"You're the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasy

The invincible winner and you know that you were born to be

You're a heartbreaker, dream maker, love taker

Don't you mess around with me"

-Pat Benatar

Part One:

"Hey there, Martha."

That gave her a start. Martha Nielson reeled back from her spot near the flower bed, and looked up toward the voice that had intruded on her private reverie. She was a woman in her mid sixties, though she had been told often enough that she couldn't be a day over forty-five. She chalked those kinds of compliments up to being active outside whenever the weather would permit it.

Her eyes were fixated on Keith Mayfair, her neighbor, who happened to have a pair of the most beautiful green eyes she had ever seen. Her late husband, Jim, had once had gray eyes that reminded her of an oncoming New England storm. Keith had the kind of eyes that you could get lost in, dreaming of a distant spring that seemed would never come. He still had a full head of hair even if it had gone salt n' pepper with age, but Martha couldn't be bothered by that in the slightest.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said with a full-toothed grin and a warm laugh. "I seem to have a bad habit of sneaking up on people."

Martha gave her auburn head a quick shake of dismissal, "Oh not at all! I just happen to scare easily. How are the roses doing?"

The man scowled toward the bush in question. It was already the beginning of May, and the weather had taken on a warm and balmy quality, but it seemed as if his roses just hadn't gotten the memo. The bush stood barren and dry in the corner of his backyard, soaking up sun with no improvement.

"Not as bad as they could be doing, considering who's growing them. I lack your green thumb." he replied with another winning smile.

She laughed cheerfully at the compliment. It was a high tinkling sound that filled the air as a music box might. Her cheeks were beginning to heat up, and she speculated that she hadn't felt this way since she was seventeen; back when Carly Simon was still a household name.

"Well," Keith began again, "I'm thinking about cooking dinner tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like to join me. I figured we've both had plenty of lonely dinner conversations, and whenever I cook I somehow only know how to cook for two.".

She froze up with her heart thumping wildly away in her chest. Her hands, long since gnarled and ugly from arthritis, clenched painfully at her side. Her face screwed up in a grimace of socked pain, and Keith took a cautious step back from the fence that separated their yards. His hands were raised in defeat.

"If you don't want to, that's okay. I understand," he said, keeping an eye on any changes her face might make.

"Oh no," she cried a little too loudly. "It's just my hands have been acting up again. I'm sorry." She held up a twisted looking appendage in example.

"No need to apologize for that," he said, and he was smiling at her again. "Are they very bad today?"

She nodded in reply, holding her hands away from herself as if they were actually venomous snakes rearing back to bite. Her eyes drifted up and caught his again, and suddenly she was swept away. Her breathing evened out, and she had even forgotten about the pain momentarily.

"So," he started in a childish way, "How about that dinner for tonight then?"

She frowned, "I would love to, but I can't- not yet. I hope you understand."

Mayfair's smile was still charming and sweet, but Martha could see how the upturn corners of his lips no longer met the emotion in his eyes.

"I'll take that as a rain check then." he said.

The two of them said their goodbyes, and Martha grabbed the last of her gardening supplies and headed back in the house. She loved working on her garden, but she wouldn't be able much longer if her hands kept on the way they were. She realized with a bit of anguish that she wouldn't be able to do much at all, let alone take care of a flower bed or two.

It would probably be a good idea to start something with Keith so that she could have someone to change the lights in her house when the bulbs burned out. Not that that was all she wanted the man for. He was sweet, charming, good-looking, and always managed to cheer her up. She might be falling head over heels for the man, but there was a tiny worm of guilt squirming away in her gut.

'Oh, but you liked him before Jimmy was even out of the picture,' it would remind her viciously. 'Remember when he was moving in and Jim caught you staring out the window? He died knowing that, Martha. He died knowing you had a little school-girl crush on the guy next door.'

She set her gardening bucket down on the kitchen floor and turned the tap on. Cool water rushed over her hands, pulling the dirt from the yard away with it. She watched it circle around the drain dark and muddy before finally disappearing. Her eyes were prickling dangerously as she let the voice in her head continue to berate her.

'I bet he knew that one night. You could hear that man's motorcycle coming from around the corner, and you kept thinking his name over and over again in rhythm. I bet Jimmy knew that. I bet he saw it written all over your face. There goes my wife thinking about the man next door again.'

Her tears spilled over her cheeks and blurred her vision. She had had enough of this voice for one day. She had enough of that guilt to last her till she was buried six feet under with Jim. Sometimes she felt as if she already were. Stuck under the ground with no air, clawing away madly at the ceiling of her own grave, shouting for help that would never come.

'But it could,' she thought. 'I could have someone who loves me again. Someone who would treat me the same way Jimmy did.'

'Oh my,' spoke the voice with malicious intent, 'Now you're going to compare them? You are nothing but a selfish whore.'

"SHUT UP," she screamed. Her hand flung out blindly with rage, and smacked into a coffee mug she had left there earlier that morning. Pain reared its ugly head next to guilt, and shot straight up her arm and into her head. She gasped as the small porcelain mug hit the floor and broke in two. Her eye flew up to her kitchen window, and outside the beautiful blue sky that had just been there was taken over by looming gray.

A long way off a clap of thunder resounded. It hit her kitchen window with a dull bang that caused it to tremble in its frame. Here she was alone again, suffering through another spring storm by herself. A bright flash of light illuminated her surroundings signaling that the storm was moving in. She turned around and came face to face with a young man sitting at her dining room table.

"What-"she gasped.

"Hello Martha," he said calmly. He held up a hand, and Martha could only gather that this was a sign of truce. "It's been a long time."

Her hands, still throbbing, went up to her heart, "Do I know you?"

"Oh no, my darling, but I know you. I've been watching you for a long time. I have been trying my best to make you happy, but I suppose there's no hope for someone like you. Lost to your emotions of guilt it must be hard to see a good thing happening; even if it is served up on a silver platter."

"What," she began, but the young man only held up a finger to his lips in silence.

"You see," he began again, "You're on my list, and usually that means good times and happiness are in store, but I'm so tired of watching you sniffle and sigh."

Martha's eyes went over to her knife block, and she knew that she could reach it before he got to her, but-

"But you and I both know that you can't hold one of those steady to save your life," he said, finishing her thought.

"I have an alarm system. I can activate it anytime," she threatened.

The young man laughed, "They'd never make it in time. No, Martha, you're going to die in just a little while, but I thought a nice chat might do you well. I mean, if you can't suck it up and give the guy your heart I'm just going to do it for you."

Lightning flashed through the window behind her again, and out of the darkness behind the man's back rose the shadowy figure of two large, feathery wings. They were gone in an instant; lost to the naked eye. Martha's back hit the counter in an effort to step back from the offending vision. The man, though she knew he wasn't that, gave a short hollow laugh.

"My name is Leath, by the way. I thought you might like to know, but I could be wrong. I'm an angel of the Lord. A cupid, if you want to be specific. Or at least I was at some point. Who knows what I am now. It's been a while since anyone on my list has gotten a happy ending."

"Please, don't hurt me," Martha's voice had an odd and broken tone to it she had never heard before. 'This is what a cornered animal sounds like,' she thought.

The young man, Leath, stood up from his spot on the table and moved closer to her. In the light she could see him more clearly. Long black hair tied back in a piece of leather, icy blue eyes that held an edge of cruelty to them, and a slim frame that Joan Rivers on the red carpet might call 'willowy'; were all the things she could notice and could not. Her eyes wouldn't stop moving around the room, looking for some kind of escape.

"Oh Martha," he spoke gently, laying a hand over the older woman's heart. The gesture was so comforting that she had forgotten his earlier warning completely. Death seemed like such a far off thing. Tomorrow she would wake up early and go over to see Keith, and she would finally take him up on that offer to dinner. She would even let him kiss her if he leaned in for one. She would be happy, and that little worm of guilt would be crushed and gone forever.

Leath shook his head sadly, "Haven't you heard? Love hurts."

~~~~*o0o*~~~~

"It's the sixth heart they've found in four weeks," Sarah said, pushing her bangs away from her eyes. "The most recent one belonged to a woman named Martha Nielson. I can't find anything in common with the other vics. She was older, lived alone, and no children. I can't figure it out."

Dean Winchester sat in a plush striped cream colored armchair. He had on his usual 'don't-fuck-with-me' face, and both shoes still remained on his feet despite the welcoming sign next to the shoe cubby. He held a copy of the morning paper in his hands, and his eyes scanned the letters in front of him intently. He said nothing though. In fact, he hadn't said anything to Sarah since he arrived with his brother close behind him.

Sam, who Sarah could tell was the better half of the duo, had been quite warm and responsive. His shoes were stacked neatly by the door, and his socked feet were propped up on the girl's coffee table. His right sock sported a decent sized hole that the tip of his big toe protruded out of.

"So," the younger man began, "You didn't really know Bobby too well, huh?"

"No," Sarah replied, "The last time I saw him was when I was thirteen. He had come to warn my parents about the dangers of the real world, and they sent him away. They thought he was crazy."

Dean's frowned deepened at this speculation, "I take it they learned their lesson."

Sarah smiled warmly at him, acknowledging the first thing he had said to her since their phone conversation two days ago, "You could say that. They're both dead. Killed by one of the monsters Uncle Bobby had tried to warn them about."

"I'm so sorry," Sam blurted out. He shot his brother a dirty look, but the other Winchester was stuck back in the news paper.

"Don't worry about it," she replied, "It happened a long time ago."

"It still hurts though. My mom died before I can even remember her, but I still wonder what it would have been like." Sam said softly.

Dean suddenly snapped the paper closed and stood, "I'm gunna go get some stuff done at the motel. You," he said with a pointed look at his younger brother, "can walk back".

With that said, he left. Well, he actually stormed away. Sarah watched him go with a deep sigh, settling herself back into her office chair. "There are some major trust issues going on there," she said.

"Well, it seems you really are a shrink," said Sam with an apologetic smile.

"You don't need a degree to see that, kiddo," she replied with one of her own.

"Can I ask you something without seeming naïve?" Sam had taken his feet off the coffee table and laid them across the open couch cushions instead. He leaned his head back on the arm of the sofa, taking a deep breath and trying to get himself to relax.

"Sure," Sarah said, "But I start at sixty an hour and can adjust to a sliding scale."

Sam laughed, and after a few seconds she joined in as well. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun at the back of her head, and the way her bangs slid forward and into her eyes as she laughed reminded Sam of someone from a long time ago. Her eyes crinkled in mirth, and her lips were stained a dark red. Not from make-up though; the younger Winchester could tell she wasn't the type. Sitting on her desk, split neatly in two, was a half eaten pomegranate. Her fingertips still held a few dark, lingering smudges.

"How did you stay away from it all?" Sam finally asked after the laughter had died down.

Sarah looked confused, "I'm not sure what you're talking about here, but if it's chocolate, believe me, it was no easy feat."

Sam laughed again, "No, I mean, the supernatural. After my mom died my father jumped right in. He raised Dean and me on this whole war-path. I've tried getting out. I ran away, enrolled in school, and was on my way to getting married, but it always falls apart at some point. How did you stay away like you have?"

Sarah shook her head, "I'm sorry to tell you this, Sam, but I haven't. For a very long time I worked the jobs that you and your brother have. I've hunted my fair share of monsters, and even now I still work with them. I don't council humans in this office. My clients are the vampires, werewolves, and shape-shifters that never had a choice being who they are. I work with people who need help fitting into a world that's run and ruled by creatures unlike themselves."

Sam stared at her for a moment in complete shock. He held her eyes in his for as long as he could before turning away, looking here and there at the different knick-knacks that lined the walls. He was finally seeing her office for what it was. The old leather tomes, the hand-carved inscriptions on the bookcase shelves, the small crystals placed perfectly around the room to ward off evil intent; everything a hunter would need to have a small and secure safe-haven. On one of the shelves behind her was a hand of glory, clutching a black candle in its cold dead grasp.

He should have seen it earlier, "You help these things?"

"To the best of my abilities, but sometimes they're beyond help. Take whatever it is that's been snatching hearts. It's too late to help them, and if I can't then I hunt them," her voice was soft, but firm as she explained herself.

"How many," he asked.

"How many what?"

"How many monsters do you see on a day to day basis that you just let walk right on out of here," Sam asked.

"I can't tell you that. Not when you're so keen on calling them monsters," she replied.

"And what do you call them; non-human individuals?" Sam's fists were clenched tight. His face was red with anger, and all he could do was throw meaningless words around this stuffy office. He needed to get out of here. He needed to hunt. He needed to protect the people who deserved protecting.

"I call them by their names," she replied defiantly. Her eyes stayed locked on to him, watching for any signs of trouble.

Sam didn't know what to say. How could he after been being mislead so many times. Trust was something that came a lot harder to his brother, but to say that it was easy for him would be laughable. There was no way that he could sit here and listen to some girl rant and rave about the goodness and caring for demons and darkness. So he stood up and left without another word. He pushed his feet back into his shoes, and then his eyes drifted across that seemingly innocent sign again.

'Make yourself at home,' it declared with a certain charm. Sam had found that sign to be reassuring and welcoming. He had thought it to be a good-natured and sweet sentiment, but now it seemed so dark and twisted like everything else.

He reached for the door, but Sarah stopped him, "Not everything that can't be found is lost, Sam. Sometimes you just have to open your eyes and see it. That trust you think you've just lost in me; it's still here waiting for you when you're ready."

Sam didn't turn around, but instead pushed open the door and left through the front hallway. He reached decidedly into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone dialing a number he knew by heart. It rang several times with no answer, but Sam had already known that there wouldn't be one.

His brother's voice came drifting through the ear piece, "This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do."

"Dean," Sam began, pausing to take a deep breath, "You were right about her. She can't be trusted. I'll be there soon."

The younger Winchester shut the phone and slid it back into his pocket without a second thought. The air had gotten chilly again as it will sometimes in a New England May. It would shift back and forth between warm and cool before it was finally able to make up its mind that summer really was here. For a long time Sam reckoned that he was a lot like this kind of weather, but not anymore. Now, he only knew one way to be, and he was going to stick to it.

This town needed to be cleaned up, and it was entirely that girl's fault.