's based on an urban legend in the 1700s or so. Haven't you heard it? Of course not. Well, this guy's missing a head and he rides around looking for it. Mostly it's just a vengeful spirit lashing out against people and taking back what it thinks belongs to it." Sam typed rapidly, eyes transfixed on the computer. "So far there have been three incidents in the last two months, but I've found in the newspaper archives that it's happened over ten times in the last seventy years."
"Huh." She braided her hair and wrapped it into a bun. Wandering around the tiny room, she found a used newspaper. "You using this?" Sam shook his head absently and she spread it across the other bed, taking her gun from her bag, along with some cleaning solution.
The sound of the shower turning on wafted through the closed door, and there was a muffled cry of indignation as Dean discovered that there was no soap. Shortly after, off-key singing echoed through, the headbanging stuff they had been listening to in the car.
Sam watched in avid fascination as her fingers nimbly moved along her gun, cleaning in all its nooks and crannies, and then flew to reassemble it as she watched TV, her eyes wide with amusement. Finishing by slipping ten rounds of silver bullets into her cleaned clip, she slid it in and snapped a round into the chamber, then clicked on the safety.
The shower shut off, but Dean stayed in there for a half hour, until Sam finally called, "Dude, it's eight o'clock. Do you want dinner or what?"
"A face this gorgeous needs time to prepare," Dean called back, and Chandre snickered softly. She had cleaned her gun once more and was working on sharpening her daggers and sword. The sword really didn't need to be sharpened, seeing as it was spelled against bluntness, but it was a good habit. She spent more time on her knives, and decided that she was happy she had packed several long-sleeved shirts. They would hide her wrist sheaths and the purple scars on her arms, although the latter would fade away into smooth pale skin in a week or so.
Sam rolled his eyes, and went back to searching. Dean walked out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, at about the time when Chandre's stomach was pending to implode, looking exactly the same as he had before, if a lot cleaner. Sam went next, and was in and out in fifteen minutes.
In that time Dean had eyed over the work on the computer and was idly flipping through channels, searching for a good show. Finding none, he stood up and shrugged into his coat, and they all walked out the door to the car.
There was one diner in town, and from the looks it was slightly empty. More than slightly empty, Chandre discovered: they were the only customers. A slightly frazzled woman walked over to them as they slid into a booth, Chandre and Sam facing Dean, and the waitress dropped their menus in front of them, smiling prettily at Dean.
"How're ya'll doin' tonight?" she drawled, pulling a battered notebook from her folded over apron.
"Just fine," Dean replied, flashing a grin that could charm the scales off a snake. He scanned through the menu, and remarked blandly, "Not many people in here tonight. Business always like this?"
"Not since the attacks," the woman replied. "You three be careful now. Something's been killing folks hereabouts. They're calling it a serial killer."
"Really?" Sam asked. "I heard something about it in the paper. It said that he lops the heads off of his victims."
The woman shuddered. "Gets 'em while they're walking alone on the street. That's why the place is deserted."
Dean flashed another charming smile. "Any similarities in the victims?"
The woman froze up all of a sudden, and Dean just smiled a little more. "Sorry not to let you know, ma'am, but we're from the FBI." Dean and Sam flashed fake IDs at the woman, too quick before her dense skull might figure out that they were fakes. Chandre held up a badge that said she was a Federal Marshall, and lowered it before the woman noticed that it was not like the others. "I'm Agent Evans and these are my partners, Agent Donovan and Agent Luca." Chandre smiled at the woman, and went back to reading her menu.
"Oh," the woman said, looking flustered. "Um, similarities, then? They were all women, mostly middle-aged. I think they were brunettes, too, but some could have dyed. I'm pretty sure that that Donna Owens was a blond, probably trying to look smarter too." She looked up at them. "Is that helpful at all?"
"Just fine, thanks," Dean replied with yet another smile. Chandre fought hard to stop herself from rolling her eyes.
"Are y'all ready to order now?"
"Yeah," Sam said thoughtfully. "I'll take a cheeseburger."
"Hamburger," Dean replied, raising his eyebrows at Sam.
"Three cheeseburgers, please," Chandre said, startling the woman, who glanced up sharply at the slender girl before her. With an apologetic smile, woman to woman, she sighed, "They always eat my food, so extras are fine and dandy."
The woman smiled, understanding, and sashayed off, moving her beer keg butt behind the counter. Another customer entered, jingling the bells hanging at the door, and she hustled over to the tired couple.
"Three cheeseburgers?" Dean asked. "Where do you put it?"
"Fast metabolism," Chandre smirked. Although it had more disadvantages than perks. Mostly it just brought strange looks, so she tended to eat the usual amount for a female, and that made her bare bones. Shi was always shoving food into her mouth whenever he could.
"If you keep eating like this, you're freaking paying your own way," Dean pointed out.
"You'll just have to hustle some more pool," Sam said.
"Poker too, probably," Dean sighed.
"Poker?" Chandre hid a grin. She knew poker. "I think I can play that."
"Good?" Dean asked.
"I've played once or twice." Shi was better than she was; loads better, and he had tried to teach her. She always knew when people were bluffing, though, so that sometimes helped balance her lack of skill.
The waitress came back with the food, and Chandre dug in. She'd have to pay her way soon enough, but first she'd have to acquire some. The funds from her last job hadn't gone straight to her but to the mercenary company she worked for, and she wouldn't get a cut of the shares. She also didn't have another job lined up yet, and both she and Shi had used up the meager funds to operate the last job, so she was completely broke. And it seemed like Dean and Sam didn't get paid for wasting supernatural critters.
She noticed that the waitress was watching her carefully as she ate all three cheeseburgers, a slightly disturbed look on her face, but Chandre was too hungry to care. Perhaps once her body had completely healed she'd be able to back down and let herself starve a little bit.
"So what's the plan for catching this thing?" Chandre asked through a mouthful.
"We'll just head down to where the attacks have been, and search around a bit," Sam replied. He had pulled out a pen and was doodling on a napkin. "From what I looked up, it's probably a spirit."
"No, really?" Dean asked. He was staring at Chandre, a puzzled look on his face. "What's up with your eyes? They're normal."
"She's wearing contacts, genius," Sam informed his brother.
"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Dean grabbed a fry from Chandre's plate and dug in, ignoring her glare. Finishing the last bite of her burger, she set on the fries, devouring them. Dean snuck another fry, watching Sam doodle.
The waitress walked over. "Will that be everything, now?" she asked, addressing Dean.
"Yeah." She set down the bill, and Dean handed her some cash with another smile.
After she brought back their change, they stood up and left, Sam slipping the napkin into his pocket. Out in the near freezing night air, Chandre shivered and pulled her coat tight about her body. Dean patted the hood of his car when they climbed in, and they slowly rattled off to the place where the bodies had been discovered.