++++++ I do not own Supernatural or any affiliated characters apart from my OC ++++++

++++++ This is part two of a trilogy being done by both myself and Jazzy-Winchester so even though this is partially stand alone it is recommended that you read Hunter's Angel first ++++++

One

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the bar was the smell of stale beer and regret and the crunching of peanut shells underneath my feet as I walked across the floor to the counter. Sitting down, I flagged the bartender down to order a bottle of whisky and a shot glass before striking a match to light up my cigarette.

They say that these things can kill you but that was a laugh-if anything could kill me I was yet to find it and so drinking myself into a coma every night was always the next best thing. I poured myself a shot of whisky and gulped the whole thing down, enjoying the feel of the amber coloured liquid burning the back of my throat.

I downed a couple more shots in between taking a drawl of sweet, sweet poison. I was sure by now that I would have died from nicotine or alcohol poisoning but the gift of my parentage was preventing me from fore filling my death I so eagerly rushed to meet. My life was hell and I meant it literally.

"Those things will kill you, you know?" spoke a gruff voice from beside me. I could smell the scent of cologne, gunpowder and books coming from the man beside me.

I turned my head, downing another shot of whisky. "I doubt it's any of your business," I told him. "But thank you for pointing out the abject horror of my life." I laughed and put my cigarette out. "Are you Superman?" I asked him. "Cause you're missing the giant S on your chest underneath all that denim and plaid." I downed another shot and fumbled around looking for another cigarette.

"Maybe you should just give it a rest," he suggested, pulling out the stool beside me. "Maybe someone can take you back to your home."

"You offering?" I smirked, staring at the mirror behind the bar. He was handsome that's for sure. Someone like him tended to stand out in this place considering it was always full of the fat leather clad biker types. He didn't belong here, no sir he didn't with his denim jeans, red plaid shirt and khaki coloured jacket over the top, the only thing that belonged here was the dry, muddy boots he was wearing. "So what do they call you?" I asked him, almost lost in his dark, chestnut eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Sam," he told me. He took the bottle of whisky out from my hand and placed it out of my reach. "I've been in town for a couple of days with my brother and his girlfriend chasing down work and you've been here every night, picking fights with the locals." He gently rubbed his thumb over the budging bruise on my left eye, the product of an ambush by a couple of bikers from last night. "You got a death wish?"

I laughed. "You could say that. Who are you to sit there and point out my flaws?" I reached out for the bottle of whisky but he blocked me, stopping me from getting what I wanted. I clicked my tongue at him. "That wasn't a good idea, Sam," I warned him.

"Have you ever thought about maybe not drinking and smoking?" he suggested.

I couldn't help but laugh at him. "Are you a Jehovah's Witness?" I asked. "Because let me tell you this-I am not going to sit here and listen to your bible bashing because let me tell you-" I stopped having a go at him when I slipped on the bar and fell face first into his lap. I pushed myself off him so fast that I managed to propel myself backwards straight onto the hard wooden floor with a thump.

"Jesus are you ok?" Sam gasped. He got off the bar stool and helped me up, his placed his hand on the small of my back and helped me get to my feet. "Lady you have got to stop."

"Why?" I snapped. "With a father like mine, why would you think that being a knight in shining armour would help me?" I asked him. I pushed myself away from him and stormed out of the bar. The fresh cool, night air hit me like a brick wall, from the position of the moon in the night sky I realised that I had been in the bar a little bit longer than I intended to. Tonight was supposed to be my last night, I could only ever stay in one place a few days before he found me like he always did and sent his black-eyed bastards my way.

I lit another cigarette, heading across the road to the crappy little hotel that I was staying at. Consumed with my thoughts I didn't noticed I was being followed by one of the fat bikers from the bar. He grabbed my wrist and ripped me into the air with strength that he shouldn't have had. My silent question was answered when I saw his all black eyes. "Which one are you?" I slurred. "Grouchy? Douchy? Sneezy?"

"He's gone to a lot of trouble to find you," he told me. "First you give him the slip in Wyoming and then you kill those who are just trying to bring you back to dear, old daddy."

I laughed. "You can tell dear old daddy to kiss my pale ass!" I sneered, drawing a knife out of my boot and shoving it straight through the fat biker's left eye. The thick, ruby red liquid shot out all over my face and into my mouth and nose. I waited for a moment and pulled the knife out at the same time he let me go.

Using his beer stained shirt, I cleaned my knife off and stuck it back inside my boot. His jaw snapped open and a large cloud of black smoke shot out of his mouth and shot off into the night. I followed the black cloud over the road and stopped when I saw I had an audience, more specifically Sam from the bar. His jaw was a little open in shock but he wasn't running and screaming like most pinheads when they saw me stab a man in the face and he expelled black smoke from his body.

The next words out of his mouth weren't what I expected.

"Are you a hunter?" he asked me.

I laughed. "A hunter? Hunters are apes!" I shook my head. "Oh, no, no, no. I'm not a hunter." I pulled my empty pack of cigarettes out and threw them into the dumpster. My feet crunched over the gravel whilst I made my way to my hotel room. "May I make a suggestion?" I offered. "Forget you ever met me, death follows me around like a stench."

That was no exaggeration, death had followed me around since the day I was born. My mother died when I was born, she bled out giving birth to me, every foster home I had been to during the next eighteen years mysteriously burnt down in unexplained fires-several of which I had been blamed for but I had an alibi so they could never pin anything on me. I never had a friend in the world, even if I did they were usually planted by my snake of a father.

"I'm a big boy," Sam told me. "You can't tell me to just forget about you when you're clearly in trouble. If demons are after you, you need our help. Me and my brother-we can protect you."

"I don't need your protection," I growled. I fumbled around for my keys and dropped them, ok so I should probably give up drinking for a while. I knelt down and went to pick up my keys but Sam had them in his hands. I looked up at him, "I've already had my face in your crotch this evening," I growled. "Staring at it isn't helping. I'd hate to have to hurt you, Sam."

"You should listen to her, moose," spoke that same uppity British accent that I had come to loath. "She's got one hell of a back hand."

Sam slammed me backwards into the door and moved in front of me in the need to protect me. His intentions were noble but I knew that he would rip him limb from limb in the need to get to me. "You stay away from her Crowley!" he snapped, his voice suddenly going deep and somewhat edgy.

There he stood, Crowley, King of Hell, standing there in his expensive black Armani suit with his hands behind his back. "Now moose, is that anyway to treat me after all we've been through together? Where's squirrel? In the bar with his bitch of a girlfriend?"

Sam pulled a knife out of his jacket, similar to the one that I had, a demon killing knife of the Kurds. "Run," he told me in an angry whisper. His left hand squeezed my arm gently but with an urgency for me to run. "You run and don't you look back."

I reached for my butterfly knife, flicking it open, before I flung it over Sam's shoulder straight at his head. The only problem was that he caught it-just like he did every time I tried to attack him.

Crowley laughed at me. "Now, dove, is that anyway to treat your father?"