Being homeless was never on my bucket list. In fact, I specifically have the opposite written down. I can find it in my coat pocket right now, and I do. I dig in the lint-lined pocket with one gloved hand and unfold the crumpled scrap of paper. Smoothing it out, I give a quiet snort of laughter that morphs into a chest-deep cough. I grimace in pain and clear my throat, ignoring the vision of red that I imagine now resides in my trachea.
It would probably benefit me to sign up for something under Obamacare, I scold myself, gazing longingly at the diner across the street. Then again, doctors, nurses, exam rooms...
The scenario plays in my mind, a mild one at first. The ever cheerful Doctor (with a name I'll never remember, so Doctor will suffice) strolls in like the sun smiled at him personally this morning. Small and a bit hunched, bald, with glasses that magnify his eyes to cartoonish proportions, his presence immediately calms the sore and suffering. It's a routine check up, complete with physical examination. My burgundy peacoat comes off, along with my shoes and tights.
Gloves, too, he says jovially. Why this man wants my gloves off so badly is a mystery to me, but instead of asking for clarification, I shake my head.
Come on, now. I've got to make sure your fingers work properly, he coaxes. The statement is nonsensical, seeing as I don't know medical jargon, but it still terrifies me. I clutch my hands to my chest, balling them into tight fists and tucking them beneath my arms. Giving a final shake of my head, I make a break for the door, and much to my despair, the curious doctor swipes one of my gloves. The sight beneath elicits disgust and horror before giving way to ugly, green dollar signs in his eyes.
"From there, it's a one way trip to Area 51 and an existence as nothing more than an urban legend," I mutter, rubbing my arms for warmth. The red, neon sign over the diner buzzes in the crisp air, promising the only warmth I'll allow myself tonight. As I shift my weight from foot to foot, I hear the faint click of the few coins in my pocket. My stomach emits a desperate grumble that carries on for an embarrassingly long time before subsiding into a defeated bubbling. Heeding the less than subtle hint, I cross the street towards the brightly lit storefront. Windows span the majority of the building, providing an open view into a warmer Friday night, one that I'd like to be a part of. Seeing as I'm not invited without a fee, I tightly clutch the money in my pocket, give myself a quick sniff, and straighten my tired shoulders before walking inside and tripping over the welcome mat.
It happens before I even get through the entryway. My toe gets trapped beneath the thick rubber, leaving the rest of me hurtling towards the ground at an alarming rate. Against my frantic slow-motion wishing, the floor rises to meet me with a loud bang, leaving my chin bruised and my brain rattling in my skull. Sadly, the brain-rattling isn't the worst part. No, that honor goes to the dozens of eyes doing nothing to hide their stares as I regain my composure.
"No, that's okay. No one get up. I'm fine, really," I grunt, stumbling to my feet. As I do so, I notice two more pairs of eyes take a peek at me before returning to their conversation.
Looks like the position of least rude has been won, I think. I know where I'm going to sit.
Brushing off the already holey knees of my stockings, I cross the floor to the counter and wave at the waitress conversing with my two new best friends. The split second of annoyance I catch in her eyes hints that they must be cute. Even better.
I will openly admit that I am rather small, and thus have to form a game plan for getting in the bar stool before actually doing it. Game plan formed, I monkey my way up onto the seat, only wobbling once before securing myself. A quick glance to the side reveals my counter pals are two men in well worn jackets and button downs, one with short hair and one with long, and both extremely caught up in whatever they're talking about. They don't even look my way, which, in all honesty, is understandable. I look like a hobo that raided the dumpster at Forever 21. I try to imagine the smell of a hobo raiding Forever 21's dumpster, but somehow end up making myself hungrier.
"What'll it be, darlin'?"
I look up to meet the friendly gaze of a blonde twenty-something in a perfectly, fitted, striped dress and, in support of my theory that all work uniforms are ridiculous, a white visor indoors. Bright, red lipstick frames a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth, and thick, black mascara draws my attention to vivid, blue eyes. She'd be stunning if not for the too wide smile. I find it hard to return the gesture, and instead form a squiggly grimace. Her smile falters, but returns to its disturbing brilliance. A moment of awkward ensues as I realize she asked me a question.
"Oh! Uh..." I reach into my pockets and pull out the handful of change. It doesn't amount to more than a dollar. I quickly read through the chalkboard menu over the waitress's head. Rats.
"Uh..." I gaze longingly at the array of pie in the freezer that stretches across the counter and cover my stomach with my hands, hoping to muffle its whining. "Just a...just a water, please." I hope no one can see my face slowly reddening to match my coat. The waitress clears her throat and shifts her weight, clearly not a good sign.
"Sorry, honey. You gotta order something if you want to stay here," she replies. The tone of her voice doesn't reflect sympathy, instead hinting at something I can't place. Her eyes squint for less than a second, and I see something reminiscent of suspicion. I'm rusty at social cues, so I stare at her blankly.
Why do you want me gone so badly? Do I offend? I wonder. She continues to stare me down, and even before she turns her back on me, she's won. Knowing that wishing won't make more money appear in my pockets, I choke back a watery sigh and scoop my coins back into my coat. No food tonight, I think. As I'm stretching to touch a toe to the tiled floor, one of the men beside me speaks up.
"She'll have a slice of pie," he tells her. His voice is a bit gruff, and it makes me jump. I turn my attention to him, unable to comprehend the statement.
The waitress takes a moment to turn back around. "What kind?" The response is almost a sigh, and I'd be irritated by it if I weren't so hungry. My savior turns green eyes on me and raises an expectant eyebrow.
When I don't speak, he gives me an air nudge, which I shyly avoid. "Tell her what kind of pie you want," he coaxes, giving me space.
My tongue falls limp in my mouth and crashes into a pool of drool. The lighting in the freezer is suddenly perfect, casting the most flattering light on an assortment of crusts: latticed, fully covered, decoratively folded on the edges. Right in the center is a perfectly golden, intricately weaved crust that leaves glimpses of spiced and glazed pieces of apple. I swear I can see it sparkle.
I swallow the gallon of saliva I've produced and point, wordlessly, at the magnificent pie. Like a child, I look to my savior for encouragement. Unbelievably, I don't faint when he smiles.
"A girl after my own heart." He points towards the pie. "Alright, a slice of apple. I'll take one, too," he adds, peering at the pie with interest. The man beside him groans, causing him to whip around to face him.
"What? What? I can't enjoy some pie?" he asks defensively.
The other man shakes long locks out of his face and sighs. "Dean, we don't really have time for pie," he says softly, trying to communicate something with his eyes.
"She gets to!" Dean protests. As the waitress slides a small plate in front of me, I pull it towards me protectively, staring wide-eyed at the now arguing pair.
"Well, she's not on a deadline," the man replies. To me, he says kindly, "Enjoy your pie," before whispering to Dean, "Come on. We need to leave." As the words leave his mouth, the waitress gifts Dean with his own perfectly timed slice of pie.
Something is really off here, I think, watching their interactions. Too well timed. Too perfect. What's wrong here?
"Aha!" Dean says triumphantly. "Pie. I will eat my pie, and then we will leave. Pie first-" The other man cuts him off.
"The world after?" The sentence catches me off guard, and I choke on a bit of pie. Appearing to have forgotten my presence, the other man peeks at me over Dean's head, smiles apologetically, and ducks back down into whisper mode.
"Yeah, that sounds about right," Dean agrees, lifting his fork.
"Shut up, Dean," the other says, slapping the fork back down on the counter. "This is important. Can't you get it to go or something?"
With a shake of his head, Dean replies, "Sammy. You know I can't drive and eat pie at the same time. I've tried, and it doesn't work."
Sam sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Alright. You eat your stupid pie. I'm going to..." he struggles for words and shrugs. "I don't know. I'm going to try to do something productive." With a shake of his head, he rises to his feet. At full height, he towers over the diner patrons. Suddenly, I feel very small.
Straightening his jacket, he crosses the diner to the door.
"How's the pie?" Dean asks, causing me to jump again.
I peer at him nervously and look down at the pie, giving him a thumbs up.
"Not a big talker?"
Feeling my face redden, I point to my still chewing mouth. I don't talk with my mouth full, I think at him. His mouth forms a small "o".
"Ah. Okay. Well, I'm Dean," he announces, sticking out a hand. "Dean Winchester. Sorry about my brother. He's a fun-sucker."
Choking down the, admittedly, overzealous chunk of pie in my mouth, I accept the hand after a moment's hesitation. My worn, dirty white gloves surprise him, but he politely says nothing.
"Ava Gordon," I respond, allowing the smallest of smiles. "He seems nice," I offer.
After making a so-so gesture with his hand, Dean returns the expression in a dazzling fashion, with only a refreshingly small twinkle of pity. "You know most of these places, not including this one, do coffee for fifty cents. Or have it 'pending'. People are usually nice that way."
I find myself unsure of how to respond, and instead return my hands to my pie after thanking him again. He accepts, and raises a perfectly assembled bite of pie to his lips.
Raised voices draw my attention to the front door, where Sam is blocked by a squat, balding man. A pleased smirk crosses the little man's face that is almost funny, save for the cool, calculating look in his eyes. I turn fully around on my stool and hold my pie close, eating as I watch something unpleasant unfold. The men stare each other down for a moment, muttering things too quiet for me to hear. As they speak, the little man's face begins to distort into a horrifically ugly expression that sends a shudder down my back. The little man blinks, and my plate crashes to the floor.
My choking gasp attracts Dean's attention. "You alright?" he asks, putting down his fork.
Ignoring the newly staring crowd, I turn to Dean and whisper, "His eyes. Look at his eyes."
Dean follows my pointing finger and swears. "Shit. Sam!" Rising to his feet, Dean reaches to the small of his back and draws a pistol from beneath his jacket. In a split second, deafening shots are fired and the diner becomes a war zone. People are divided into those hiding beneath their tables and those diving for Dean and his brother. Blue, green, and brown eyes turn obsidian, transforming average people into strong, ruthless monsters. They carve a path through the innocents, heading straight for the Winchesters. Blades are drawn and sprays of blood coat the once white tiles. Blood. I can't stand the sight. A teenage girl is cut down a few feet from me, and her blood flies across my face and hands, staining my gloves.
I begin to scream. My shrill voice pierces the wave of fearful cries, gaining a second of attention from some of the monsters near me. At first they move as if to strike me, but a sharp sound from behind the counter stops them, and they return to ignoring me. I consider leaving my safe place beneath the bar until a figure hops over it and comes to stand on four-inch, black heels in front of me. From my vantage point, the heels give way to shapely legs in nude tights beneath a striped skirt and apron that appear eerily familiar. Nails tap in succession on the counter above me. The figure bends at the waist until an abundance of bright red hair appears in my vision. I briefly consider giving the hair a good yank and making a run for it before the figure's face comes into view. Gray-green eyes flit across me, sizing me up. A woman with curtain-length lashes and a familiar red smile watches me like a cat with a mouse.
"What are you?" she purrs. I silently will myself to melt into the counter as she reaches for me. Her nails brush my knee and I kick her away before sprinting to the door. Unfortunately, a knot of monsters with Dean and Sam at the center blocks my path. I stumble over an outstretched arm and my boots skid through a pool of blood, sending me screeching towards the floor. Centimeters from its surface, I'm hauled back to my feet and contorted into a choke hold by the redhead. Scanning the carnage for help, my eyes fall on the only two left fighting.
"Dean!" I yelp before my air is cut off again. He glances over his shoulder before doing a double take. Brow furrowed in anger, he barrels through the monsters around him, firing shots as he goes.
"Let her go, Abbadon!" he growls, staring at her down the barrel of his gun. I roll my eyes up to chance a glance at the woman behind me. Her face creeps into view and I react like a tweaked spring.
"Whoa, no. Black eyes! Black eyes!" I squeak, flailing in her arms. The action only makes her grip me tighter, and I'm not able to do anything but weakly slap at her arms. She laughs and I feel her chest vibrate with it. Gross.
"Why?" she asks coyly, tightening her grip around my neck.
"Because she's innocent," he answers, holding his aim. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Sam silently moving to flank us. So does Abbadon.
She turns towards him, flipping all of her sulfur-scented hair in my face. "I don't think so, sugar." The words catapult Sam into the wall, crashing into picture frames and dragging them to the floor with him.
"Sam!" Dean yells, conflicted between helping either of us. He returns his attention to Abbadon and I. "Let. Her. Go," he says with renewed fierceness.
"You don't want me to do that," Abbadon warns.
"Why not?"
Abbadon's lips come close enough to my ear to make me blush. "Do you want to tell them or should I?"
The question genuinely confuses me, and I fall limp in her arms trying to understand it. "Tell them...what?" I crane my neck to stare at her blankly.
At first, she thinks I'm bluffing. "You...you're really going to play stupid on this."
"Actually, I'm not playing," I say with complete seriousness.
"Alright, fine." She looks at Dean and laughs. "I can't believe you can't tell, but she's not human."
All of us fall silent, and I mentally kick myself. "Look, I didn't get to enjoy my pie, and honestly that is the worst excuse you've ever given me not to shoot you," Dean scoffs.
"I'm not trying to keep you from shooting me, exactly," Abbadon protests. "I'm just saying. You don't want me to let her go. She's dangerous."
Doubt flashes in Dean's eyes, and my stomach clenches in fear. He looks at me quietly for a moment, and suddenly Abbadon crumbles behind me. I gulp in great lungfuls of air and choke on it as it irritates my soon to be bruised throat. Sam appears from behind me and lifts me off the ground, practically carrying me towards Dean and the door. Mere steps away from safety, I feel an arm reach out and trap my ankle in a vice grip, throwing Sam aside. I hit the ground hard and listen to my ears ring while I struggle to catch my breath. A puddle of blood smears as I'm dragged through it, and I turn on my back to greet the squat little man that started this mess. My gaze snaps to a primal blade in his hand, raised to strike, and I panic. Ripping my gloves off, I slap my hands on his face, tightly clutching his doughy skin. He pushes through at first, leaving his face hovering inches above mine. I stare into his black eyes and concentrate all of my willpower.
Evil satisfaction becomes pained terror in seconds. Red radiates from my hands and through his face, pouring from his mouth, nose, and eyes as it reaches them. His skin becomes pliable beneath my fingers, and I stifle a gag as it begins to drop on me in pieces. My grip tightens as he screams, and I close my eyes, saving myself from weeks of nightmares. On top of me, his body begins to thrash like a beached fish, kicking and slapping me hard enough to leave bruises. After a few seconds, his body falls still. When I open my eyes, I'm holding a clean skull poking out of a dead body. The sight makes me shudder, and I push it all off of me. Pulling myself to a sitting position, I feel a generous amount of liquid flow off of me and resist the urge to vomit. The room is dreadfully silent, and I look up to see both boys staring me down, guns blazing. Abbadon silently gets to her feet and smiles.
"Just remember, darling. I wouldn't have killed you. They will."
With the sentence, she vanishes, leaving me frozen at gunpoint.